Resting Murder Face

I forget where I read the term resting murder face, but the expression fits me well. I inherited the look from my father, who, although he was a Marine who saw active duty in the Korean War, was a gentle man. But if something pissed him off, yeah, he looked like a stone-cold killer.

More than once I’ve had people at work walk past me, pause, and claim, “You look like you’re contemplating using a knife or a gun.” I’m like “huh?” They claim I look ready to kill someone when there I sat wondering if I want to start my audit or straighten up the supply cabinet. 

Note: Jeremy Renner claims he has resting murder face—he has nothing on my death gaze. 

Tonight resting murder face made a return. After the much-needed rain that coated our region for the past few days, I stepped onto our small back porch to see how the plants had responded to the rain.

Where was the porch welcome mat? Oh look, the mat had landed on the lone brave caladium I had planted in the shade garden. Six chewed baby carrots littered the porch’s edge.

I felt resting murder face set in. Obviously some critter(s) had messed about on the porch. I bet they had grabbed the baby carrots from our messy neighbors who toss their garbage out in Target bags every night against the fence line. But why had the critters moved the welcome mat?

If the possums were involved, they had probably mated on it. I have seen such behavior before this time. Yuck.

I wish we could move away from this urban mess featuring sex-crazed possums, squeaky raccoons, manic squirrels, relentless groundhogs, and feral cats. Yeah, right.

Arrrrgh, there goes that damned skunk again! I am not glaring at that critter.  No way!

Hail Labor Day

I see Google has changed their logo to praise laborers. That's wonderful.

The thing is I don’t see any writers or artists in the celebratory logo. Do we not labor? Do we not stress our minds?

We do, on a constant basis. Physical laborers leave their job and return home. They complete their task. Of course they might go home and work around the house or work on the side.

The thing is just because a writer isn’t tapping away at their keyboard doesn’t mean they aren’t laboring. Our minds are like hamster wheels, always thinking, seeing, seeking the next twist and turn. A writer’s mind never shuts down. I’m sure I’m like others who write themselves to sleep, working on a block in a story until it breaks apart.

Writers labor. Oh do they, to the point of depression, pain, and sadness—and madness.

On Labor Day, never discount artists and writers. We might not lift heavy physical loads, but damn, we lift heavy mental loads.

Why I Adore Rafa Nadal

Legs of steel and massive arms…this old lesbian does appreciate supremely hot tennis players. Is it a little sexist to regard them as works of breathing art? Apologies. Trust me, I also appreciate their amazing talent.

I adore Rafa Nadal. He’s a warrior, a powerful force of nature, an inspiration. Sadly, just as his fans feared, his muscular playing style is breaking down his strong body. His knee, his shoulder, and lately, his wrist—they have started failing him. Nadal’s 30th birthday did him no favors.

But he comes back and triumphs. Oh does he. Fine, Nadal didn’t medal in the men’s singles at the Rio Olympics, but he scored doubles gold. He played multiple matches each day. He fought, displayed humility, and class every inch of the way, and showed the world he’s not finished.

He’s battled his way into the round of 16 at the US Open, playing tennis like the champion he is, clean and lethal. After this, even if he doesn’t win his next match, he’ll be ranked third in the world.

Nadal will always be number one for me, along with my faves Rafter, Edberg, and the brilliant Bjorn Borg.

It’s the thigh muscles. Be still my fluttering heart. I am a thigh slut.

Fabion and an Elf for All Centuries

How weird… I just looked at the reviews for An Elf for All Centuries on Goodreads. Why so many reviews from 2015? The novel was out of print by then. Yeah, perhaps people didn’t read it until then. Still, it freaks me out a bit because free copies were supplied on a Goodreads feed I never approved. A reader informed me of the nasty problem.

What I am not surprised is how people hated Fabion and did not finish the book. Hello, can we say character growth? I started out with a character so ridiculous that you had to know he’d change.

Guess Fabion didn’t change fast enough for some readers. That’s fine. Fabion needed to change on his time line. I couldn’t ruin his progress.

Fabion is very dear to me. He’s one of a kind, and I will never write a character of his nature ever again. He broke my mental mode.

Although Amando from Temptation of the Incubus (MLR Press) comes close. Even Sam Devine from Divine Devine’s Love Song (Dreamspinner) is in the same league—although he knows he’s a rogue scoundrel. Still, his heroic nature battles to save the day.

I write my best when I aim for over the top characters. That is not easy. Those characters need to speak to me. Unless they create a connection to me, I can’t find them.

Writing is a battle I live to fight. Come on, words, let’s wrestle. I’ll pull a story and hopefully a few great characters from your squirmy depths.

Accepting My Shortcomings

I read speculative fiction because I admire the writers who do it well. China Melville, Caitlín R. Kiernan, Elizabeth Hand, Peter Straub, and Laird Barron, who has blossomed into what I am dying to do… hilarious parody horror. Maybe parody is the wrong word, but his latest novella “Xs for Eyes” is damned near perfect. I want to beat and kiss him for writing the bizarre book. Trust me, it is amazing.

Jeff VanderMeer’s Southern Reach trilogy blew my mind. If you haven’t read it yet, go buy it now. The first two books build to a jaw-dropping third book. It is brilliant and twisted. 

I love reading authors who teach me the writing craft. These are the authors who inspire me to keep banging my head against the keyboard. Will I ever reach their brilliance? A defeated part of me claims no, never ever. I don’t have the special creative gene. But that one little stubborn spark keeps kicking my ass to write and rewrite and keep going because perhaps someday I’ll creep over the line and have a following.

I’ll settle for a club or a gang.

As my wise beyond her years niece Denise (who is a doctor) once said to me, “is anyone making you write?”

“Hell no, I write because I need to write.”

“Are you published?”

“Yes.”

“Then keep writing and stop worrying.”

Denise is a damned brilliant woman. And I do look up to her. She’s twenty year younger and much wiser and braver than I. She spent two years teaching in a remote South African village.

So yeah, I need to keep writing and stop worrying. I’ll read those who inspire me, and hope my words reach a few readers.

Someday perhaps I’ll reach more than a few readers. One can only hope.

It's All About Life

Why haven’t I blogged in two years? It’s not like I have nothing to say… I’m always spouting off about something. But somehow a weird blockage happened regarding my blog. The problem is I fuss too hard over blog posts, regarding them as little essays that must be perfect. Part of the problem is I am a lousy typist—typos abound—and I always fret over the word arrangement.

That’s stupid, eh? I want to correct my blog transgressions. Let’s see if I can blog for a solid month. There’s plenty to talk about—tragic flooding in Louisiana, fires in California, illegal shootings, a certain horrific presidential candidate (the one with the little hands and nasty hair), music, art, life…like tonight Prof Sandy and I were honored with a visit from our friend Gail Demi.

Why wait for an event? Talk about life. Without it, we’d be dead. Okay, that silly statement deserves a glass of wine.

The Miracle of Bowie’s “TVC15”

A long time ago, I owned an indie music pub. B-Side lasted for ten years. We paid writers and photographers—never made a profit, but the powers that be did fund a few amazing vacations for us and others on the staff. I’d say “Hey, we want to put XXX on the cover.” The publicity person would say, “We can send you to XXX to cover XXX for a weekend.”

I worked with the various firms to expand the weekend to a week. I saved them money on the airfare, and we received a few great vacations.

I had a blast interviewing various musicians: Tori Amos, Trent Reznor (Death Valley vacation— how fitting) Peter Murphy, Love and Rockets (California vacation), the Cranberries (great Ireland vacation), Radiohead, Al Jourgensen, and, my apex, David Bowie (another California vacation).

Imagine, my little indie pub scored an interview with David Bowie during press for his “Outside” album. Talking to him was a fangirl’s dream. We talked about art, his wandering in the musical wilderness, his crass commercial phase—it was amazing. I criticized certain musical moves he had made and he agreed with me.

I’ve always been a critical bitch, and talking to Bowie blew my mind. We talked about Giotto, art murder, self-destruction—I will always treasure talking to Bowie. Seriously, I felt like I had met him at a party and realized he was seriously cool. Yeah, he was seriously cool. No ego at all.

Which is why I come here to say Bowie’s “TVC15” is the best pop song ever.

EVER.

The lyrics? They are fun, but not crucial to the song. It’s the music and the riffs which are killer.  The various builds, the flourishes, the bass lines, the sax lines, the piano riffs… they work behind Bowie’s lyrics to create an astonishing musical tapestry. The build is sheer majesty.

The first time I heard this song back in 1976, I was hooked. Thirty years later, I’m still hooked.

Give it a listen. And raise a toast to the master changeling—our wonderful David Bowie.

Come Celebrate Canes & Scales: The Novel, With A Giveaway!

The decision to take my first novella Canes and Scales and turn it into an epic fantasy didn’t come easily. In fact, at first I wanted write two more novellas and create a series. Luckily Elizabeth North at Dreamspinner advised me to go for one large novel. Good thing—I’d probably still fuss over finishing the series.

This time I outlined the chapters, not the norm for me. I’ll draft rough outlines, but this time I wanted control. I already struggled with stylistic problems—my writing had changes in the last few years. Of course my main characters Alasdaire and Linden wanted more page time – what character doesn’t want more time to shine—but at a certain point they decided not to play nice with the storyline. They rebelled. Alasdaire and Linden refused to “talk” to me anymore. It’s a wacky but true concept.  The total disconnect drove me batty.

I originally planned to release the novel on its third anniversary.

That didn’t happen since Alasdaire and Linden delighted in shunning me. Fine. I shunned them in turn and worked on other short stories and novels. Ocassionally I’d poke at an earlier chapter that needed work, or realize I needed a strong new character to help the plot. Unfortunately, the novel refused to move past a certain sticky chapter.

Until the EUREKA! evening. A mental orgasm provided the solution. Did I really intend to stage a kidnapping along with more torture? Much of the novel is based around natural magic. Why wasn’t I listening to the book? Why not let the magic work for the characters?

Once I moved past my nefarious plans for Alasdaire and Linden, they worked with me. Together we created an entirely new ending. Everyone felt happy. Alasdaire escaped kidnapping and torture. Linden escaped mental disintegration.

And I escaped from thinking I’d never finish my book!

Here’s an exclusive, never see before excerpt:

 Enterna Afratair, Supreme Duke of the Southern Totandia Empire, stared over his dry, desolate realm. A strong full moon washed light over the land. Twisted analita trees, towering Nerdean roses, and firespike palms created dark shapes against the horizon. Tonight only a few of the firespikes had burst into flame. Deeper shadowy areas showed the many canyons scattered through the realm. In the deep canyon beyond the palace, the dwindling Sira River still flowed, sluggish but supportive to the crops cleverly trained to grow against the canyon walls. If the Sira dried up—Enterna refused to contemplate the disaster. The dry earth had already devoured streams in many other canyons.

He felt his deep frown carve lines into his stern features. The simple act made his dry skin ache. When had be turned into a frail old creature?

He shook his head. Long gone were the satisfying days when the elves had still occupied large parts of Ardaul, living in the ancient forests and deep river valleys in peace. The elves had been free to travel as they pleased, to trade goods and charms. They had bothered no one. They had tended their shrines and lived for the earth.

During his long-ago youth, Enterna had visited every remote shrine hiding under the old oak trees in Southern Ardaul’s Summerlands. The elves had never bothered to establish shrines north of Summerlands. The vast, largely treeless Great Pastures beyond did not call to them. The shrines were ancient constructs, yet still attuned to the elves’ natural world. The journey had been risky but necessary. Every elven ruler needed to keep the shines alive.

Once the Serpents had decided to flex their lethal power, they had driven the elves back to their true realm, to sacred Hast’ntrata, hiding deep in the Nerdean Canyons. The Serpents had tricked those who wanted to remain into slavery. The Serpents didn’t understand elven culture. Instead of learning, they destroyed. They had little tolerance for other races. Enterna found their intolerance ironic. Once the Serpents had been the different ones, after all, marked by random scale patterns and their odd slit eyes. Over time, breeding with humans had removed those traits from all but the royalty. Those warped creatures still celebrated their scales.

In the light of history, banishment did not matter. The elves belonged in this savage land. The carnivorous canes had brought them forth from the earth, and here the canes protected them. Over the years, the Serpent armies had suffered from the canes’ strong protective magic. Under Enterna’s guidance, the canes’ lethal barriers triumphed to keep out the armies led by the slithering Serpent kings. Ultimately the Serpents had retreated.

Unfortunately, Hast’ntrata now suffered from the South Inatoli Desert’s steady northern advance. Viable lands suitable for crops continuously succumbed to sand and the disappearance of surface water. Despite strong sorcery, the underground water sources slowly failed.

Enterna shifted to stare into the north. His frown deepened.

He still mourned for his daughter. What a stubborn female, exquisite and strong. He had never imagined Anadona capable of blocking her existence so skillfully. Years ago, Enterna had felt her death like a stab to the heart. He had warned Anadona not to believe in the aggressive human who had claimed to love her.

He also wondered about his grandson. Until tonight, Enterna had felt Anadona’s son in a random manner—he was hard to track due to his human blood. Enterna reasoned why bother to make peace? Surely Anadona had taught her son to hate her kin.

Anadona’s death had supplied Enterna a name: Alasdaire. He smiled. Anadona had given her son a fine elven name.

Tonight Alasdaire’s use of strong elven magic had burst into Enterna’s mind, awaking him from a troubled sleep. He still couldn’t believe his half-human grandson owned the power to dreamsave. As far as he knew, only he owned the fierce power required to weave such a potent spell. Only profound emotions like hate or love fueled a full dreamsave.

Worst of all, his grandson had saved a Serpent prince.

The concept horrified Enterna. Granted, his grandson’s diluted blood added to his ability to love beyond the elven race, but to save a Serpent? How troublesome. Enterna needed extensive information on this Prince Linden. He also needed to meet his grandson. It seemed foolish of him to feel proud of the half-breed’s magical strength. Perhaps the dreamsave was a fluke.

Or perhaps by fluke his grandson nurtured royal powers that had slowly faded away from the decaying elven court. Enterna suspected one other in his family still cultivated strong powers, but Deniertaire had started to embrace darkness and depravity. He had turned away from the earth. Enterna still wondered whether he should name Deniertaire his heir.

It seemed now he might have another option.

A hot breeze blew sand into Enterna’s eyes. He blinked away the irritation. Was this to be his kingdom’s sorry fate, to succumb to the creeping sand? Why had he pushed Anadona to marry her brother? Enterna had been such a fool. If she had remained and married a strong, fierce noble, Enterna could hope magic might strengthen enough to save the kingdom from the sand. Anadona had strong natural magic in her soul. She must have passed the power to Alasdaire.

Weariness passed through his body. Perhaps the time had come to yield to the Raven Court’s supreme judgment. He had lived for entirely too long. As he sighed, Enterna turned and walked through the struggling royal gardens. The gardeners tried but failed to make the expanse look cheerful. Only the bloodred Nerdean roses looked healthy.

The fantastically carved limestone palace loomed before him, looking eerie in the moonlight. Wind and sandstorms had transformed the walls into wild curves. A few of the tallest towers had been abandoned. The crumbling structures could no longer support habitation. Perhaps the time had also come to live in the canyons along with the remaining elves. His ancestors had constructed the palace long before the sand began consuming the earth. Why struggle to maintain it for the remaining nobles?

A glass of rose wine sounded perfect. Enterna stepped forward.

He stopped.

Dizziness claimed his balance. His sight blurred, softening the palace walls into sand wisps. The sensation of fading away ate at Enterna’s consciousness. The sound of his knees hitting the pale flagstones seemed too loud. How had someone pushed past his strong magical wards? He slumped to his side. His body shuddered. He tried to resist the attack. Somehow the force intensified.

Who dared to…?

Voices sounded around him. The warmth of the flagstones pressed against his cheek. As darkness claimed him, he sought to discover who had dared to spell him.

He fought until a blazing spell signature appeared to him in mocking triumph.

How sad.

Before the hungry magical darkness swallowed him, Enterna focused and willed his power toward the remote elven shrine dedicated to Tadn’nast, the Stormraven. He hoped he could make the journey.

Soul wind pushed him forward, away from his body. Enterna allowed his soul to rise. Borne on the wings of the ravens, his soul fled from his compromised body.

Could he look back? Yes. His body lay still against the flagstones.

The dismal sight urged him on.

Do you have a favorite Elf? Comment and enter to win a selection of my books: two novellas, two short stories and special surprises!

First Time Ever Excerpt from Canes and Scales: The Shadowy Ball

Next week Canes and Scales: The Novel goes live! In the meantime, here's another excerpt from Canes and Scales: The Novel, aka Trauma and Trauma A-Go-Go.

In this excerpt, a festive royal ball turns dangerous for Alasdaire, the tormented Elf who loves his enemy the Serpent.

The Blurb:

Serpent Prince Linden of Ardaul is determined to drag his barbaric, power-hungry country into the modern age by encouraging learning, advances in the sciences, and tolerance. His insane brother Edward, the King, delights in making him pay for his efforts.         

Long years of watching his back, fighting wars, and solving conflicts started by his cruel brother have taken a toll on Linden’s body and mind, and he needs a respite. When Linden meets an alluring young bed slave named Alasdaire, his weary heart responds. Alasdaire is an exotic mix of southern royal Totandian elf and human, and, although he’s also suffered hardship most of his life, his loving personality captivates the Prince.

Despite their differences, Alasdaire, canes—and Linden, scales—unite in body and soul, but their romance is nearly shattered by betrayal. When Linden becomes King, magical assassins, treachery, and threats plague them. They narrowly escape death more than once. The lovers must discover who wants them dead and more importantly, where they can turn for aid. Neither enemies nor allies are what they seem. Only time will tell who means to harm Linden and Alasdaire—the elves, the imprisoned Edward, or something even deadlier—and time is one thing they don’t have.

PG-13 Excerpt Canes & Scales M/M fantasy S.A. Garcia

ALASDAIRE

Gay activity filled the crowded ballroom. Two wild dances I did not recognize passed before us. The dancers moved in kinetic loops. Tonight the music sounded jagged, more feral than what I had heard at Keith’s manor.

I leaned against Linden’s shoulder. “My love, I do not recognize these odd dances. Are they from another country?”

He gestured toward the moving gaiety. “Ah, these are traditional folk dances from the time of the battle of Adwurtein, which was a mighty win for Ardaul five hundred years ago. Imagine, my social secretary Sir Newton took my ball request seriously and scheduled these dances. At the battle of Adwurtein, the mighty Serpent strangled what used to be Istarnor and added the country to the growing collection. Now Istarnor is a peaceful Ardaul province, supplying fertile ground for needed crops along with a prime port. They are part of the Pastures.”

“Oh. How lovely.”

He gripped my thigh again. “Blast, Ala, forgive my unthinking statement.”

“Why should I forgive you? See, at least under your fair and benevolent rule, Hast’ntrata will continue to exist on her own. Someday I might visit there without fear of their reaction to my mixed heritage.” I sighed and shook my head. “Doubtful, but take heart, your rule should impress on other countries that Ardaul isn’t dedicated to relentless destruction.”

His inquisitive stare swept over my sharp smile. Linden pursed his lips and returned to his eating.

I had not intended to insult him. I sensed his years as Ardaul’s royal war hero had made him sensitive about destruction. Instead of asking for forgiveness, I nibbled a truffle and scallop pâté nested in a puff pastry shell. Delicious. Tonight little descriptions sat on the plates, so I knew what I was eating.

I watched the nobles battle decoratively on the dance floor. The old dances provided a barbaric flair, featuring arm flailing and plenty of foot stomping. The dances reminded me more of ancient mating rituals best conducted around a blazing fire.

I concentrated on ignoring the bizarre shadows. They collected even closer to me. Could I banish them? How? I couldn’t stand and try my limited elven magic during a royal ball.

A crashing crescendo ended the barbaric music.

Linden applauded the dancer’s efforts. I sipped my wine.

After the dancing, the small orchestra played soothing background music. Linden blew an exasperated sigh against my cheek. “Ala, tell me what is wrong. Your discomfort pushes at me. Why won’t you tell me what is the matter? What do you sense? Tell me already.”

“Fine, yes, something is amiss, but I don’t know what!” I blinked. “You want the truth? Everything in this room threatens me. I see things that cannot exist in the logical world lurking in the shadows—in fact, shadows exist where none should be. Strange magic hammers at my soul.”

Linden gently grasped my chin. He looked sorrowful. “Then please leave. Abandon the search. I do not want you hurt.”

I could barely form words. The magic ate at my senses. “I fear if I abandon this search something awful will happen. Please don’t send me away, Linden. I need to be here.”

Duchess Curselean appeared by my side. She smiled as she held out her hands to me. “Dear Alasdaire, will you be my partner in the next festive line dance?”

“Yes, of course.” I stood, barely remaining upright. I glanced over to see a regal young lady I did not recognize inviting Linden to the dance floor. Ah, Lady Aless had arrived for her dance. Linden gazed at me with concern until I nodded.

Sickness welled within me. I blurted out a flimsy excuse. “Forgive my nerves, Duchess, but I am not a skilled dancer.”

Alicia squeezed my fingers. “Do not worry, my friend, this is a simple country line dance. I promise to guide you.”

What could I do, rebuff her and create a scene? Perhaps the dancing would confuse the evil shadows gathering around me. After all, hadn’t I come here to touch the nobles? I bowed with stiff acceptance, and let Alicia escort me to the dance floor. Linden stood alongside me across from his partner. Of course, the king would start the dance.

He leaned close. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“Yes.” I looked down the double line. To my horror, the shadows intensified around certain laughing nobles. Before I could run, the orchestra surged into the opening notes announcing the dance. Linden bowed, grasped his partner’s hands, and darted between the double row of clapping nobles. He rolled his broad shoulders. The music captivated him until Linden forgot himself and moved using his customary grace. Caution, my love, caution! When the pair reached the end, I accepted Alicia’s gloved hands in mine and started down the row.

Suddenly the shadows transformed into huge gray snakes. The scaled beasts lunged at our light movement. Terror filled my mind. I halted and almost pulled Alicia to the parquet floor. Hissing snakes crowded around me. I released Alicia and waved my hands against the air. “No! This is not real. I refute what I see.”

Despite my wild protests, the salivating serpents crowded around me. I fell to the floor bellowing like a raving madman, waving my fists against their attack. A fierce golden serpent clad in a festive blue-and-gold suit lunged down at me.

“Ala! Ala, what is wrong?” The words sounded concerned. He tricked me into not pushing him away.

Linden slashed his venom-dripping fangs into my chest. The sharp tips ripped open my clothing. The fangs dug into my flesh, deeper, deeper, until they released burning poison into my body. Fire raced through my veins, seeking to scorch me from within. Pungent putrefaction spread across my wounded chest. I smelled my rotting flesh. Numbness attacked my hips, the sensation swirling down into my legs, halting my attempt to scramble away.

I desperately pummeled my fists against his head. “Stop! Linden, stop hurting me! Stop! Leave me alone. This cannot be happening!”

He hissed at me. A rank stench of decay and despair swirled around me. Pain released a thousand deadly arrows into my flesh. My skin continued blackening and bubbling. Decomposing strips sloughed off my hands.

I was rotting. I screamed as pain defeated my senses. I knew this could not be real, not unless I had gone insane in a blink….

I fell into blackness.

Pre-Order Canes and Scales: The Novel at Dreamspinner Press 

Exclusive Excerpt—Canes and Scales: The Novel

I promised excerpts and I shall deliver. 

This is from Canes and Scales: The Novel. This ls part of the all new territory.

PG-13 Excerpt Canes & Scales M/M fantasy S.A. Garcia

LINDEN

We stepped into the room. Heads turned toward us. The admiring glances cast my way made me feel secure in my fashion choices. I inhaled a deep breath and began greeting the swarm. I don’t know how the numerous nobles expected me to remember their names. I hadn’t seen many of them in years. Summerlands nobles enjoyed staying close to home. I impressed myself with how I spun their names off my tongue.

I maneuvered toward the buffet table. What a sumptuous display, varied in colors and textures. Wait… no. Oh no. I choked on a sip of wine. I wanted to strangle Keith. A miniature version of me in uniform, my arms raised to the sky in triumph, fouled the table’s center. I never, ever wanted to see myself crafted from rose petals, candied fruit, and other edible treats.

I wanted to eat my head to spare the embarrassment.

“Cousin!” Keith slapped my back. “The likeness is remarkable, eh? You look heroic yet cranky.”

I narrowed my eyelids in scolding. “I thought you liked me, Cuz.”

As he huffed with mock insult, Keith held up his hands. “I do love you, Cousin. Be fair, I did spring for top-grade peach-hued rose petals instead of merely using a peeled potato for your royal head.”

“I must admit using black licorice for my boots is hilarious.”

“A lovely touch, eh?”

We smacked each other’s shoulders as we laughed.

“You have some nerve, slave!” An angry male voice cut through our laughter.

“No, please!”

The nobles surrounding me turned as one toward the disruption. They sensed something to slake their thirst for drama.

“Please, Baron, I am with the prince!”

Powers! How had Alasdaire ended up parted from me? I thought he still hovered behind me. The nobles must have cut him off from me.

Keith gripped my arm. I shrugged him off, handing him my wineglass. I pushed my way toward Alasdaire. He was trying to back away from a tall dark-haired noble. The noble grabbed Alasdaire’s wrist.

“Baron, please let me go!”

Alasdaire tried to yank away from the noble’s grip. I focused on the hairy hand restraining Alasdaire’s left wrist. When he reached up to grip Alasdaire’s chin, I almost succumbed to my rage. Instead, I inhaled a deep breath.

I reached his side. “Alasdaire, are you all right?”

He radiated shame-tinged anxiety. I automatically put my arm around his shoulder.

A tall, swarthy noble I did not recognize scowled before he realized who stood before him. “My Prince!” He released Alasdaire and quickly bowed, red-faced and nervous. “So good to see you again.”

I flicked through names. Ah, Baron Otto from Mineia in the Western Summerlands stood before me, “Baron. Is there a problem here?”

He bowed again. “Not at all. I enjoyed this fair slave last summer. I merely wanted to experience him again.”

“I am sorry, but as he said, he is with me.”

“My apologies, Prince Linden.”

The Baron bowed and left the ballroom. What a wise man. My heart slowed down. If he had remained near me, I feared I would punch the Baron until I felt better. What a sure way to spoil the evening.

Low murmuring rippled through the watching nobles. I suspect I had disappointed them by not providing a more violent display of temper.

Alasdaire stood staring at the floor, trembling with self-control. I thought he was willing himself to vanish beneath the floorboards. My lingering rage quickly turned into concern. I released his shoulder to touch his cheek canes. “Alasdaire?”

He stared up at me. His slightly wild expression worried me. “My Prince, let me return to the suite.” His harsh whisper caught in his throat. “Forgive me. I can’t remain down here. They stare at me like hungry dogs.”

At least he kept his voice low. I massaged his upper arms. “Of course. I will come with you.”

The wildness faded from his stare. He blinked with surprise. “Truly?”

I raised my hand. “Truly.” I gently gripped his elbow and guided him toward the side door. All eyes watched us.

I turned to wave. “Farewell, everyone. I fear I must retire for the evening. Keith, please send up treats and wine to us.”

As we walked along the long upper corridor, I glanced down to smile at Alasdaire. His reverent expression made me feel like a true prince riding up on a white charger to save the day. I enjoyed the emotion.

Too bad I had never eaten my rose-petal head.

Once we escaped to my suite, my guards admitted servers. To my delight, one large silver tray supported my edible body. Dear Keith knew how much I wanted to destroy the thing.

Alasdaire and I laughed until we almost cried. The servers stared at us with great confusion. After they departed, Alasdaire examined my fruit-and-petal faux body. “They performed an excellent job making you appear heroic.” He tickled his finger against the figure’s crotch. “Mmm, I want to eat this part. I know the real thing tastes wonderful.” He fluttered his lashes in sultry tease.

Seeing him act playful relieved me. To celebrate, I reached over and plucked off my head. Alasdaire gasped before he laughed along with me. I bit into my hair, revealing a fluffy cream filling. The pastry chef had turned me into a cream puff. I laughed harder.

Alasdaire dipped his finger into the neck. “How suitable—heroic on the outside, sweet on the inside.”

“Watch out, the chef might have laced the cream with Uurkian pepper sauce. That’s more accurate to my personality.”

“Nonsense.” He seduced me by licking more cream from his finger.

I popped the remainder of my head into my mouth. A mix of sweetness, floral accents, and mint met my tongue. I tasted lovely. “Let’s save dessert for last.”

Canes and Scales: The Novel on presale at Dreamspinner Press:

Canes and Scales: The Novel 25% Off Now! 

 

True Confessions: Why My Writing Sucked

I probably bore people with blathering on about how I started writing gay male romance when I was in high school. I really did, although I couldn’t never say why I liked the idea of two men together rather than two women. Well, yeah, it’s the whole I hadn’t accepted my own desires yet concept.

What I have accepted is how badly I sucked as a writer. I don’t mean back in high school. I wrote my stories in my trusty marble composition books—thread bound, never glued— so they’re there for me to read if I really want to remind myself of how badly I sucked at the craft of writing. I’m talking about even more recently, like before I started receiving serious editing from my publishers.

Let me count. Yep, I have ten novels which are either finished or very close. They patiently wait on my computer for a shot at the real world.

Why don’t I release them? Because they embarrass me. Yep, I might have good story lines, but there’s no way in hell or any other realm that I could release them and feel proud of them. The poor dears sit hoping I’ll fix them— banish the adjectives, the purple prose, the serious POV problems, the— you get the picture.

Which brings me to another reason I wanted to revisit Canes and Scales, my first published novella, and turn it into a novel. C&S deserved a fresh edit, more chapters, and an edgier story. It deserved my attention as a published writer who has been slapped up alongside the head for her numerous verbal transgressions.

I am proud of the results. Canes and Scales: The Novel doesn’t suck because this time Dreamspinner’s editors not only slapped, but they also mauled, pummeled, and beat my words into splendid shape.

I cherish every editorial bruise. Each one is another learning lesson.

Stay tuned: exclusive Canes and Scales: The Novel excerpts to come this week!

xoxo

Canes and Scales: the Novel and the MAP!

I am sooo proud of my map for Canes and Scales: The Novel. A big fantasy deserves a good map!

Memories of Sally and Andy- RJ Scott's Autisim Blog Hop

People with autism who find social interaction difficult may use their special interests to start conversations & feel relaxed

Sally, a friend of mine I used to work with, has an autistic son named Andy. (I don’t want to use their real names.) Let me provide back story here. Years ago, Sally suddenly experienced extreme weakness, sometimes to the point where she blacked out. She suffered chronic pain. Eventually she had to go on long-term disability leave from work because she couldn’t drive. The diagnosis: lupus. Putting a name to her problem relieved Sally. She understood her symptoms would flare up, but at least she knew what she battled.

Before the diagnosis, Sally described an episode in the grocery store where she suffered an attack. When Sally collapsed to the floor, Andy, a normally sweet-natured six year-old, started screaming with fear while he punched her. She held Andy close as he struggled. It amazed Sally that initially no one helped her. Sally was almost in tears as she told me feared her fellow shoppers regarded her as abusive and stayed away. Lucky they finally came to her aid.

Coping with her illness and caring for Andy was a struggle. Jerry, her now former husband, didn’t help her much— he was extremely self-centered and almost acted like Sally put on an act for attention. To add to the stress, Sally also took care of animals she rescued from kill shelters and put them up for adoption on Pet Finder. At least Jerry helped with the animals.

When I visited one evening, it amazed me how Andy interacted with dwarf bunnies. He curled on a throw rug to snuggle with them, gently petting them. They seemed to love him. Sally reasoned snuggling the bunnies soothed Andy. She let them romp free under supervision. To my surprise, Andy let me pet the bunnies. I told him I had bunnies of my own, although he didn’t react to my words.

Other than that happy interaction, Andy acted disinterested in everything but the bunnies and his favorite Thomas the Train cartoon. Sally admitted she often played the cartoon to calm down Andy. When not watching the cartoon or snuggling, Andy wandered back and forth, never making eye contact or reacting to attempts to interact. Ocassionally he would crawl into Sally’s lap to rest for a few seconds. I found it interesting how he totally ignored Jerry.

It wasn’t until I went to leave that I saw an episode similar to what Sally had experienced in the grocery store. Sally walked me to the front door. Before I reached the door, Andy ran across the room and threw himself at the door, kicking and screaming. Sally sat on the floor and held him until he calmed down. I attempted to leave again, but Andy yanked away from Sally and did the same thing.

Sally thought he liked me because I played with the bunnies. He didn’t want me to leave.

I felt awful to cause him such distress. I suggested sneaking out through the back door but it turned out the lock was broken— Jerry hadn’t gotten around to replacing it.

I sat down again and waited. Sally held Andy until he pulled away to return to wandering in an agitated manner. We thought I could try to leave again. This time Sally halted Andy from hitting the door. She rocked him, trying to explain to him that I needed to go home to my bunnies. This time he kept screaming and hitting her.

Sally urged me to go while she held him. I shut the door behind me, feeling shaken and sad to disrupt the family. Sally didn’t blame me, but I still felt guilty. Andy’s outbursts truly showed me it takes a brave, loving person to raise an autistic child. Many brave loving parents raise similar children across the world.

I have no children of my own. I never wanted the responsibility. That’s why I can’t imagine how hard it is to raise an autistic child. I have nothing but admiration and awe for such parents.

The good news is once Sally divorced Jerry, as Andy grew older, he became more social. She’s coping with her lupus. Nowadays I only see Sally on Facebook, not in person, but I’ll never forget that night.

RJ, thanks for hosting this Autism Awareness Blog Hop.

 Looping back to the top fact, what do you do to make yourself feel more relaxed in a social situation? Comment to win the first two books in my Dreamspinner Press Cupid series: “Cupid Knows Best” and “The Gospel According to Cher.”

Thank you for reading.

Bowie's "We Are the Dead"

These lyrics sound oddly timely.

"We Are The Dead"

Something kind of hit me today
I looked at you and wondered if you saw things my way

People will hold us to blame
It hit me today, it hit me today

We're taking it hard all the time
Why don't we pass it by?
Just reply, you've changed your mind
We're fighting with the eyes of the blind
Taking it hard, taking it hard

Yet now
We feel that we are papers, choking on you nightly
They tell me "Son, we want you, be elusive, but don't walk far"
For we're breaking in the new boys, deceive your next of kin
For you're dancing where the dogs decay, defecating ecstasy
You're just an ally of the leecher
Locator for the virgin King, but I love you in your fuck-me pumps
And your nimble dress that trails
Oh, dress yourself, my urchin one, for I hear them on the rails
Because of all we've seen, because of all we've said
We are the dead

One thing kind of touched me today

I looked at you and counted all the times we had laid
Pressing our love through the night

Knowing it's right, knowing it's right

Now I'm hoping some one will care
Living on the breath of a hope to be shared

Trusting on the sons of our love
That someone will care, someone will care

But now
We're today's scrambled creatures, locked in tomorrow's double feature
Heaven's on the pillow, its silence competes with hell
It's a twenty-four hour service, guaranteed to make you tell

And the streets are full of press men
Bent on getting hung and buried
And the legendary curtains are drawn 'round Baby Bankrupt
Who sucks you while you're sleeping
It's the theater of financiers
Count them, fifty 'round a table
White and dressed to kill

Oh caress yourself, my juicy
For my hands have all but withered
Oh dress yourself my urchin one, for I hear them on the stairs
Because of all we've seen, because of all we've said

We are the dead
We are the dead
We are the dead 

Writer(s): David Bowie
Copyright: Tintoretto Music, Jones Music America, Chrysalis Music Ltd.

Sigh

Really, sometimes you want to give up.

My Christmas Present to You: Three Novels!

Holiday stories do not come easily to this cynical old gal. In fact, last year was the first time I submitted a story for Dreamspinner’s Advent calendar anthology. My futuristic story was set in a homeless shelter run by a gay pastor who thinks he’s loosing his mind, but by the end of the story, a few miracles happen.

I was stunned and delighted when “The Colors of Pastor Saul” was accepted for publication. I love my Dreamspinner editors.

Upon release, quite a few easily upset souls complained about the story. Too “sad” too “dark”, too “unsettling”… but wait, I thought, what about the miracles? Certain readers didn’t want to read about miracles in a homeless shelter, not for Christmas. These delicate readers wanted holiday trees and pretty lights…wait, I did feature those items in my story. Hmm. Maybe the specter of Death during Christmas upset readers. Cue Dickens. Obviously the oh-so-sensitive souls had never bothered to read Dickens.

Snarky? Me? Absolutely. I don’t tolerate ignorance and wanting intellect.

Back in March, I attempted to write a cheerful Christmas story set in 1947 Cornwell. Suddenly the trauma of World War 2 seeped into the celebration. I gave up and gently placed the story in storage.

When I saw RJ Scott’s invitation to submit a story to her “Christmas Delights” anthology, I said what the hell, I’ll give this holiday story game another shot. This time I selected nice hot sex as the story’s centerpiece. No trauma, no lurking death… there’s sex, voyeurism, snow, sweat, surprises, and a 1966 cherry red Mustang convertible named Sheila. When I feature a car in a story, I need to name her something fun.

There you go. I have discovered the ability to write a cheerful holiday story. OK, yes, there’s a little trauma, but it’s resolved in a blink.

To prove my holiday cheer, I’m giving away a holiday present of three novels: Cupid Knows Best, The Gospel According to Cher and Love in the Shadows. I’ll even throw in a copy of “The Colors of Pastor Saul.”

Your task is simple: recommend a great holiday story to me  and end the post with the Mustang's name.  *snicker*

Good luck!

My partner Professor Sandy will pick the winner on Sunday night.

Also, hop over to RJ’s blog for the chance to win great RJ-related prizes!

RJ Scott 

PS: By the way, the Cornwell story is coming out of storage. I think I found a happy ending. I'm trying, kittens, yes I am.

Shira Anthony Guest Post: The Blue Notes Series: Love for the Long Haul

Welcome to the Shira Anthony Weekend!

Thanks, Sandy, for hosting me!  It’s been a busy holiday season so far, since I have two releases in my Blue Notes Series of music-themed gay romances: Encore (released November 11th) and Symphony in Blue (to be released on Christmas day).  Symphony in Blue also happens to be my 10th Dreamspinner Press release, so I’m going all-out with a Blue Notes Holiday 2013 Tour giveaway contest featuring a grand prize of a Kindle loaded with e-books as well as other fun goodies (details at the end of the post).

The Blue Notes Series books, with the exception of Symphony in Blue, are standalone novels and can be read in any order.  Encore shares themes in common with the other Blue Notes books: music and musicians, a heavy focus on character development, and long-term, committed relationships.  It’s this last theme I’d like to talk a bit about:  love for the long haul.

I’ve never been a fan of insta-love.  Not only that, I was the kid who wanted to know what happened to Cinderella and her prince after they got married.  When people talk about happily-ever-afters, I’m thinking years down the line, not wedding days.  Maybe I wanted a road map for happiness.  Maybe I just wanted more realism than I got from cookie-cutter Harlequin romances.  It really doesn’t matter.  What matters to me is that readers see what it is that makes the men in my stories want to stay together and how they grow after they tell each other “I love you.”  Those are the books I wanted to read, and those are the books I write.  Symphony in Blue and Encore are perfect examples.

Encore is chronologically the first book in the series.  It begins in the 1970s and ends in the present day.  Talk about a long haul!  Roger and John meet in high school.  They are meant for each other.  But it’s the 1970s, and being gay was a million times harder back then than it is today.  I lived through the 70s and 80s. I remember the whispers and the judgments, the finger pointing and horrible suggestions that AIDS was some sort of retribution for the “sin” of homosexuality.  I knew men who lived their lives in the closet.  I knew men who died of AIDS.  I knew men who struggled to find a way to make relationships work in spite of the lack of role models for same-sex partners (we weren’t even talking about marriage back then!).  These are the men who inspired John and Roger’s story.  The road to a lasting happily-ever-after is a very long one in Encore.  It’s a story of young love, and it becomes a story of mature love.  The perfect representation of how I see happily-ever-after.  And it takes John and Roger nearly 30 years to figure out how to make their love work.

Symphony in Blue is also about the long haul and watching relationships come into their own.  It is also the only sequel in the series—a direct sequel to the first four books.  In it, I revisit the first four couples in the series, and show how their relationships have grown and the new challenges in their lives.  Is there a happily-ever-after in each of the first four books?  Of course.  Die-hard romantic that I am, I don’t write books without them.  But Symphony in Blue is a perfect illustration of how a happily-ever-after isn’t a particular place of mind:  it’s a state of mind.  So you might think of it as a second happily-ever-after for each of the couples.

Looking for sexy hot romances with fluffy scenes?  I think you’ll like the Blue Notes books.  But if you’re also looking for something more—for something more real than Cinderella and her prince? I think you’ll enjoy these stories about real men in real relationships.  You can find all of my Dreamspinner Press books by clicking here.  Want to read more about me and about my books, including free fiction and excerpts?  Check out my website, www.shiraanthony.com. 

Don’t forget to enter the Blue Notes Holiday 2013 Blog Tour giveaway by clicking here (Rafflecopter).  There are plenty of ways to enter, and you can enter more than once by commenting, tweeting, buying books, and liking pages.  I’ll be drawing winners on New Year’s Eve at midnight!  Good luck! –Shira

ENCORE EXCERPT:

Roger watched the snow fall outside the window of his apartment before glancing over at the clock. It was nearly 9:00 p.m., and John should have arrived an hour before.

“Promise me you won’t come if the snow gets too bad. You know how I-23 can get,” he’d told John that morning over the phone.

“I’ll be fine,” John had reassured him. “With the opera rehearsal schedule and Professor Menard’s vocal performance class, I’d never get to see you if I waited for perfect weather.”

Now, an hour after John was supposed to be here, Roger was pacing the apartment. Worrying. Imagining John’s car somewhere in a ditch. Or worse.

He pulled a beer out of the fridge, popped the top, and resumed his pacing. Ten minutes later, the phone rang.

“Hello!” he practically barked into the handset.

“Roger?”

“Oh, hey, Mom.” Fuck. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine.” She paused, and Roger tried to think of something to get her off the phone. If John needed to get a hold of him, he didn’t want him to get a busy signal. “I’m surprised you’re around on a Saturday night. You usually aren’t.”

“I’ve got an exam on Monday,” he lied. “I can’t talk long.”

“No, of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you from it.” She’d been thrilled when he’d told her he planned on finishing school in three years. He hadn’t told her he planned on moving to New York, where John had already been accepted to do his master’s in conducting at Juilliard.

“Thanks, Mom.” Roger pushed back the curtain on the window in the kitchen with his foot—the long telephone cord didn’t go quite that far. From here, he could see the parking lot. A blanket of white covered the stripes on the asphalt. No John.

“… aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you were coming over on Monday for dinner.” She sounded irritated.

“Oh, yeah. Right. Sure. I’ll be there.” He had to get her off the phone. “Look, Mom. I gotta get back to studying. I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

“Are you sure everything is all right, dear?”

“It’s great, Mom. I really need to go.”

Her huff was audible through the handset. “Of course.”

“Bye.”

He hung up the phone before she could say anything more, and opened the drapes a bit farther. There had to be at least six inches of snow outside. He pressed his nose against the cold glass like he had when he’d been a kid, then closed his eyes. A moment later, the buzzer to the apartment sounded.

Thank God!

Roger scrambled over to the door and opened it to find a disheveled John smiling back at him. “Had to ditch the car over by the Woolworth’s. Forgot my keys. The ploughs haven’t made it this far yet—”

Roger grabbed John and pulled him inside. He was soaking wet, his shoulder-length hair curled at the ends, but Roger didn’t care. He drew John against him, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and just held him.

“You okay?” John’s voice sounded muffled against Roger’s cheek.

“I am now.”

“Can I take this backpack off?” John asked with a soft laugh. “It’s a little heavy.”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry.” Roger grabbed the pack off John’s shoulders and kicked the door shut behind them.

“You were worried about me.” Not a question, and the way the edges of John’s mouth edged upward, Roger could tell he was teasing.

Roger was tempted to lie, but he was so relieved, he just sighed and said, “Yeah.”

John stared at him in surprise. “You really were worried.”

“Fuck, John, I—”

John kissed him. He tasted of snow and Coca-Cola. Roger closed his eyes as their tongues skirted each other in a now-familiar dance. God, he loved John! More than he could get up the nerve to admit.

For two years they’d stolen every moment they could, working around John’s busy schedule and Roger’s mother. Miranda suspected something. Roger was sure of it. She’d even shown up at the apartment early in the morning on the weekend. John said he was sure she was trying to catch them together. It made things a bit more difficult, but they’d worked it out. John stored his things under the bed, and the bedroom closet was big enough that he could slip inside and hide. They’d left a few pillows behind Roger’s clothing, as well as a flashlight and a few books.

“Don’t worry about it,” John had said the first time he’d hidden there. They both knew Roger needed his parents to pay tuition—at least they hadn’t threatened to stop when Roger announced he was getting his own apartment. “It’s just for a little while.”

Roger came back to himself and realized John was shivering. “Shit, John. You’re freezing your ass off.” He took John by the hand and led him into the bedroom. In the light, John’s cheeks looked pink in contrast to his pale skin. Roger unzipped John’s wet jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. “Stay right there,” he said before stepping into the bathroom to retrieve a towel.

John smiled as Roger dried his face and hair. “Feels good. I like it when you fuss over me.”

Roger’s cheeks heated. “Your pants are soaked,” he said in an effort to mask his embarrassment. He reached for John’s belt, undid the buckle, and unbuttoned the waist of John’s pants. The room was silent except for the sound of the zipper and Roger’s heart pounding in his ears. His hands shook as he pulled John’s pants down—he still hadn’t quite moved past the sinking feeling in his gut that had lodged itself there when he’d worried something had happened to John. He could handle a lot, but the thought of losing John terrified him.

“Are you okay?” John was studying him with a strange expression.

“Yeah.” I am now.

Roger focused on helping John step out of the cold, damp pants. He knew if he met John’s gaze, everything he felt would be obvious. It wasn’t just that he was embarrassed. What he felt was something he’d only begun to understand: vulnerability. The feeling you get when you realize your entire world would come to a screeching halt if the certain someone in your life were to vanish.

John shivered again.

“Get under the covers. I’ll be there in a minute.” Roger watched John pull the warm comforter over himself as he got undressed. He joined John underneath and skated his palms over John’s cold thighs until they warmed to his touch.

“Feels good.”

“You’re still cold.” Roger wrapped his body around John’s and held him. John’s skin was slightly damp against his own.

“I’m fine.” John tucked his chin into the space between Roger’s neck and shoulder. “Really.”

Roger just held him tighter.

“Roger?”

“Hmm?”

“You okay?” John pulled away a bit and looked at him with obvious concern.

“Yeah.”

“Talk to me, Roger. What’s up?”

It was Roger’s turn to shiver. “I told you. I was just a little worried.”

“About me?” John reached for Roger’s face and pulled it gently so that Roger had no choice but to look at him.

“Yeah.” He didn’t want to talk about this. He just wanted to hold John and reassure himself John was safe. He looked away again.

“Hey.” John rolled onto his side so his face was next to Roger’s. “You can tell me, you know. I’m not going to laugh or anything.”

“I know.” Roger hesitated another moment, then said, “It’s just that I feel like an idiot.”

“Worrying about me doesn’t make you an idiot.” John leaned in and kissed Roger’s nose. “It makes me feel good.”

Roger’s breath stuttered. “I kept thinking back to that night… the accident. I kept imagining you in a ditch somewhere. Hurt…. Shit.” He grabbed John and buried his face in his chest. “I dream about that night sometimes, except in my dreams, you’re….” He clenched his jaw and blinked back tears. He’d had a lot of those dreams—nightmares, really—since John had started driving down from Ann Arbor to stay with him. He dreamed he woke up in the hospital and instead of John being all right, the doctor told him they’d done everything they could, and then he was standing in front of a headstone and he knew, he just knew whose headstone it was.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” Roger whispered. “I’d lose my mind. I love you so fucking much, I don’t know what I’d do.” It took him a moment to realize what he’d just said.

John leaned over and kissed him again, this time on the lips. In the semidarkness, Roger saw John’s eyes sparkle. The edges of his mouth curved upward in a tentative smile as the kiss broke. “You love me?” he asked.

Roger could only nod.

“Thank God. Because I don’t know what I’d do if I was the only one who felt like that.”

“You love me too.” He said the words as though he didn’t believe them.

“Always, Roger.”

Blue Notes Holiday 2013 Blog Tour Info

This blog tour is to celebrate TWO Blue Notes Series releases:  Encore (Blue Notes #5) on November 11, 2013, and Symphony in Blue (Blue Notes #4.5) on December 25, 2013 (Christmas Day).  Symphony in Blue is my 10th Dreamspinner Press release!  I’ve put together a special prize list to celebrate.  

Blue Notes Series Holiday 2013 Giveaway:

·      Begins on release day for Encore, November 11, 2013

·      Ends on New Year’s Eve, December 31, 2013, at midnight

·      Drawings are open to both U.S. readers and international readers, but physical prizes (Kindle, necklace, book, and t-shirt) are for U.S. readers only. I will award a virtual set of the first 4 Blue Notes Series books to one winner from outside the U.S.

·      Prizes (U.S. Only):

o   Grand Prize: A Kindle loaded with the first 4 Blue Notes Series books and some of my other back titles

o   1st Place: A sterling silver music themed necklace

o   2nd Place: Winner’s choice of one of my back titles in paperback (i.e., not including the 2 new releases)

o   3rd Place: Blue Notes t-shirt, cover of the winner’s choice

Buy Links:  Encore: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4353&cPath=55_484

Symphony in Blue: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4479&cPath=55_484

******

Remaining Blog Stops Currently Scheduled:

December 10th: Brilliant Disguise (Tali Spencer’s blog)

December 16th: Rebecca Cohen’s blog

December 20th: Purple Rose Teahouse (Charlie Cochet’s blog)

December 23rd: Mrs. Condits and Friends

December 25^th: Symphony in Blue Release Day Party at Melanie Marshall’s Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words

December 26^th: Book Suburbia

December 27th:  Helen Pattskyn’s blog