Playlists!

Thought I'd do something a little different tonight and post up some tunes from my playlist. I listen to these while working the day job, and while writing, since music with lyrics doesn't really impact my writing too negatively.

I use Amazon Prime Music for my music, choosing to either shuffle all my songs (currently only 133 on the list...I just did a clean-out), or listening to a specific artist. Since I'm going to see Halestorm live in October, I've been listening to them a lot lately, but here are the first ten songs that come up on a random shuffle of my list:

1. I Miss the Misery - Halestorm
2. Angels Fall - Breaking Benjamin
3. Inhale - Stone Sour
4. Gone Sovereign - Stone Sour
5. Bring It - Trapt
6. Amen - Halestorm
7. Heaven Knows - The Pretty Reckless
8. Bitch Came Back - Theory of a Deadman
9. Silence and Scars - Pop Evil
10. Lydia - Highly Suspect

As you can tell, I'm a bit of a rocker, though there are some softer songs on my list. They just didn't come up this go-around.

And while I don't find lyrics affecting my writing, I do find the kind of music affecting the mood/tone sometimes. If I'm writing a love scene, for example, I wouldn't likely tune in any of these songs, but would opt for something more upbeat. If I'm writing a fight scene, though...

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Sunday Excerpt - Smothered

One archetype character in most romances is the "best friend" of the female protagonist. She often takes the form of a sister, best friend, co-worker, or even a mother, but I wanted to be a little different with Annie's BFF, so I made it a gay man, Jason. Here's a little tidbit from a scene where he shows himself to be the friend she needs:

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Annie fought back a sneeze as the smells of mildew, dust, and alcohol assaulted her nose. She shouldn't have been surprised, since her mom had been an accomplished drinker, and the house had sat empty for a year since her death. Sunlight sliced through the curtained windows in dusty blades of gold, lighting up the sitting room to their left, but leaving the hallway ahead of them shadowed and dark. Stairs rose to the left, carpeted with a red-patterned runner, leading up to the second floor. Annie led Jason down the corridor, peeking in the dining room, living room, den, and kitchen before stopping at the end of the hall.

Despite the smell, the interior was cool, as Annie had convinced her mother to install a central air conditioner during her last year. It had made her mother's final, bed-ridden days less painful, she thought, though her mother had never admitted it.

"No one home," she said. "Just furniture covered in sheets, some moving boxes, and dust."

Jason moved around her, his nose wrinkled. "And mice. I think I just stepped in their poop."

"You're such a girl," she told him, walking back the way they'd come.

"You should try it sometime," he said. "You might hold onto a guy."

She was about to wheel on him when the front door opened and the foreman peeked in. He looked like a child peeking into his parents' bedroom, wide-eyed and nervous. Apparently, he was a simple man from a farm, too.

"The men said you must go upstairs," he said, pointing. "Madre Muerta was there."

Then he disappeared like a mouse from the kitty's lair.

Annie sighed and put her foot on the steps. She paused, turned to Jason, and laughed. "We could run out like they did and scare them."

"Then who's going to carry all your furniture upstairs?" her friend quipped. "I know you sure won't do it. And that leaves me, so get up there and talk to your mom's ghost or whatever you need to do. Those sweaty men need to finish their job."

Annie chuckled and climbed the stairs, their wood complaining with every step. The house had been built in 1913, so some creaks were to be expected. Still, Annie knew each step's whiny voice, having grown up listening to them whenever her mother stumbled up to bed. They'd grown quieter, as if afraid now that her mother had died, or perhaps no longer protesting as much.

The upstairs hallway had four doors. On the left stood doors to the second and third bedrooms, with the second bathroom in between. On the right, the door to the master bedroom suite sat open, dusty light spilling out into the hallway from the tall window on the street-facing wall. Closing her eyes—a habit she'd acquired as a little girl who wasn't supposed to see inside that room—Annie tugged the door closed, letting out a breath she'd been unaware of holding.

Jason looked at her like she'd gone crazy, but she ignored him. He didn't understand. Couldn't.

"I closed that before the movers showed up," she told Jason. "One of them must have opened it after I told them not to. Remind me to yell at them."

"Oh, leave the poor men alone," Jason chided. "What harm is there in looking?"

No, he definitely didn't understand.

She peeked in the first bedroom on her left, the one where the movers had been stacking her things. The patterned wallpaper her brother had favored as a boy would have to go, sunlight having faded its hues, its corners peeling. Annie had managed to talk herself into taking the room, as it was a little bigger than her old space. She told herself that if she couldn't quite make herself take over her mother's old room, she at least deserved more than she'd had growing up. She was a successful marketing specialist now, not a frightened, bashful little girl, and Daniel had no claim on the house—Annie did.

Other than boxes and furniture, the room was empty, as was the second bathroom, with its outdated green toilet, matching sink, and shower. She liked the old, cracked subway tiles in that bathroom, and made a mental note to keep them when having the bathroom renovated. The room smelled of mold and had no heater vent, making it cold during the rough Denver winters, but she still couldn't make herself use the more modern master bath.

The third bedroom, at the end of the hall, held her paintings and boxes of art supplies, all stacked and piled like puppies dumped at the pound. The portrait of her mother had been covered again, but Annie had to shrug off the feeling that even through the thick, rough canvas, her mother somehow watched her, those cold eyes piercing material and flesh to see inside her heart.

Satisfied those three rooms held no supernatural threats, Annie took a deep breath, screwing up her courage, and faced the door to the master bedroom. Its cool, mahogany surface gleamed in the dim light of the hallway, showing a faint, twisted reflection of her face. She wondered how the door had remained so polished and shiny during the year since her mother died, but had not even completed the thought when something clattered on the hardwood floor inside. She jumped, grabbing Jason's shoulder for support. Her friend raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Annie gripped the chilly metal of the brass doorknob and eased the door open, peering through the growing opening. She felt like a little girl again, peeking inside the mysterious room, forbidden to both her and Daniel, fearing she might find her mother glaring back at her, ready to deal a slap or at least a sharp reprimand.

Something rushed at her on the floor, darting for the opening with a skittering sound. She jumped back, feeling stupid the instant she recognized the mouse. It dashed into the hallway and down the steps, leaving Annie panting like she'd run a marathon.

Jason laughed. "We probably shouldn't tell the men they were scared of a tiny mouse. Their machismo might cause some hurt feelings."

"Probably not," she said. "I'm hoping they'll finish this job just to avoid looking more frightened than a woman."

"You're a devious one," Jason said with a wink.

Annie hesitated at the door, her heart pounding, breath quickened. It had been a year since she'd gone inside, since her mother lay dying in the large, king bed. It seemed like an invisible force field blocked the door, pushing against her ever so gently, growing stronger the closer she came to entering, coalescing into an almost solid barrier that she couldn't force herself to step across.

"She's gone, Annie," Jason said, touching her shoulder. "It's all right."

What I'm Reading - September 22nd, 2016

Like any writer, I tend to have multiple books going at any given time. I'm currently plunging through four different books, in fact.

Shadow Rider by Christine Feehan is a sizzling hot paranormal romance about Francesca Capella, a wayward Italian girl in some trouble who finds herself in the hands of dark and dangerous Stefano Ferraro. Stefano is a shadow rider--a killer who gets around by disappearing into shadows--and a VERY traditional Italian man. So far, this is a nice blend of a supernatural thriller and a super-steamy erotic romance, where a strong female character gets involved with a stronger--even dominating--man.

I'm also reading an advanced reader copy (ARC) of Austin Rogers' space opera Sacred Planet. Austin's a friend of mine from my MFA studies, and he has put together a very entrancing story that blends science fiction and theology for a powerful story spanning a galaxy.

I backed a Kickstarter run by Zombies Need Brains, LLC awhile back, and just started my copy of Alien Artifacts, an anthology of stories about alien artifacts found by humans as we wander the universe. ZNB has always done great work, and so far, this book is another good one. Themed anthos can be tough to do well, but Josh Palmatier and Tricia Bray always do a great job populating theirs with superb fiction.

And finally, I just finished The Witcher Chime, by Amity Green. This is a horror tome that gave me more than a few nightmares. Neat take on ancient good and evil, superb setting and characters, and very suspenseful. I do NOT recommend reading it right before bed, like I did, as it really does cause some creepy dreams. But do read it.

Happy Thursday!

Love Wins Every Time

On this day fifteen years ago, hate won a battle against love as 19 men crashed planes into buildings and the ground, killing 3000+ people. That hateful act started a war, the ultimate victory of hate over love, in which thousands more lives were lost.

But as we remember the dreadful attacks of 9-11, I’m here to tell you that while hate might win some battles, love is winning the war. And fiction—especially the romance genre—proves it.

You see, people read fiction for hope. Because stories are about characters—people, usually—overcoming obstacles and triumphing over bad. And in romance particularly, stories are about love triumphing over hate, as evidenced by the genre’s insistence on happily-ever-after or at least happily-for-now endings. The basic thrust of the romance genre is that love conquers all, even hate. Even death. Even war.

According to Romance Writers of America (RWA), romance made 1.08 billion dollars in 2013. Folks, that's BILLION, with a B! During that year, 13% of fiction units sold were romance novels. The Fifty Shades of Gray trilogy has sold over 100-million copies and resulted in one of 2015's highest grossing movies. RWA itself has over ten thousand members, and in 2008 alone, over 7300 romance novels were published. Clearly, love remains a dominant force in American fiction.

So as you mourn today, as you remember the day that hate won a battle, remember too that love continues to win the war. That no matter how many lives are lost in hate’s name, that as long as people read or watch stories about love, as long as this romance genre exists, love is kicking butt and taking names. We’re winning the war on hate through words and stories of love. Love has always won, and it always will. Every time.

Sample Sunday - Excerpt from Smothered

Well, with the release of Smothered just two days away (Squee!), it seems like a good time for an excerpt.

The scene below takes place in the opening chapter of the book. Annie Brown has inherited her late mother's old Victorian home and is supervising the movers hauling items inside. The house is a bit run-down, as her mother had let maintenance slip in her later years. The workers seem a bit spooked by the old place, and Annie isn't exactly thrilled by the geriatric state of her new neighbors.

As if those things aren't enough, as she and her best friend Jason oversee the move-in, she gets a visit from someone she last saw in civil court, during a legal battle over the fate of the historic house.

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The sound of heels clacking on the sidewalk made them both turn as a tall, white-haired woman in a calf-length navy skirt, cream blouse, and black high-heels strode down the sidewalk. One of the movers started to cat call her, but a single down-the-nose glare from the frozen blue of her eyes stopped him cold, his mouth half-open. If he'd had a tail, it would have tucked between his legs.

Annie groaned and fought the urge to walk away. She'd dreaded this part of the day the most.

The woman came to a halt two or three yards short of their position, still exposed to the brutal sun, seeming not to notice its heat. Annie wondered if the woman's cold demeanor kept her cool even on a hot summer day like this.

"Ms. Brown," the woman said, contempt dripping from her words like blood from fangs, "I see you're moving in, right on schedule."

"Nice to see you too, Mrs. Mudge." Annie put on her sweetest tone, disguising the contempt she felt for the woman. "Yes, move-in is going as planned. Thanks for your concern."

Mudge didn't seem to notice Annie's sarcasm, or didn't understand it. "Be sure the moving truck is off the street by eight o'clock tonight, whether move-in is done or not. If you don't finish on time, have your ... employees come back in the morning. If Immigration hasn't scooped them up."

At the word "immigration," the foreman looked up, then turned back to his crew and spoke in Spanish.

"Don't worry," Jason told her, "they'll be done long before then. Will you be coming to the housewarming rave tomorrow? We have the most chiseled male dancers coming to perform on the front porch, followed by our own personal gay pride parade right down this very street."

His smile oozed sarcasm and Annie fought back a snicker.

"He's just kidding, Mrs. Mudge," she said. "I'm not having any parties. They're not my style."

Mudge wrinkled her nose and looked at Jason over the frame of her bifocals. Annie couldn't tell if she resented his blackness or his gayness. Probably both. Either way, Mudge didn't grant him the pleasure of a response, turning instead back to Annie. Reaching in her ultra-conservative handbag, she produced a thick packet of papers wrapped in a tasteful red jacket.

"Here are the Historical Society covenants," she said. "They're only eighty-nine pages long, so you should have no trouble reading them in a week. Maybe ten days. If you have any questions, anyone from the Society can help you. Just email the address on the cover."

Taking the packet, Annie rolled her eyes. "I'm sure I read much more complicated texts during my graduate studies. What's your degree in again, Mrs. Mudge?"

If the remark fazed her, Mudge didn't let it show. She adjusted her spectacles and looked down her nose again.

"Your late mother—God rest her soul—agreed to these covenants, but over the last two years failed to maintain their minimum standards, as you can see." Again she wrinkled her nose, as if offended.

"Yes, I'm aware of the lien your society so kindly placed on my mother's home right before her death. I like to think of it as helping her to her grave."

Mudge flinched, as if Annie had slapped her.

"We only did what our attorneys advised us," she said, pulling her glasses off and using a handkerchief to dab at the tiniest droplet of perspiration on her forehead. "In the best interests of the neighborhood."

Annie drew herself up. "I suppose it was in the best interest of the neighborhood to team up with my brother and sue for the house? To leave the house empty for over a year while we battled in court?"

"Your brother's interest—"

"My brother was only interested in money! He wanted to profit from the house, while you just wanted to control it."

"As I recall," Mrs. Mudge said, "you testified that you didn't really want the house. It holds bad memories for you. Remember?"

Annie winced, but she also recalled their early, happier days in the house, before her mother turned to vodka for companionship. Memories of pipe smoke and aftershave, crackling hardwood fires and laughter.

"I also testified that it held the only memories I have of my father. And this is all irrelevant anyway. The judge found the will legally binding and awarded the house to me. You lost."

Mrs. Mudge squared her shoulders, straightened her backbone, and sniffed.

"As you know, under the agreement reached in court, you have ninety days to get the house back in acceptable order on the exterior before we take further action."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Mudge," Annie assured her, "I'll make sure it gets done."

The Historical Society matriarch turned on her heel and strode off the way she came.

"Remember quiet hours, Ms. Brown," she tossed back over her shoulder. "This isn't the downtown bar scene."

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Mrs. Mudge ends up pestering Annie throughout the book, a constant source of irritation, stress, and conflict for Annie. The story takes place during the 90 day period Mudge mentions, and wraps up just as that period ends.

Hope you'll pick up a copy on Tuesday, when it hits Amazon!