A Fantasy Life by Janet Quinn Cornelow
October 28, 2011 by A Slice of Orange in category A Fantasy Life by Janet Cornelow tagged as Janet Cornelow, Janet Quinn
I have put The Irish Countess up on Kindle. It has a new look thanks to Lex Valentine, an OCC member, who made the cover. It is really a sexy cover.
After the death of her husband, Countess Ciara MacCormack Fitzsimmons returns home to Ireland and the earl’s estate accompanied by her six-year-old son. There she meets Mick O’Hurlihey, the estate overseer, and falls in love for the first time in her life. However, being the countess keeps her from Mick.
Mick is smitten with Ciara the first time he sees her, but realizes that he can never lay claim to the Countess. Then danger stalks Ciara and her son and Mick risks his own life to keep theirs safe.
It is available at Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/The-Irish-Countess-ebook/dp/B005ZXEQGQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1319765168&sr=1-1
I have been writing, which is a good thing. I am working on A Chance for Love, which is a time-travel that I started awhile back. It is moving along quickly. I am on chapter 6 already. The hero is getting ready to tell the heroine that he is from the future which is always a fun scene to write. I wish I had more time to write but the classes I am teaching take up much of my time.
So do my two “toddlers.†My dog and my kitten love to interrupt everything that I do. The kitten doesn’t understand that the 90 pound dog is not a big cat and does not wrestle like a cat does. I keep waiting for the kitten to get smooshed. He has turned out to be the alpha male and terrorizes the dog. Then he also terrorizes the humans and has redecorated a great deal of the house. I have baby proofed my kitchen. It is already for my granddaughter when she learns to crawl. Of course, by the time she can reach the top cabinets that are also baby proofed, she’ll be old enough to not hurt herself. Rugen, the kitten, on the other hand, can reach them now and wants to get into them and knock everything out. If I could convince him that the stove is not a safe place when there is something cooking on it, I will have really accomplished something. I have to watch the stove at all moments because he keeps trying to set himself on fire.
eReaders–Isabel Swift wonders: what’s with the “But I love BOOKS” response?
October 24, 2011 by Isabel Swift in category From Isabel Swift tagged as eBooks, eReaders, iPad, Isabel Swift, Kindle, readingI’m sure you’ve had the same experience–or have been one of the players in this conversation.
But first, a bit of background….
In addition to being VP of editorial for Harlequin, over a decade ago I also chaired a digital/eBook task force charged with exploring this new business opportunity. Additionally, much later, I was part of the new business group launching a number of new digital initiatives. So I guess what I’m trying to say is: I swing both ways. And in the course of my work, I had a lot of conversations with people–readers, writers, booksellers, digital entrepreneurs. Today, I still love to find out what people are reading–and how they are reading.
Back to the present. So, I’m at a dinner party, or cocktail party, or just striking up a conversation in line or traveling–and the subject of books and reading comes up. Often one person has an eReader (frequently a Kindle, sometimes an iPad or other eReader) and is either extolling its virtues, or reluctantly (or not) going through the learning curve.
Someone else invariably chimes in (sometimes with passionate intensity) “But I love BOOKS! I could NEVER get an eReader!” Then they go on a bit about the smell, turning the pages & the multitude of pleasures, information and sensation that a physical object offers. The self-confessed eReader reader is given the hairy eyeball, or at best, a pitying look. Emotions can (and have) run high over this line in the sand, this perceived chasm.
And don’t get me wrong–I love books too. Physical books. But I am stumped as to why there is such a prevalent and passionate assumption that physical Vs digital is an either/or choice. Like once you purchase an eReader, a scarlet TTTWW (for Traitor To The Written Word) will be emblazoned on your forehead and a magnetic force field will drop down (visually similar to the Cone of Silence in Get Smart) preventing you from ever touching another physical book with your dirty digital hands. You have not remained faithful to the books that raised you–dipping your wick elsewhere is clearly felt to be a relationship ender.
Huh? I just don’t get it. My reading world is not monogamous! I believe in choice! I love stories. I love storytellers. Books have not changed my life–stories have, with their information, insights, compelling worlds, emotional challenges and eye opening truths. Stories that are shared though listening (conversation, audio, radio, lectures,…), seeing (performance, films, TV, museums,…) or reading (books, newspapers, magazines, documents, letters,…).
Yes, the story’s trasmission vehicle can make a difference in the impact of a story. Watching the Rolling Stones’ Steel Wheels concert live Vs at an IMAX theatre with rabid fans Vs on a DVD alone at home delivers quite different experiences. Reading a hardcover, paperback, listening to the story on audio, reading it on an eReader all deliver a different experience.
Sure, there may be preferred formats for certain stories. Haven’t you heard people say “You don’t need to see that movie in a theater, it’ll be fine on DVD”? I assure you watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show live at midnight is a great example of the transformative impact of how you experience a story Vs sitting at home with the remote.
But everyone understands the benefits of access, choice, convenience. As a reader, I don’t like to be without something to read. And while I am usually a fairly committed reader, I must confess I’m not entirely monagamous. As a frequent traveller I have found myself lugging stacks of material: manuscripts, educational/business reading, fun reading, recommended reading, themeatically appropriate reading, books 2 and 3 in the series, just in case… You know what I’m talking about!
Now I can have everything on one slim tablet and people no longer ask me if I am carrying rocks in my suitcase. Maybe I’ll have a paperback in my purse too–cheerful in the knowledge if I tire of it or finish it, I have other options. Bedtime reading with sleeping spouse can cease to be an issue with a back-lit iPad. And another interesting aspect of the digital reading experience is product privacy. No one knows what you’re reading.
(Though for some that could be a drawback, as looking intellectual, educated, in-the-know and generally superior could be the key driver behind plowing through an improving literary tome. But surely a secondary market will spring up of sheaths for one’s tablet that will say perhaps: “Don’t bother me…Riveted by Rushdie!” or “Intellect @ Play” or “I’m improving myself. And you?”)
Alternatively, maybe you really don’t mind carrying two or three volumes around in your gigantic purse. Perhaps you are unmoved by the ability to download a recommended read instantly at the dinner table in The-Back-of-Beyond. Unlike me, perhaps you may have a house filled with empty shelves, just waiting to be filled, with your other bookshelves are stacked with easy-to-find, easy-to-search titles. But that is not my world.
So enough with this “I love BOOKS!”. Of course you do. But I love stories….
Why Do we Write What We Write
October 20, 2011 by A Slice of Orange in category Columns tagged as Member At Large, Mona Karel, Monica StonerMight as well ask why we read what we read since for many of us they are inextricably linked. We write what we enjoy reading. I was reminded of this recently during two discussions with non romance readers. The first one asked me to define exactly what sort of books I write, and if “romance” is a long story with some hand-holding, a short story with hot sex? She went on to explain her local librarian has been trying to convince her to write what she calls a romance novel – sort of relationship in the 1800s with a sex scene thrown in about every 40 pages. I sent her to RWA’s website for an idea of the professionalism involved in our genre, and had to point out her librarian is a literary bigot.
The second discussion was less abrasive. A non romance reading friend read My Killer My Love, and was surprised how much she enjoyed it. Up until now her opinion of romance hasn’t been very positive, and the idea of a heroine with glasses and a limp intrigued her. She asked me what I would write next and how I decided what to write.
These past few months I’ve devoured books of all sorts. I’ve read Jim Butcher’s entire Furies series along with the latest Harry Dresden. I’ve enjoyed Tara Lain’s Beautiful Boys and Rebecca Forster’s chilling “Before Her Eyes.” From the moment I first sat in the Emergency Room with my husband I’ve had a book or Kindle in my hand, and I’ve used the words of other writers to help me get through the days. During procedures I filled my time and my worried mind with flights of fantasy and allayed my fears with tales of love everlasting. The often silly, sometimes implausible plot points distracted me at times when I wasn’t ready to face the reality of our days.
Why do I write? I write so someone else can have those few hours of immersion in a story. I write so they can temporarily forget the stresses of their lives and briefly become a part of the lives I created in the pages of my book. Perhaps some of us write to be the next Nora, the next Jayne Ann, but for the most part we write to share what we are with anyone willing to share the worlds we lived in for the months or years it took to create the story.
I write—we write—to give someone a distraction while waiting for news of the tests, or as they sit in another uncomfortable chair during procedures, wanting to be there when their loved one goes past, to let them connect with the world waiting for their return. Those scenes and dialogue and setting pour out of our hearts onto the page, sometimes easily, sometimes with great effort, to be sucked up into the minds of readers and allow them a few moments to enjoy something other than the unrelenting sounds of a hospital.
I write because too many stories clamor in my head for release onto the screen. And I guess I write because I can’t not write.
Writing as Mona Karel, Monica’s first novel, MY KILLER MY LOVE, is available from Black Opal Books , Amazon, Smashwords and B&N.
8 Easy Ways to Grow your Social Media Footprint
October 19, 2011 by Marianne H. Donley in category Archives tagged as Jenny Hansen, More Cowbells, Social Media, Writers In the Storm
If you haven’t added your Facebook address and Twitter username to your voicemail, you are missing out on some cheap easy marketing. Hundreds of people hear your voicemail each year and it could be the push they need to connect with you online.
Does your website have clear links to your Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn page? What about to your blog? If someone finds your website, you want to make it easy for them to find the rest.
Do you have your social media information printed at the bottom of each letter and brochure you put out? What about on your business cards? It’s easy to make room in the address block for something so important. Try including this the next time you print any materials.
Do you have all your social media info in the signature blog on your email? It’s amazing how many people will click that link if you make it easy.
It’s a good idea to build an email list and use it for some email marketing. I didn’t say spamming. Once a month is fine for connecting. Once a day is not. Be sure to include all your links as well as a periodic promotion. You’ll be surprised at the results. Tools like Constant Contact can track this for you.
Do you have a sign up at bookstores or tradeshow events telling your
Do you do any public speaking? Your social media contact information should be on each slide, in any handouts you provide and should also be verbalized at the beginning and end of the presenation.
It’s a very good idea to be sure that your
Jenny fills her nights with humor: writing memoir, women’s fiction, chick lit, short stories (and chasing after the newly walking Baby Girl). By day, she provides training and social media marketing for an accounting firm. After 15 years as a corporate software trainer, she’s digging this sit down and write thing. In addition to being a founding member of Writers In The Storm, Jenny also hangs out on Twitter at jhansenwrites and at her blog, More Cowbell.
STORIES MY MOTHER TOLD ME
October 15, 2011 by A Slice of Orange in category Archives tagged as daughters, heroes, marriage, Mothers
My parents made a pact to stand on every continent in the world. When my dad passed away, my mother went to the Antarctic for both of them. That’s when I figured there was a lot I didn’t know about mom.
When she returned with a bright orange jacket that she got ‘for free’ (don’t count the cost of the cruise), she had lots of stories to tell. Yet, when the excitement of the trip wore off, we both had the sense that we were still standing on a pitching deck with no way to sail to calm seas. A big piece of the puzzle – my dad – was missing.
“Write your memoir,†I said.
“My life wasn’t interesting,†she answered.
But the idea must have taken hold. Not long after this conversation, she called. She was done with her memoir.
“Impressive,†I mused.
It takes me months to write one novel and she finished hers in a week. When I saw her manuscript, I understood why. It was five pages long and she was eighty-five years old. There had to be more.
So began a year of weekend sleep-overs as we poured over photographs for inspiration. She had twenty beautifully documented photo albums, a box filled with pictures taken when cameras were still new fangled things.
There was mom in waist-length braids and Mary Jane shoes standing in the German village she called home.
She was a teenager in the U.S. while war raged in Europe, threatening the grandmother she had lived with, cousins and friends.
Here was mom, posing in a swimsuit she bought with the dollar she found on the street.
Mom in her twenty-five dollar bridal gown perched in the back of a hay wagon beside my father, a skinny, wide-eyed farm boy who would become a doctor.
Mom with one child. Two. Three. Five. Six of us all together. Dark haired and big eyed, we were her clones dressed in beautiful, homemade clothes. I remember going to sleep to the sound of her sewing machine.
And there were words! I bribed my mother with promises of Taco Bell feasts if she gave me details. Funny, what came to her mind.
To keep body and soul together when my father was in med school, he was a professional mourner and bussed tables for a wealthy fraternity. My mom worked in a medical lab where the unchecked radiation caused her to lose her first baby. They ate lab rabbits that had given their all for pregnancy tests. They were in love and happy and didn’t know they were poor. But St. Louis was cold, she remembered, and they couldn’t afford winter coats. Still, she insisted, they weren’t poor.
She typed, I edited; I typed, she talked. My youngest brother almost died when he was 10. She didn’t cry for a long while; not until she knew he would live. The captain of the ship that took her back to Germany was kind. She dreamed of becoming a missionary doctor. In 1954, she had two toddlers (me and my brother) and another baby on the way when she and dad drove to Fairbanks, Alaska where he would serve his residency at the pleasure of the U.S. Air Force. Her favorite outfit was a suit with a white collar. She loved her long hair rolled at her neck in the forties. In the fifties she made a black dress with rhinestone straps and her hair was bobbed. In the sixties she made palazzo pants and sported a short bouffant. She looked like a movie star in her homemade clothes. I wanted to grow up to be as glamorous as she was. She still thought she wasn’t interesting.
Mom wrote the forward to her memoir herself. It began:
A great sense of loneliness fills the house as twilight approaches. In the silence, I can almost hear the voices of my grown children as they recall their childhood years, the laughter of grandchildren and the quiet conversations of friends who have gathered here in years past, echoing through the empty rooms.
You see, she really had no need of my help as a writer.
We had seven copies printed. On the cover was a beautiful picture of a sunset. She called her book In The Twilight of My Life and would not be swayed to change it. Mom thought it perfect and not the least depressing. It was, she laughed, the truth. It was her laugh that made it right. She gave my brothers and sisters a copy for Christmas. My older brother had tears in his eyes. Everyone exclaimed: “I never knew thatâ€.
Now I have a book more treasured than any I have written. I learned a lot about my mom and I realized why I create fictional women of courage and conviction, strength and curiosity, intelligence and, most of all, spirit. It’s because, all this time, I’ve been writing about my mother.
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