Posts Tagged ‘guest post’

Did’ja see?

June 13, 2011

 

My guest post over at Jeff Bennington‘s The Writing Bomb last week? It’s great blog, he’s got a great book, Reunion, oh, and I guest posted. Petersen’s Take on Character Building. Go check it out.

BLOG TOUR: dk Levick’s Bridges

June 9, 2011

Welcome! Today dk Levick is stopping by on his whirlwind blog tour for his new novel, Bridges. Now, if you’re expecting a book review, or an interview, then you would be wrong. Mr. Levick’s already stopped at ten blogs and will stop at fifteen more after this. All of which will do much more interesting reviews or interviews than I.

So, in Write Me! style, we’ll just have a little fun and throw in some 5MinuteFiction!

But, business first.

Plagerized Copied straight from Amazon.com:

Bridges:

When a faded picture sets in motion a perilous journey for five young men, they not only encounter harrowing adventure in the forbidden Niagara Gorge, but are forced to confront the swirling illusions of the world they knew changing their lives forever.

‘Bridges’ brings together a series of historical events, in a twist of mystery and revelation with a group of 1962 teenagers caught up in the complexities of a changing world around them, exploring the questions of all peoples of all times.

About the Author:

”Being born and raised in the Niagara Frontier, I grew up on the Upper Niagara River and spent my formative years as a ‘river rat’, not in awe, but in fear of the mighty Cataract, viewing it as a threat to my Upper river escapades. More than once, we barely escaped the swift current while tubing down the river or fishing Navy Island in a rubber raft.

The Falls was to be avoided at all costs. That perspective changed the first time I went down into the gorge below the Falls (during summer of course — I wasn’t as crazy as the ‘boys’ were to go in winter). There, like Saul on the road to Damascus, I was overcome by the wonder of the river and consumed by the mystery of it.

Focused on raising a family in Niagara, I wrote for myself over the years. This story, now I give to you. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have in writing it.”–dk LeVick

Now, you might have noticed, dk Levick was our guest judge for this week’s 5MinuteFiction. He also agreed to guest judge a SPECIAL EVENING EDITION of 5MinuteFiction. That’s right. For everyone who could never participate because of the time, this is your opportunity. Thursday at 6:00 pm EDT, we’re doing 5MinuteFiction. Post’s going up later, but in the meantime, show this man some love. Have you checked out Bridges? Do it. Now. I’ll wait.

Bridges.

OK, I won’t actually wait, but I’ll give you a pat on the back when I see you later for 5MinuteFiction.

BUT that wasn’t all! Did you think that was all? Oh no. Because dk Levick also participated in 5MinuteFiction Tuesday, behind the scenes at my request. He didn’t know the prompt any more than the rest of you did. So at 1:30 he saw it, wrote it, and then emailed it to me. I’ve been saving it for you. From the prompt “ice,” in only five minutes, he gave us the following.

Enjoy! And be back at 6:00 pm Eastern.

He’d lie awake, chilled from the cold sweats that troubled his infrequent dozing. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a sound night’s sleep. Instead, his mind swirled and spun from fear and terror, an out of control kaleidoscope while his body tossed and turned in the nightly battle with the blanket.

Lying thus, in his bed three nights ago, he was at his lowest point ever; a heavy cloak of despair suffocating him. Next to him Maggie’s broken breathing competed with the crying wind outside. There was no peace or joy in his world. All hope had forsaken him. He was alone and felt alone. Alone, fearful and angry, he couldn’t understand how or why his life had crumbled apart so badly and so quickly.

The moonlight filtering through the ice-laden branches thumping outside the window played an erratic waltz across the ceiling. Tommy lay still, staring at the overhead fan, watching the blades revolve, ever so slowly, round and round, casting alternating shadows over the dancing moonlight on the ceiling – flash – flash – flash.

Ignoring the fan, the shadows stopped flashing between the blades but remained fixed in place on the ceiling. They began lengthening, moving down the walls, growing longer and longer, down to the floor, forming shapes, silhouettes ringing the room, each moving separately within itself – a circle of living shadows.

Tommy stared at the shadows as a thick fog of terror enveloped him. Afraid to move, his eyes darted from side to side, straining to see – not wanting to see. He watched the shadows as they gathered shape and form like dark, cold ice men and began silently parading around the room, slowly at first, then gradually picking up speed. A sense of dread, deeper than fear alone, came over Tommy and a putrid odor filled the room – the odor of evil. A circle of ice-demons danced around Tommy’s bed.

His heart racing, his body frozen, breath coming in large clouds of cold exhaust, his eyes shifted and bulged as they followed the circle of demons. The sound of Maggie’s breathing was lost as the howling of the winds grew in intensity, no longer banging against the outside windows but filling his ears and head with their rage and vengeance from right here – inside his bedroom.

What’s happening? Oh God, what is this? Help me – please!

The circle of ice-demons spun faster and faster, a whir spinning against the winds that roared and swirled in the opposite direction over and around him.

No! No! This can’t be happening! Who are you? What do you want from me?

“It comes from within Tommy.”

What was that? Who said that? Who are you?

The circle spun, faster still, becoming an indistinguishable blur racing around his bed. It grew darker, closing in around Bobby, tighter and tighter until the coldness brushed against his face and a vision of horror swept through him while the winds of hell ravaged over his quivering body.

“It comes from within Tommy. Seek within.”

Charles?  Is that you Charles? Tommy squeezed his eyes tight, shutting out this invasion to his sanity. Oh God, Help me! Are you here Charles? Help me! Save me!

“When you need me – I’ll be there.”

Charles! It is you. You are here. Tommy opened his eyes and stared at the shadows circling his bed. The spinning blur slowed to a crawl, while the putrid wind blew lightly, coldly across his face. They were waiting, watching and Tommy knew what he must do.

I have to see Charles.

#

Tour Notes:

Please vote for my blog in the traffic-breaker poll for this tour. The blogger with the most votes wins a free promotional twitterview and a special winner’s badge. I want that to be me! You can vote in the poll by visiting the official Bridges blog tour page and scrolling all the way to the bottom to vote for Write Me!

You can win a free paperback copy of Bridges: A Tale of Niagara by entering your name and email address on its official blog tour page. The winner of the give-away will be announced on Wednesday, June 29 – be sure to enter before then!

Learn more about this author by visiting his website, blog, Facebook or GoodReads pages or by connecting with him on Twitter.

Guest Post, Liz Borino: Bringing Characters to Life

May 26, 2011

It’s no secret to anyone who talks to me for five minutes or reads my books that my characters are very real to me. I’ve spent many hours talking and listening to them. I could tell you things about my boys (and girl) I don’t know about my very best friends. I know their extensive back stories, their weight distribution, the way they’d approach a problem, and even their bedroom personalities.

So, if you’re still listening and not ready to put me in a padded cell yet, there are good reasons to get to know your characters so intimately.

  1. The more real your characters are to you, the more real they’ll be to your readers. You need this realism to have their actions make sense.
  2. If you don’t know your characters your fiction becomes about you. It’s not supposed to be. The question should never be ‘What would I do in ________ situation?’ Cuz you know you what? It’s fiction! No one cares. Know your characters and you can turn that question into ‘What would {insert character name} do in ________ situation?’ And you’ll know the answer.
  3. Makes dialogue realistic.

Now, you’re hopefully convinced of the necessity of knowing your characters intimately. That word was chosen carefully. I am a romance author, after all. Let’s talk now about how you develop these relationships with the people you write about. I’m not going to direct you to an outline or character sheet. To me, that’s the equivalent of getting to know someone by reading their resume, not very effective in my opinion.

  1. Though some would disagree with this approach, I start from the inside and move out.  Decide the kind of jobs, hobbies, and lifestyle the character will have and allow their outward appearance to reflect that.
  2. As far as their physical bodies, know everything. For women, don’t just know they’re slender with red hair. Know they wear a size four and they love their auburn shoulder length hair. Small chest? No. 32A. For men, how many hours does he spend at the gym in a given week? That will definitely reflect on his body shape. Muscular doesn’t count, either. Bulging biceps and a six pack is more like it… What was I talking about? I’m going to let you use your imagination on the other details you should know specific to men. For both genders, know exactly where their birth marks are. Do they have any childhood scars? This stuff may never be revealed, but it’s important for the writer to see it within their head.
  3. Now that you know who your characters are physically and emotionally, it’s time to play with them. Talk to them. Listen to the way they communicate in your daydreams. If you open yourself up to them your characters are likely to start telling you their story.

You know what my favorite part of getting to know my characters is? As they tell you their story, it’s often very different from the story you thought you’d be writing. And that is way more than okay.  It’s what makes the art of writing an adventure.

Liz Borino is the debut author of Expectations and its sequel, What Money Can’t Buy published by Lazy Day. Throughout her education, including a Bachelor’s Degree from Hofstra University, she’s kept her stories to herself, but this only child is all grown up and wants to share them with the world. Her roots are in Bethlehem, Pa, but she loves to experience new cultures. As fun as that is, Liz likes nothing better than curling up at home with a good book or her work in progress.

Blog Streak! or Thea Atkinson Being Inappropriate

April 22, 2011

 

For the month of April, fellow author, Thea Atkinson, @theapatra is streaking through 30 blogs and flashing us a piece of fiction. I offered her a space today so she could expose a piece. My blog will be back to normal tomorrow. In the meantime, enjoy and follow the links at the end to see who she flashed yesterday and who she will flash tomorrow. Feel free to leave a comment to let me know if you enjoyed the streak, and you are welcome to tweet it or share it on Facebook. You can also follow the chain through twitter with the hashtag #blogstreak.

Green Means Gone

By Thea Atkinson

http://theaatkinson.wordpress.com

His hair was lank and his eyes were sunken. This was the man who, according to Charlene, would rock my pitiful world? Wherever she was from, paste seemed to be her preferred complexion type in male accessories. I looked him over. He looked away, fiddled with the stem of his beer bottle in a way that made me think he had other problems besides his looks.

“I’ll have a sex on the beach,” I said to the barkeep, then cringed when I realized I’d used the word ‘sex’ within earshot of my blind date. Sure enough, his head cocked to the side and his thumb made a subtle stroke down the side of his Coors.

“So, how do you know Charlene?” I asked him, deflecting the energy I’d pumped into the air.

He lifted a narrow shoulder. “Just around.”

“Around,” I repeated. Around Neptune maybe. Charlene was a mite more than simple strange could ever encompass as a description.

“How do you know her?” The words had a weird edge on them, and I figured the best thing I could do in answer was shoot back the drink. I had no plans to see this boy again; he didn’t need to know Charlene was my sister-in-law. Almost Sister-in-law. Never to be sister-in-law.

He waited for the burn to subside before he pressed me more.

“So,” he came close enough that I could see the albino hairs on his chin — the fluff better known as cheek fuzz in a male wooing puberty with a bouquet of only near-complete hormones. “How do you know her?”

“How old are you?”

He did his best to square out his shoulders. “Old enough.”

“Well,” I said, looking around the bar. “Old enough to pass without I.D, anyway.” I plopped down the shot glass and looked hard into his eyes. “And that’s good enough for me.”

I half-expected him to protest when I grabbed his hand and pulled him into the puddles of people doing their best to look nonchalant on a Saturday night. Everyone wants to look as if they don’t give a sweet fuck, but everyone else also knows you don’t pull out the FUBU gear unless you’re serious about getting laid.

And I’d about had it with the bullshit surrounding the whole Chinese checkers game of the dating marketplace. I’d had my escape in the form of six feet of testosterone and the best hands I’d ever felt on me.  Had. He was two months lost now. And I didn’t care if this peach fuzzy boy was a virgin, was gay, was sixteen years old –I was going to get laid.

I wanted to screw the grief straight out through my own bodily fluids. Orgasms were a much better outlet than tears anyway — and Steve — bless his immortal soul, couldn’t give them to me anymore. Not anymore or ever again. I felt my throat convulse.

“What’s your name, Coors?” I shouted to the left, sidestepping two girls wearing neon mouth pieces as a means of getting noticed.

“Chuck,” he said. “Hey, has that girl got green teeth?” He pointed to a cluster of barely legal girls next to the dance floor.

I pushed at the Ladies room door. “Yes, Chuck. She thinks she has a better chance of getting noticed — and getting laid — that way.” The place smelled of urine and old woman perfume. “Those girls don’t understand that green is the color of infection.”

We were halfway in, then. Two girls at the sink saw us enter and clipped up their lipsticks with such deliberation I wondered what they read in my face. I kept talking, trying not to think about anything except sex–not love–in a stall.

“They forget green is the color of mold.” I told him and glared at the lipstick girls until they pushed past us.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror, clinging to Chuck Coors, thinking of screwing him despite the fact that he looked even more dead in the light than he had in the dark. I saw his rotten teeth, the nails that looked as if he’d been digging graves on the night shift, and I realized Charlene understood something about me, about what I needed, that I hadn’t until just now.

That I needed to fuck Death.

 

April 21: Debra Martin

http://twoendsofthepen.blogspot.com

April 23 Vivienne Tuffnell

http://zenandtheartoftightropewalking.wordpress.com/