The Drabbler

Introduction

2011-08-25T15:32:00.002-04:00

My name is ....

Missing the Target

2011-02-09T00:05:00.006-05:00

In my PR Writing courses, I try to show my students the dire and very public consequences of writing a bad piece of communication and then sending it out to the public.

Over the past week, I have received a few of these gems. First was the direct mailer package with "Robert Redford has an important message for you inside" printed in red letters on the envelope. Then there was the letter that had my new AARP membership cards included (or what they would look like if I became a member).

Um, yeah. No one in my house is over the age of 36 and are very aware that anything Robert Redford has to say is definitely not directed at us and could not possibly hold any interest at all. Way to go targeting team! Money well spent there.

So, I found it extremely funny when New York Times best-selling author Lynn Viehl received a marketing e-mail about self publishing and posted her analysis of its efficacy on her blog. Trying to sell a successful author on the evils of the publishing industry and the benefits of self publishing ranks right up there with trying to convince a firefighter to run into a burning building with a watering can. Just not going to happen!

The moral of the story: If you miss the mark in reaching out to someone in the wrong mood and access to a very public forum, don't be surprised if you get burned. Just sayin!

Guest Blogging with Casey Crow

2010-11-17T15:13:00.000-05:00

As you may or may not know, the writing community is one that is pretty close-knit -- especially when it comes to interacting online. When I was a freelancer actively looking for work, I was part of an online freelance writing community called Freelance Success. This is a fabulous site and community that is made up of all types of nonfiction writers and boasts just about every byline you'd see in most consumer magazines (Woman's Day, The New York Times Magazine, TIME, USA Today Magazine, Parenting, etc.). Tons of contacts, support, and guidance from veteran writers and industry experts. It's actually thanks to FLX (as it's called by its members) that I got my book deals last year!

The last few years, as my work has centered more on corporate copywriting and teaching, I've strayed away from this kind of freelancing and have been interacting more with my creative self when it comes to online writing communities. Yes, I will admit, I have several works of fiction in progress: a YA novel (which was my master's thesis project from over two years ago); a romantic paranormal suspense novel that I'm thinking of building into a trilogy -- again, more than two years in progress; and a sci-fi romantic novella I started last summer as a way to flush my brain.

Whether it's my addiction to work or my undiagnosed and untreated ADD, I have yet to be able to sit down and conscientiously finish any of these projects. This week I'm editing a 600+ page Web site -- and assignment I took without batting an eye. Last year, I co-authored two books that was easily 700 pages total. Yet, I can't seem to push these stories and characters that I know and love forward. Fiction writing is by far the hardest thing I have ever done.

So, I am eternally grateful for having been able to make contact with and build some relationships with more experienced novelists through the Internet. I actually met Casey Crow through Facebook, via Cynthia Eden, another author who was kind enough to critique some of my work a few years ago. Casey was kind enough to offer me a spot as a guest on her blog, which I happily took her up on. I'll be doing a series of "confession" blogs, starting with a post where I unabashedly come out as a book addict (a huge shock to anyone who knows me, I'm sure). Check it out: Confessions of a Book Addict.

Would love to hear suggestions or ideas for future posts!

Help Your Fellow Man, Woman, Child, and Pet

2010-11-12T21:59:00.001-05:00

For my PR Writing courses at Montclair State University, I group my students up and pair them with nonprofit organizations so that they can gain some real experience in developing communications strategies and working with media -- all the while supporting some great causes.

One of the organizations we are working with this semester is Community FoodBank of New Jersey.With Thanksgiving only two weeks away, you can imagine that the project for Community FoodBank of New Jersey is in full swing. We're currently promoting the organization's annual Turkey Drive, which will take place on 11/20 and 11/21 at 40 locations throughout the state.

In addition to helping promote these events locally, they are also holding a huge drive on campus and promoting the organization's virtual drive as well. This is a really cool option that enables people out-of-state or who can't make it to a donation event to help out.

The whole class has really come together to make a difference for this organization and the three students dedicated to this project were able to secure a fabulous article about their drive in The Montclarion, which is the student paper. The rest of the class is working this weekend to distribute posters and flyers in the towns where the donation events will take place in an effort to jump-start grassroots awareness.

While holiday food drives that will help provide hot, nutritious meals for families are a familiar part of the season's activities, we should also keep in mind that it's not only people that are in need right now. Pets, too, are feeling the strain on the economy, since if people are having trouble feeding their families, of course they'd be having issues feeding their pets.

If you routinely donate supplies to the local animal shelters, kudos for the help you're giving to homeless animals in your area. You should also look into providing pet food to a food pantry that accepts these types of donations, as well. This can help prevent those who are struggling financially from having to give up their pet because they can't afford to feed them anymore.

Also look into pet food banks in your area. In North Jersey, some animal hospitals serve as a pet food bank, where people can drop off food for cats, dogs, and other household pets. The supplies are then distributed by a local Meals on Wheels program.

The next time you're thinking about what to donate to the local food drive, consider adding a bag of kibble or a case of canned food to your list. Save Our Pets Food Bank provides a listing of pet food banks nationwide. If your area isn't included, check with your local food pantry about donating some pet food. They may think you're crazy at first, but if you explain why you want to donate the food, they're likely to understand.

E-publishing Killed the Reader

2010-11-05T22:49:00.006-04:00

Back in June, Salon.com published a piece about how, should the continued assertions that the publishing industry will soon be no more come to fruition, readers will find themselves awash in very bad writing.

The piece explains that authors are finding increased opportunities to publish and market their works without editorial or publisher constraints/input thanks to more accessible digital self-publishing media. It goes on to say that the result of this is the creation and expansion of a huge library of poorly written stories that are neither engaging nor coherent in some cases. The ease-of-access through the Internet and the minimal fees charged for these e-books (which in many cases are little more than barely paginated PDF's) make them a minimal risk for consumers looking for something to read. After all, if you pay $2 for a bad story you wanted to delete after five pages, what have you really lost?

But this discussion begs the question of what the larger effect of this phenomenon has on the general reader, and authors as well. The article says that the common reader will soon become well acquainted with the "slush pile," which is the stack of bad manuscripts that come across book editors' and agents' desks on a daily basis. These professionals are paid to read through every new vampire romance, western, mystery, space adventure, horror story (yes, often all in one manuscript) that is sent to their doors.

Out of a pile of hundreds, maybe one will stand out as being something that is written well enough to warrant publishing expenses and appeal to widespread audiences -- if the moon is blue and the editor dances naked under it beseeching the blessings of the gods. But at least, they get a paycheck for their often futile efforts.

When every manuscript becomes a published e-book, though, the mainstream reader is now the one slogging through the slush, often with no compensation other than a good replacement for their favorite sleeping medication. If all you're reading is poorly constructed book-length manuscripts with wishy-washy characters who do absurd things within a poor story structure, your opinion of what is good writing is likely to devolve with every new e-book you read.

Like every author, I find it personally frustrating that in order for my vision of a story to make it to a reader, it must go through a system of people who hold the power to change my ideas to maximize profitability. But I understand the necessity of it, even if I don't like it.

Gatekeepers and media critics keep our mass literature in check. Sure, you can walk into any book store nowadays and pick up cheesy books with questionable storylines, but as a chain reader, I've found that this is more the exception than the rule. If one out of every 10 books I spend my $7.99 on to read ends up being a dud, I'm not that upset. If that was nine out of 10, though, I would most likely give up on reading all together.

Now if this is a likely outcome for someone who is virtually addicted to reading, how will it affect the millions of kids whose only experience with reading has been the (perceived) torturous assignments from high school and college English teachers? How likely are they to continue the demand for books in the decades to come?

While the e-book format is extremely useful and a great complement to traditional publishing, indiscriminate e-publishing has the potential to have a negative impact on mass culture. E-publishing houses with experienced editors interested in selling quality writing and keen insight into the the desires of their audiences will be the ones to advance the field. Until then, we live in a world where it's very much reader beware: there is an abundance of cheap and often free books on the Web, some of which are diamonds in the rough, while others aren't even worth the time it takes to download that free PDF.

Bipolar: Use the Term Wisely and Accurately

2010-08-20T12:03:00.000-04:00

When celebrities exhibit a pattern of irrational behavior, my mind tends to wander to the question of mental illness. However, I am well-educated in this area, being a clinical depressive myself and having a best friend with bipolar disorder. I’ve done tons of research into the subject, taken psychology courses, and witnessed and lived through some of the worst things that these types of conditions can bring about.

What worries me is the casual use of “bipolar” in pop culture to define unseemly behavior in general. Like most everyone else, I’ve heard about the antics of Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan and Mel Gibson, and various opinions about their behavior. While many have linked Spears and Lohan to bipolar, it wasn’t until I watched Good Day New York this morning that I heard it connected with Mel Gibson. The program aired a segment with celebrity psychologist Dr. Jeff Gardere, who said that Gibson’s pattern of angry verbal diarrhea outbursts could be a product of a manic state.

If he does indeed have bipolar disorder, that would make a lot of sense. When someone is in mania, they’re hyperactive, can’t sleep, can’t control their thought patterns, are impulsive, have erratic in behavior, and are reckless. This can even lead to psychosis, even though they’re in a “high” state, rather than a deep depression.

Considering the stigma that goes along with mental illness, bipolar in particular since it’s become a new “catch phrase” of sorts, it’s likely that if someone has “gotten by” throughout their life without diagnosis and treatment, they wouldn’t seek it out. With someone from Gibson’s generation, it’s less likely, since it’s only recently that society has become more open about these types of disorders.

But though we are more educated about mental illness than we were in previous decades, we’re still battling stigmas that are continually inflamed by the media. For example, People Magazine reports that The Plaza Hotel’s Oak Bar is now selling “The Mel Gibson: A Bipolar Cocktail.” This story was repeated on Good Day New York this morning, where one of the hosts actually asked Gardere, “Aren’t we all a little bipolar?”

Are you kidding me? Going through the normal highs and lows triggered by everyday life is a far cry from losing control of your concept of reality or becoming psychotic because your brain chemistry and electrical balance are not in check.

And while the creation of the cocktail itself could have been just a business decision that was made in poor taste, the fact that the media picked it up and has been growing it as a "story" is turning it into something that is further stigmatizing not only the condition, but the man himself. When I went to confirm the name of the cocktail, I typed “Mel Gibson bipolar” in my Google search window and third on the list of automatic suggestions was “Mel Gibson bipolar cocktail.” What I found was the People Magazine story about it, which has been posted on their web site since July 21.

The fallout of this attention can’t be good for anyone. First, it only created further negative stigmas about bipolar disorder, when most people don’t really understand what it’s about in the first place. For example, I had two students who had bipolar disorder in one of the college classes I teach. They did not disclose their condition to their classmates or anyone else, nor should they have had to.

When another student casually used the term “bipolar” in a discussion when referring to some kind of abnormal behavior exhibited by a character in a story we were discussing, both students were offended by his comment, as was I, since it was far from accurate and was used like it was part of the student’s everyday vocabulary. I can’t tell you how many times over the years I’ve seen this situation repeated in my classes, which goes to show how desensitized the younger generations are to the term.

Second, if Gibson really does have bipolar and media/pop culture are making fun or light of the disorder, what are the chances that he’ll actually seek out help? Bipolar is a very serious medical condition that can lead those who suffer from it to hurt themselves or others if it’s uncontrolled. Getting a phone call from a hospital that someone you know has tried to commit suicide because they were in a hyper-depressive state and had little sense of reality is something I would not wish on anyone.

Though I know by writing this piece I, too, am drawing attention to these negative perceptions of bipolar disorder, I hope that what I say here can help some people to better understand the reality of what mental illness does to a person. While it’s easy as a populace to look at the actions of celebrities and condemn them for the wrongs they do, we are never privy to the whole story. Yet our perceptions of what they do and our own actions that follow can have a very real impact on the lives of celebrities as well.

I would urge anyone who uses the term “bipolar” as a generalization in their everyday language to think long and hard about the consequences of doing so. You’re not only devaluing the seriousness of the condition itself, but also desensitizing those around you to it, which could cost someone their life.

Published first on Blogcritics.org.

Summer Reading and Updates

2010-08-18T22:42:00.000-04:00

So, I've been offline for a while teaching some intense summer courses and working on some new projects. Because the ASVAB books are doing so well, I'll be teaming up with another expert to write a new Complete Idiot's Guide, which will be due out in about a year.

I also won't be returning to teaching full-time this fall. Instead, I'll be concentrating more on my writing and completing some projects that have been in the works for a while. I will be teaching a PR Writing course at Montclair State University and a composition course at William Paterson. I've got a lot of new ideas and some new nonprofits that I'll be working with for my PR class, so I'm looking forward to the semester.

In addition to joining and being motivated by a great writing group (comprised of some of my former classmates), I've been reading quite a bit this summer. Here are a few of the books I've checked out:

Bullet by Laurell K. Hamilton: This is the latest in the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter series. Anita is back in St. Louis dealing with all sorts of vampire, lycanthrope, and metaphysical politics. To be honest, I only got halfway through it before I started to lose interest. Though I've been a vocal supporter of Hamilton's work in the series in the past, I'm starting to think that I've just had enough.

The Darkest Passion and The Darkest Lie by Gena Showalter: Gena has become one of my new favorite authors. Her Lords of the Underworld series takes a cool twist on the Pandora's box mythos, Greek mythology in general, and more modern philosophies. Centered mostly in Budapest, the series follows the lives of several immortal warriors who were originally created by Zeus to be his personal guard. Then one had the bright idea to open Pandora's box and the consequences were dire for all those involved -- and then some. Each was given a demon from the box to share their body with. The series has so far focused on Death, Pain, Violence, and Doubt, and these two books are about Wrath and Lies, respectively. Gena writes these anti-heroes so engagingly that you can't help but like and root for them. She's got great style and a knack for focusing one book on two main characters, while building subplots for books to come. In all, good reads.

In Other Worlds by Sherrilyn Kenyon: This is a collection of short stories from the best-selling author of the Dark Hunter, Were-Hunter and League series. I've been hot and cold about Sherrilyn Kenyon for years, mostly for her penchant for torture in her stories. But I picked this up because I really liked her three League novels (Born of Night, Born of Fire, Born of Ice), and this book had a short story about the fate of a peripheral character who suffered a horrific injury in the line of duty. The other two stories are a dip into some kind of cheesy, kind of funny fantasy of the magical persuasion. If you're familiar with the Were-Hunter and League series, you will likely appreciate this collection. If not, well, there's always Rhyannon Byrd's Primal Instinct series, for which she released two new books for: Touch of Seduction and Touch of Surrender.

Book Review: Dreamveil by Lynn Viehl

2010-06-08T23:15:00.001-04:00

Oh Lynn Viehl, how I love you and hate you! First, you write this phenomenal vampire series about the Darkyn, warrior priests from the time of the Crusades who fell victim to a virus that made them immortal and dependent on blood.

Then you left me hanging at the end of the series, but threw me a bone with your spin -off series about the Kyndred. It seems in Viehl’s Darkyn universe, a nefarious sect of the Catholic church has been systematically trying to eradicate the Darkyn from the world, and in turn have become sadistic monsters themselves who have genetically enhanced orphans (the Kyndred) using samples they’ve collected from the so-called “bad guys” they hunt.

The first book in the Kyndred series, Shadowlight, left me unsatisfied. The structure of the story was too complex and the characters not connected enough for me to really get into it. After a few e-mails back and forth with her, I found out why the book did not sound like the voice I’ve come to know and crave over the last few years, and she promised the next installment would be better.

Oh boy, was she right.

Dreamveil is the second book in the Kyndred series and is such a twisty teasing story that I found myself cursing the author for her skill at dropping breadcrumbs and begging her for more with every turn of the page. This story focuses on Rowan, who in Shadowlight was in love with her friend Matthias, who, unfortunately, was fated for someone else.

In Dreamveil, Rowan licks her wounds as she makes her way to Boston via New York City, the place she grew up and ran away from for very good reasons. Still, she can’t just pass through and on her way to take care of some personal business, takes a spill on her Ducati and nearly gets killed in the process. What she doesn’t know is that she was forced to strategically wipe out by the actions of a teenager who has been following her. The kid wants her to be the damsel in distress for the hot French chef whose restaurant abuts the alley so that he will help her stay in the city.

And so he does, but as you read on, the mystery surrounding Jean-Marc Desant gets heavier and heavier, enough to stump anyone who knows anything about the Darkyn series. Desant gives Rowan a job, a place to live, and some help getting her bike fixed while he struggles with his growing desire for her and how to make her stay.

Then there’s Rowan’s new neighbor, Sean, who is grumpy, sarcastic, and has a mile-high wall build so tightly around him that even the Titans would have a hard time breaking it down. To make things worse, Sean finds himself swept up an unwanted and irresistible attraction to Rowan. And though he’s got a very sick, very rich man threatening to take Sean’s head if he doesn’t find his daughter for him, he can’t seem to stay away from the intriguing woman across the hall, even though he knows it would be better for everyone if he did.

Dreamveil definitely brings Viehl’s intricate storytelling style back to the forefront, as every chapter holds something new. She usually walks a very thin line between being confusing and writing one heck of a puzzle for the reader to solve. With Shadowlight, she crossed the line with too many movements through time and the introduction of too many new characters at once. Dreamveil, however, has just the right number of characters, nods to the past, hints toward the future, and infuriating plot teasing to drive any reader nuts with pleasure/pain.

One thing to keep in mind is that some of those “ah ha!” moments may be lost on readers who have not read the Darkyn series. For example, the hints dropped about Desant’s identity will be obvious to those who know what the Darkyn are of who it is in the paintings he creates; those who don’t may be confused.

Also, I found myself periodically forgetting exactly what the Kyndred were and the difference between a Kyndred (what the Darkyn call the orphans who were experimented on) and the Takyn (those who have discovered they are the children in this program, but know nothing of the Darkyn). My solution to that would be for Viehl to write a field guide, explaining the stories of each of the books, the characters, and how they interconnect. Sherrilyn Kenyon has a great one for her Dark-Hunters series, and I think the Darkyn world is screaming for one, as well.

In all, I think though the Kyndred series may have gotten off to a rough start with its first installment, this second story has got more chops and potential for making this series as good as its predecessor.

Originally published on Blogcritics.org: http://blogcritics.org/books/article/book-review-dreamveil-by-lynn-viehl/

Life Lessons from Chris Christie

2010-05-21T16:16:00.000-04:00

Since Chris Christie stepped into office as NJ's governor, the news I wake up to every day is increasingly grim. It seems instead of actually representing the people who put him in office, he's waging war against them with his senseless budget cuts.

For example, the public libraries are one of the areas that are facing huge hits in funding. This will result in a tragic loss of services for the general public as well as students throughout the state. To support the libraries that have kept me in books while the recession raped my bank accounts and helped me get through many a college paper, I signed an online petition that went to my local congressmen and to Christie himself.

What do I get in return? I bunch of auto-generated e-mail responses that are so political, they gave me a headache. The worst was the one from Christie's "Office of Constituent Relations," which held a disclaimer at the end that said: Privacy Notice: This e-mail address, e-mail message, and any attachment to this email message contains information that is privileged and confidential from the State of New Jersey, Office of the Governor.

Ok, first, why isn't how the governor responds to the public considered public record? Shouldn't the public be aware of the line of BS that helps Christie sleep at night so that they know how to properly defend themselves when the strike hits?

Second, when I hit reply and wrote "Maybe this would be more effective if it weren't a form letter. This isn't helping your cause." I was immediately greeted with another auto-generated e-mail telling me that my response was undeliverable. Don't know why I thought any different!

I'm sorry Christie, I just don't believe that you'll take my opinion under consideration when making your decisions about what happens to me and those in my charge as a state employee, despite your reassurances that you will.

As a governor, you have done nothing but alienate this constituent and the harder you push, the more you will push us away. Didn't anyone ever tell you the fable about the sun and the wind? Is that why you're condemning the next generation of NJ children to live in your ignorance as well?

PR Writing Students Rock this Semester

2010-05-04T22:55:00.000-04:00

I am so proud of my Public Relations Writing students this semester that I just had to share the great work they've done.

A large part of their grade is based on a group project. Each group worked with a nonprofit organization to raise funds and awareness, while using public relations strategies and deliverables to promote their activities. What started as a simple class project resulted in more than I could have ever expected:

Little Kids Rock:
Two groups held events for this nonprofit organization that provides instruments and music education for school districts that can't afford them. One group worked with a university concert organization to host a benefit concert that featured national and local up-and-coming artists.

The other group worked with Alexus Steakhouse and several campus organizations to put on Kiddie Concert at the Lex, an afternoon of fun and music for kids of all ages. Together, both groups raised over $1,000 for Little Kids Rock, which is enough to provide instruments for two entire classes of young musicians.

Starlight Children's Foundation NY*NJ*CT:

Three groups worked on various projects for this organization. One group collected funds and donations of crayons and coloring books to complete Starlight's Admit Kits, backpacks filled with personal care and comfort items to help ease the fears and pain children go through when facing a long stay in the hospital. After two events and having collection boxes places several places on campus, they collected enough to complete 25 Admit Kits.

Another group is raising funds to provide brand new teddy bears for children in local hospitals. They created a Web site (www.msustarlightbears.com) where people can donate, held and event, and used publicity to raise awareness for their project and drive traffic to their site. They have raised enough money for 3 bears so far and their Web site will be collecting donations through May 31. Any little bit helps, so please check it out.

The third group is selling bracelets through the rest of the summer to go toward the purchase of a Fun Center for a local hospital. The Starlight Children’s Foundation’s Fun Centers enable children in hospitals to pass the time playing Nintendo Wii, virtual games, and DVD’s right from their beds. The goal of these centers is to put a smile on children’s faces and make their recovery seem faster. Bracelets are being sold for $3 each. Contact Tyler DeMatteo at dematteot1@mail.montclair.edu if you're interested in purchasing one.

NJSPCA:
Two groups worked with the New Jersey Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. The first group created a variety of press materials to help educate NJ residents about the organization and its need for community support. They focused on April as National Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Month as a news peg to reach various news organizations and promote a fundraising event in Englewood. The second group developed flyers, press releases, audio news releases and PSAs to promote NJSPCA's involvement with the Quick Chek NJ Festival of Ballooning from July 23 - 25.

Big Brothers Big Sisters of Morris, Bergen & Passaic County:
Finally, one group of three students organized and held a clothing drive in Englewood for this organization. Dubbed Project BAM (which stands for Brian, Andreas, and Mike), the event drew 20 participants who donated a total of 409 pounds of clothing to Big Brothers Big Sisters of Morris, Bergen, Passaic.

All of these students worked extremely hard and should be proud of what they accomplished this semester.

Type O Negative's Pete Steele Dies

2010-04-16T19:50:00.001-04:00

Yes, I know my last post was about Richard Marx and Matt Scannell. But my musical tastes run far and wide. One of the very few things I can thank my ex-husband for is introducing me to the goth metal band Type O Negative.

I first listened to Type O Negative back in 1997/98. Frontman Pete Steele's deep voice and the heavy, rhythmic sound the produced was hypnotic. Standing at 6'7," Steele himself created a vampiric-like image of himself, adding to the mysterious/shocking air that surrounded the band. Of course, his stoic appearance on Jerry Springer and centerfold photo shoot for Playgirl in 1995 helped with that greatly.

You can imagine my (and everyone else's) shock and surprise to hear that Peter Steele, frontman and bassist for Type O Negative, was found dead of apparent heart failure on April 14. He was 48.

According to the band's website, Steel had been fighting a sudden illness before his passing and had been enjoying much better health as a result of a "long period of sobriety." An autopsy will be erformed to determine the exact cause of death.

Like Steele himself, the band is best known for its heavily gothic music and lyrics that focus on rage, sex, fantasy, romance, death, and self-loathing. They also experimented with the boundaries of what made music music. On their 1998 album, October Rust, one track consisted of the buzzing sound that can be heard through an amplifier when you plug in a guitar. Another was a compilation of guitar, drums, and voice that depicted a war or battle.

“Peter Steele was one of the most brilliant and funny personalities in music and it was all for real," said Kenny Hickey, Type O Negative guitarist and Steele's friend since childhood. "Half the time people thought he was joking, but he was actually telling the truth. Part of me died with him.”

Services for Steele will be private, but memorial services will be announced at the band's website.

Richard Marx and Matt Scannell -- Awesome Show

2010-04-12T20:14:00.002-04:00

Sense might not make the man, but a touch of humor is always a good idea when you’re playing an intimate concert with a friend.

The “ancient and formerly mulleted” Richard Marx (his words, not mine) with longtime friend and musical collaborator Matt Scannell (lead signer of Vertical Horizon) took the stage at The Community Theater Mayo Center for the Performing Arts in Morristown, NJ, this past Friday night as part of an ongoing tour featuring the unlikely duo. Not only was the music awesome, but the rapport these guys had with each other and the audience made the night a really great end to the otherwise hectic week.

I’ve been a fan of both artists’ music for many, many years. My older sister, who went to the show with me, loved Richard Marx when his first few albums came out. Through the CD’s I pilfered from her room and a broadcast concert on MTV – yeah, back when they were all about the music – that she taped and we both watched ad-nauseum, Marx’s music became an integral part of the soundtracks of our youth.

Fast forward ten years or so and Vertical Horizon comes on the scene. Fresh, rocking, emotional, and electric, the group captured my attention the first time I heard “Everything You Want” on the radio in 2000. They’ve been kind of quiet for a few years, so when I heard that Scannell was playing with Marx, it sounded like a no-lose opportunity. I loved both artists’ music and had never pictured the two together, though in reality they’ve been collaborating and playing together for years. The prospect was too good to pass up.

The theater was packed, not a single seat was open before the darkened stage that held two stools, two acoustic guitars, and a piano. As soon as I saw that, I knew I was in for a great night, not only because I love acoustic shows, but because it would be just the two of them. No back-up singers. No pageantry and showmanship. Down and dirty with the two guys the whole thing was about.

Marx was wonderfully irreverent and completely on his game — except when he flubbed his own lyrics. But hey, Scannell did the same and we all helped them out any way. It was all good since the atmosphere was more of a gathering of friends than a concert you had to pay to see. Scannell and Marx likened their show to VH-1 Storytellers (to which neither had ever been invited) and took turns playing their own songs, backing up the other, and sharing tales from behind the music and the spotlight.

Marx showed that he most certainly does not live up to the “light FM” typecasting his older music has been set into, as he showed the full range of his vocal and musical talents. Yes, there were the standards of “Should’ve Known Better,” “Don’t Mean Nothing” (flub, flub), “Endless Summer Nights,” and “Right Here Waiting.” But he also played newer songs that were less familiar, but no less memorable. They included ones that he and Scannell wrote together and recorded on their CD entitled “Duo;” “In My Veins,” which is a tribute to Marx’s late father; “Always on Your Mind;” and “When You’re Gone.”

Scannell was raw and gritty as ever, and simply amazing to see in person. He brought Vertical Horizon’s hits to life, with Marx on back-up guitar/keyboard and vocals, including “You’re a God;” “I’m Still Here,” which was written when Scannell had a 104-degree fever; and “The Best I’ve Ever Had.” What surprised me were some songs from the band’s first two major label CDs, which I own, that I’d never really listened to before. These include “We Are” and “Give You Back,” which was simply haunting, as was Scannell’s performance of “Carrying On,” which is off of Vertical Horizon’s most recent album, Burning the Days.

Tour dates for future shows can be found at Richard Marx's website. I highly recommend anyone who likes either of these artists’ work to scoop up some tickets while you can. These shows are rare and such an all around good time. Good music, laughs, reminiscing, and small spaces — who could ask for more in a concert?

Oh, No They Didn't!: The Real Princesses of NJ

2010-03-19T13:25:00.000-04:00

I'm not offended by much in this world, but Disney just lost quite a few points of respectability with this. It's just wrong on sooooo many levels. If this is how people outside of Jersey view us, the gods help us all.

Weekend From Hell: Flood!!! (Video Included)

2010-03-16T14:03:00.001-04:00

Worst. Weekend. Ever! It wasn't enough that my 3-year old kept me up unto 3 a.m. Friday morning with a surprise stomach virus. Or that she then gave it to me and had me sacked out in bed all day on Sunday. OR that my husband was away for all of this. Mother Nature had to have her say, as well.

The Noreaster that hit NJ this weekend caused flooding the likes of which I've never seen in my town. Now, I've been living in downtown Bloomingdale on and off since 1995 and though the Pequannock River runs just across my street, it has never (in my memory) flooded to the point where streets were shut down and people EVACUATED on Sunday.

So, first me and my girls were stuck in our apartment because we weren't allowed to drive on any of the streets surrounding it, which was just fine with me. Then we're ordered to get out; not what one wants to hear when the most energy that an be mustered is to pull the blankets higher when a fever has one shivering, aching, and nauseated.

I scrambled to get my two kids and four cats out safely up the street to my parents' house, which is 20 feet above street level and held up by a cement retaining wall -- only to find that they too are evacuating and we all have to hit a hotel for the night.

On top of all that, my husband has to be picked up that evening at the airport. Stress, lack of sleep, and sickness are not the best combo for doing anything, let alone driving, so thank goodness my dad was able to get him for me -- just in time to hear that the 300-foot wall of water that was supposed to hit town never came, but not whether the roads around our house were open yet. Then my 11-year-old isn't feeling so good Monday morning...

The following is a video I found on YouTube that shows the extent of the waters before the evac. This was filmed right where I live, starting behind my daughter's daycare (across the street from my house) and up to where my parents live. Un-freaking-believable. Good news is no damage to my house or my parents' -- can't say the same for many of my neighbors, though.

Book Review: Flirt by Laurell K. Hamilton

2010-02-28T23:04:00.001-05:00

Anita Blake is the most popular girl in St. Louis – and everyone wants a piece of her, both figuratively and literally. As the resident federal marshal/vampire executioner, the enforcer for the local werewolf pack, queen of her own band of wereleopards and likely the most powerful animator (someone who raises the dead) in the country, Anita walks a very fine line between the supernatural and human worlds (see my review of Blood Noir for a more detailed summary of the series).

Some say she is a living vampire. Others say she’s a murderer witch. And more say she’s slut for having so many men in her life at the same time. In reality, she’s a woman caught up in so many metaphysical ties and is trying to figure out how to deal with the not-so-human creature she’s become and still stick to her ethics.

Throughout the 18-book (so far) series, Laurell K. Hamilton has brought readers through Anita’s long and complex journey from fighting the monsters, to dating the monsters, to becoming one of the monsters. Every once in a while, though, Hamilton takes a break from the overarching story to explore a specific character or storyline. Flirt is one such break, giving more of a character portrait of where Anita is in her personal space and introducing yet another man into her harem of necessary lovers.

The book reads like any other Hamilton novel, beginning with a client looking for Anita’s help. Tony Bennington wants her to resurrect his wife so that she will be wholly alive and able to resume their life together. When Anita tells him that that’s not going to happen because it’s neither practical nor ethical, Bennington finally takes “no” for an answer – but with ominous foreshadowing that the story isn’t over for him.

Anita and three of her boyfriends (Micah, Nathaniel, and Jason) head out to lunch and learn a thing or two about the power of flirting, something she has always been bad at. This public display of affection among her and her lovers serves as a means for a supernatural bad guy to make his move.

Enter Jacob, a werelion Rex who snatches Anita and lets her know that her three lovers are under the careful eye of a sniper and if she wants them to live, she’ll cooperate. This ends up being a big mistake, since Anita is one of a handful of people in the world who carries multiple strains of lycanthropy in her blood. While all of her other animals (wolf, tiger, and leopard) have found metaphysical mates, her inner lioness has not and is very interested in Jacob and his cohort, Nick.

From there, various nefarious plots enfold complete with moderate doses of sex, violence and death. If it sounds like a simple story, well, it is. The book weighs in at fewer than 200 pages and is more of a novella than a full-fledge novel.

The story is of the same caliber as Hamilton’s recent additions to her Anita Blake mythology -- meaning it’s okay but by no means great. As someone who has read all of the books thus far in the series, I have been continually disappointed with all of the books that have come out since The Harlequin. Hamilton seems to have strayed into muddy waters in terms on continuity of story and is having trouble keeping herself afloat.

And though Flirt is only a side step in the overarching tale Hamilton has been telling throughout the series, I’m still left wondering (for the last three books to be exact) where is she going with this story. It’s been many books since there has been significant interaction with the characters who made the series compelling in the first place (read Jean-Claude, St. Louis’ Master of the City; and Richard, the wolf pack’s king), and I’m sure I’m not the only reader who is looking for a return to basics at this point.

Book 19, Bullet, is due to hit shelves in June. Though I’m keeping an optimistic open mind for this one, which is a full-length Anita Blake story, I don’t know how enthusiastic I will be about the series if it, too, disappoints. I’ve always been a supporter of Hamilton’s controversial approach to her heroine, and will continue to do so. I just hope she adds some focus to her gutsy girl.

Must Be Doing Something Right

2010-02-24T23:02:00.000-05:00

For the last year, I've required all of my students to create and maintain blogs and write in them twice per week. Some students bemoan the assignment, while others find a new outlet for their voices. But never has this assignment sparked the kind of reaction that it has in one of my Montclair students this semester.

Since I gave the assignment in mid-January, he has uploaded 24 posts and has gone well beyond the assignment's requirements by designing the hell out of the blog itself. In fact, he's turned it into a portfolio for his music and artwork and even asked me why I wasn't following it yet (I just updated my RSS feeds Monday).

I find this incredibly cool. Not only is he finding an outlet to promote his work (which is great since he's in my PR Writing class), but he's also getting tons of experience writing. He told me this week that he'd been meaning to do it for a while, and the assignment just forced him to get going on creating this marketing tool that I hope will become a help to his future career. You can check out his work at http://robinthemeantime.blogspot.com/.

Pixie Dust, Ink, and Magic are All you Need

2010-02-11T21:04:00.001-05:00

I was looking through my RSS feeds earlier today and came across this little gem of wisdom from one of my fav authors. She's writing about one of those how-to books for writers, which I find utterly hilarious. Most of the people I've come in contact with feel like writing is some kind of mysterious and unattainable ability that they just don't understand. Apparently, the author of this book is one of them.

Lynn Viehl writes on her blog The Paperback Writer:

"Writing, according to this woefully misguided little tome, is described as something like a magical process, largely unconscious, that belongs in the realm of fairies and wizards and sparkly stuff. Over the last thirty pages my state has completely shifted from utter disbelief to appalled fascination. Where are the orcs? I'm actually waiting for orcs to show up."

It's theories like this that make my job both lucrative and difficult. Lucrative in that because I am a skilled writer with years of experience, I can quickly and deftly create copy for clients that meet their needs in ways that they can't. Difficult because every time I get a student who says, "I can't write" or "I'm such a bad writer!" I know that convincing them otherwise will be extremely difficult.

The truth is that anyone can write -- if they're willing to learn how to do it and practice. My first year writing students often bemoan the amount of work I assign. But at the end of each semester, most students are better writers than they were when they first walked into my class, if only because of the amount of time they spent writing in one way or another throughout the 15 weeks they spend with me. It's getting over their bad experiences and frustrations with writing that's the tough part.

Like any other skill, the ability to write is cultivated over time. There's no shortcut, no matter what anyone says, even though they may be amusing. Viehl writes:

"Odd theories about writing are like fad diets -- everyone tries at least one to see if it works (and, like those silly diets, they generally don't work.) I read this one writing how-to that claimed switching hands while writing to fill out lists of questions about your creativity (or lack thereof) allowed your right and your left hands tell you what they were thinking. Which is what you were thinking. But you didn't know that you were thinking that."

So, yes, I push my students to find their voices and write until their hands want to run away from home, and do so without remorse. Why? I know it is the only way to become a better writer. There's no magic formula or quick fix, or anyone who can't become a good writer for that matter. I believe that each and every student that comes through my class can become a better writer. All they need is some guidance and time.

A Sad Goobye to Rachel Wetzsteon

2010-01-28T17:48:00.004-05:00

I am at a loss for words right now, having just heard that one of the most vibrant and vivacious people I've had the pleasure of knowing is no longer with us. Rachel Wetzsteon, a phenomenal poet who had an ease and grace with words like no other, was my first creative writing teacher at William Paterson University and most likely the reason I ended up pursuing writing as a career.

I met her in the earlier part of the decade (I can't remember the year) The way she approached writing and fostered the creativity of her students was like nothing I'd ever experienced. Though my major was in communication, I took two of her writing classes as electives to fulfill my degree requirements because I loved her teaching style and approach to writing.

At that time in my life, I had abandoned any inclination I'd had previously as a writer/author of fiction. My path was centered on journalism and editing, not creative writing or literature. Her enthusiasm for poetry and the written word was stunning (and I am in no way a fan of poetry). She introduced me to the concept of the writing workshop and taught me to channel emotion and perspective in to words and form.

I remember my husband and I ventured into the city to hear her read some poems at a 92nd Street Y event. We were a relatively new couple and the trip was a little adventure for two people learning about each other. I remember that one of my daughter's baby bottles was in my backpack and had leaked over everything inside, and Rachel helped me get control of the mess.

When she began to read her poems about living in New York City during and after the Sept. 11 attacks, a hush fell upon the audience and there was simply no looking away from the beautiful, passionate woman upon whom the spotlight shone. The emotion with which she read her word brought me into her world at that place and time, letting me view the post-apocalyptic city through the eyes of the native. She moved me in ways I didn't know was possible that night, and I stood in awe of her talent and mastery.

I took a few courses with her in graduate school, happy to have a familiar face in class, since I had zero contacts in the English department. A year or so ago, I ran into her at William Paterson as I was doing some administrative thing. I hadn't seen her in years, and so much had changed for us both. Yet, she remembered me, even though she looked like the weight of the world had been placed in her care. I told her I was a teacher in the department and she congratulated me on my success, as any colleague and former teacher would. I felt a certain sense of belonging at her words, knowing that I'd transitioned from being her student to being her peer. The feeling was very strange, I must admit.

When I spoke with a colleague earlier today, who had also attended the WPU master's program with me, she told me that Rachel had taken her own life over the holidays. It's believed that she died either on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, but was not found until the 28th. The thoughts that go with that fact are ones I can't face as I write this, other than it is an unjust conclusion for a life so brilliant.

Rachel was light and energy, she was laughter and passion, she was corniness and sophistication, and vitality and grace all at once.Yet, it's believed that severe depression over the ending of a relationship was the catalyst for her actions. That's something I can understand, having lived with being a clinical depressive most of my life. But I have trouble seeing the Rachel I remember being overtaken by the great chemical beast that is depression. True, I did not know her much on a personal level. I have no idea what her day-to-day life was about or who she loved in this world. But the woman I knew seemed indomitable, with an insatiable appreciation of life and its nuances and details. And that is how I will always remember her.

So as I prepare to go to class now, to walk in the footsteps of teaching writing and literature that she did not even know she'd left, I will think of her and all she gave me. I will thank her for her kind spirit and encouragement, her interest and dedication, and most of all for her talent. Goodbye, Rachel. I will miss you.

New Simon's Cat!

2009-12-16T20:45:00.003-05:00

I admit it. Like most pet owners, I get a kick out of media that show the true natures of our furry companions. One of my favorites is Simon's Cat. For anyone who has at least one little furball running around their apartment/house, you'll know from the first few seconds how oh so apropos these shorts are.

You can watch the newest one here, but I would also recommend checking out the Simon's Cat channel on YouTube to see all of the shorts. They do not disappoint!

"Salve"

2009-12-12T21:26:00.001-05:00

I wrote this as an experimental short story. I guess it reads like a collection of prose poems more than anything else, based on some good feedback I got when I submitted someplace for publication. I plan on rewriting it to be more of short story, but thought I'd share in its earliest form while I deal with reality for a while. Enjoy!

Salve

The Barracks

Yellow. Not piss yellow or canary yellow, but a pallid perversion of a color that would in other surroundings emote tranquility. I swear they put the yellow right in the plaster; the walls don’t serve just as the palate for the paint, but as a sponge, so that no matter how many posters you hang, pictures you hammer, certificates or plaques you fasten, the mocking hue saturates everything around. To complement the decaying glow of the walls is brown: I-haven’t-shit-for-days-brown, layered upon layer, covered with gloss to make it seem more important than it really is: a farce only slightly higher on the color bar than black because it is not completely devoid of color, forgetting that what is presented to the world is representative of that which is repugnant and putrid in life. Every room is the same. Okinawa. Stuttgart. Cape Town. The best time spent here is when you try to fall asleep.

The Ex

Tangled in orange Egyptian cotton sheets, she said, “What did you expect?” Honor. Loyalty. I expected her to wait in those sheets for me to walk through the bedroom door, not for the gas attendant that fills up my tank every week to come back from washing off her residue and relieving himself of the five beers he’d drunk earlier that day. I didn’t think that was too much. Four years, three continents came together in endless yards of fabric stitched by Asian 6-year-olds that she bought with my Macy’s card. She used to walk out of the room swaying her hips, just to get me hard and sweaty. The furtive smile she would shoot back stabbed a pain in my chest. That day, she threw a grenade instead. At 30, you’d think I’d be smarter than to catch it.

The Girl

Honey. The word filled my brain the instant she entered the room. Her skin flowed down her arm, smooth and tumescent, like honey poured from a glass jar. The taste entered my mouth as she crossed the room, heading closer to the corner in which I lurk every night, hoping to become one with the plastered wall. My name is…my name is… “Anna, this is Jason,” a friend said somewhere far away. She smiled for me with features unpolluted by the intrigues of lust and manipulation. She smelled of innocence. A scent that would make a grove of lilac trees wilt with shame. Her presence brought instant intoxication; I drink too much anyway. It took three times explanation to convince me that she was really fifteen. How sweet she tastes, I bet.

The Barracks

I keep the lights off all the time now, hiding out in the world during daylight hours. The only time I want to spend in this place is those few hours a day when it’s pitch black and my fantasies can dance from my head into the whatever that separates her neck from my hand, playing out before my eyes. In the light are orange sheets and soul-extracting walls melting into shit. Here in the dark, I conjure my remedy.

The Men

They see her too, falling to their knees, leaving dripped saliva on her Doc Martens. They can feel her potential swelling under the surface; see it behind her laughing eyes. She entrances them and my stomach turns to gnaw on itself. They have fallen into the rapture of their own exploded missteps.

The Club

We talk about politics and religion as equals, not child to adult. She speaks with acuity and wisdom, with smiles and retorts that seem to convey genuine affection. She looks me straight in the eye and boldly answers my questions about lust and attraction as we dance.

Her long white dress feels like satin flesh under my hand. I move my hand higher on her back, slip a finger just above where the fabric meets her skin as I lead her to the next step. Pull her closer for a twirl, and bury my senses in peach conditioned strands of unrefined silk. She has a boyfriend back home; she’ll be leaving a week from Saturday, she says.

I could ask her to go for a walk, just the two of us outside, in the dark. I could point out the beauty of this place: her eyes, her mouth, then show her the extent of my regard. She would laugh. Pitiful. Old. Man. Of all I hoped to be by now, obsessed and aged never made the list.

The Kiss

The thought of the yellowing walls of the stockade, the cold brown bars, and the orange uniforms that set apart the criminals from the good people, creeps in after being locked away for being too bothersome. My shredded insides, the remains of what there was of a man aches to be healed by the balm of her mouth. And yet I cannot make myself turn from the lure of heat that clouds my vision when she enters my consciousness. I'd flip for it, let the Fates decide my next move. Do or do not, it's all the same. Condemnation and absolution entwine in yards of white silk close enough to touch, yet so far out of my reach.

Busy, Busy, Busy

2009-12-12T21:07:00.001-05:00

So...it's been a while since my last post. This always happens toward the end of the semester. All sorts of work pours in, and I struggle to keep from drowning in all of the papers that flood my inbox. Even now I'm making notes on research papers for three classes tonight after having finished one class earlier today. And I've got one more class to work on tomorrow.

Anyhow, I'm taking 5 to clear my head a bit. A student in one of my classes asked the other day where he could find more of my writing. I'd given his class 2 of the poems I'd written in grad school as a way to introduce our unit on poetry. It's my dirty little trick to get the students reading and postulating about the poems before revealing their prof is the evil genius behind the pen (as if!).
It's always an attention getter. But no one has ever asked for more, and I didn't really know what to say since most of my publishing credits are for nonfiction, not poetry or other forms of fiction.

So, I decided to start posting some of the short stories in my repetoir here on The Drabbler. The first I'll post in a few and would welcome any comments/criticisms. Everything is always a work in progress.

Defeated

2009-11-20T17:10:00.001-05:00

Ugh! I have been defeated by my own addiction to work. With a little more than a week left, I know I will not finish my book this month.

I had expected to have some downtime to work on my manuscript during my trip to Florida over the weekend, but no such luck. Then as soon as I got back -- SLAM!

Two new -- and immediate -- freelance projects
Author review and major cuts to my 600-page Complete Idiot's Guide (which is only supposed to be 400 pages)
Five classes worth of essays I have to read and comment on
Grading and meetings with students
An extracurricular MLA workshop I'm holding tomorrow to help my students better understand this English language bugaboo
And another freelance project that has to be done on-site and will take almost a day to complete

And they all have to be completed by Tuesday or sooner.

My husband pointed out that during winter break I'll have nearly a month to work on it without interruption, while the kids are at school/preschool at least. So, I'm not that heartbroken about not meeting my goals with this project, especially since I've gotten over 7,000 words added to my manuscript, which is more than I've written in the last 6 months. And I should have some time over the Thanksgiving holiday to devote to my characters -- after I update all of my grades and attendance, grade exams and essays, and schedule out the rest of my classes for the semester.

Yes folks, I'm your garden variety workaholic. I guess that isn't so bad considering some members of my family are addicted to much worse things. But unfortunately, I'm at a point in my life where I have to go where the paying writing assignments lead before I can get paid for the writing I really like to do. Hopefully, this won't be true forever!

Chapter 1 - Part 2

2009-11-11T13:01:00.001-05:00

Derry sipped the rich black coffee that burned comfortingly through the cup in his hands. If he had to be living among mortals, he was grateful that there were some comforts that would make the experience more bearable. Giovanni’s fresh-brewed coffee was one of them.

He told himself that this was the reason he stirred from his bed with only a few hours sleep in him morning after morning. He said it adamantly every time he settled down on the corner of Dorchester Avenue, directly across the street from Bryn Mercer’s apartment.

It was just a quiet place to enjoy the effects of the caffeine. It had nothing to do with his ongoing fascination with the woman who’d been coming into his pub, Mallory’s, since its opening a few months ago. Nothing at all to do with those mesmerizing green eyes that sparkled even in the dim light of the bar nearly every night.

And it definitely had nothing to do with the sidhe charm she wore around her neck.

Derry lied to himself more out of habit than out of belief. Something about this woman stirred the most elemental instincts in him. It was a warning that he couldn’t ignore, and she, she was an enigma that he could not wrap his head around.

Damn it, he’d spent the last twenty-five years blending in just fine. Like all of his brethren who’d fled into the mortal lands after their queen had fallen, Derry Caomhanach was hunted.

He never used his magic, lest it alert one from the Draoda Tír of the presence of a sidhe. Never interfered in the lives of the humans he knew in any way that was not 100 percent mortal.

Sure, he partook in the pleasures of mortal life as any man would. But the call of the sidhe warrior inside him was a constant. His body and soul cried out to embrace the magic all around him. As a master of the elements, there was nowhere he could go where he could escape their seductive whispers.

Take me.

Mold me.

Command me.

Yet he resisted, calling upon a ceaseless cache of control honed from living century after century. It was his one constant, the strength that had never failed him once throughout war and pestilence, the endless passage of time, or the darkest hours of the night when he yearned to be home.

Bryn Mercer had obliterated that control the night she walked into his pub. One small, troubled woman had defeated one of the most legendary sidhe warriors with nothing more than a sultry smile and a gaze that would shame any emerald in the world.

After that night, he had to know everything he could about the woman, and that was the first time he’d used his power in a quarter-century. He shadowed her invisibly, learned the signature of her thoughts, the color of her energy in the world – and every new piece of information he gÁine d ensnared him further.

She was a social worker for whom the word dedicated would be an insult to the amount of care and attention she gave to her young charges. That surprised him since she was an orphan who was raised in foster care; he thought anyone who had never had a home of their own would want to get as far away from the system that made that so as soon as possible.

Yet, she stayed to help others, and that he found admirable. She had heart, courage, and was a walking paradox that perplexed him more than anything in his near 1,000-year existence.
The woman was a mixture of hardest stone and softest down. He’d seen her with her children, so caring and comforting. Her face was always bright and warm, putting the little ones at ease with a single look.

Behind that, there was also a sharp dagger ready to strike at the right target. In court, she was a vicious advocate for her young charges. No one was spared from her bringing them to justice if she knew they were harming a child.

And she always knew.

At Mallory’s, her moods were unpredictable, almost dangerous at times. She always came in looking for some escape. And she got it, by the gods. Derry could never figure out how she drew the men to her as she seemed oblivious to her beauty and light. Yet to her side they came when her hair shone dark in the low light of the pub and her eyes smoldered with a dangerous glow.

She would only walk in the bar, order a Jameson, and try to fade into numbness. And that was all it took to attract the worst kinds of ruffian to try and make their way into her bed. Few made it, but the ones who did … Derry didn’t want to think about what happened after they left the bar. He’d seen the bruises on her arms, sometimes her face, the day after.

Something had happened to this woman that had turned her fierce in her apathy toward those she shared her company with. It was clear that she cared nothing for herself; she saved her conviction and strength for the children.

It was almost as if she were punishing herself for some wrong she had committed, though what that could possibly be Derry could not fathom. He could almost see the constant battle raging inside the hauntingly beautiful woman; one side fighting to bathe her soul in light, the other in darkness. Night and day the feud played out in the body of one very human female.

When Derry had noticed that her appearance changed to reflect her mood and purpose, he knew there had to be something magical at work here. Humans simply could not alter their appearance like fae glamour. In the mornings when she walked to work, her hair shone in the early day sun. It was a supple gleaming of rich browns, golds and auburns. Liquid silk brought to life in the light of day. Her posture was strong and assured, and she dressed the part: serious, but elegant skirts and blouses for court dates; jeans or khakis most other days with dressy t-shirts and tops. Her face was a wash of emotion: calm and collected with the children; all-business with those who sought to harm or dispensed justice.

At night, though, that haunted quality returned. Her hair was dark, dark brown. Her eyes smoldered in a deeper emerald color unlike any he’d ever seen, and they were on-guard, shifting. Her face betrayed nothing, no emotion other than what those around her seemed to want. She was almost like a chameleon that changes to blend into the situation.

At the pub, she was usually in jeans and scooped black shirts that naturally brought the eye to the firm offering that lay just beneath the cloth. Bryn’s stance and walk became softer, more inviting, more magnetic.

The thing Derry couldn’t understand was that she didn’t seem aware of it, or if she did, she didn’t seem to care about the consequences. He’d done what he could to protect her while she was in his bar, but it was after Jase Murphy, one of the more dangerous members The Syndicate, he knew that he had to do something.

Whatever was going on with Bryn could not continue, not only because what he was seeing was impossible for anyone not of the Draoda Tír. Then he noticed that she wore Queen Áine Dedannan’s talisman. How the hell she got her hands on a lost relic of his people was beyond him, but the one thing he knew was that every moment she wore the talisman of the sidhe queen she was in danger.

If she were a mere human woman, her personal demons would be the worst she’d have to face. Counseling, therapy, and good friends could help her through. But as a human in possession of a powerful piece of ancient magic, those demons could easily multiply and consume their maker. And the fact that she openly wore a symbol of the sidhe made her vulnerable to those who hunted his race – the Collector Demons.

Seeing Lady Áine’s seal on the breast of a mortal threw him off. Perhaps she was part sidhe or another of his kind on hiding. Derry had probed her energy and found Bryn Mercer to be very human. He could sense the absence of sidhe power in her. No magic, no kiss of the elements, no knowledge of the old ways.

And she did not look like a sidhe woman. Bryn was shorter and stockier, more muscular than delicate. She had curves in her hips and center, and though the mere thought of her soft frame brought an aching fullness low in his body, it was not the sort of build sidhe women were known for. Their females were warriors, but held their strength and power within tall, elegant bodies that lured enemies into a false sense of confidence. The last thing they saw before death was beauty incarnate.

Most conspicuously, though, Bryn lacked the tell-tale sign of sidhe birthright: eyes that shone in the colors of nature, not the blues, greens and browns of the mortals. The sidhe were children of the earth and wielders of the elements. Their eyes were the windows to their power and thrust living color back into the world from which that power was drawn. Sidhe eyes ranged from the burning orange and pinks of the setting sun, to the mottled blacks and beiges of the desert sands. Bryn’s sparkling green eyes were certainly remarkable, but still very mortal.

The sun rose higher in the morning sky, bringing with it unseasonable warmth for early October. As a breeze thick with the scent of the New England fall blew around Derry, the door to Bryn’s building opened to reveal the woman he had just spent way too much time thinking about.

She was lovely, as she was every morning. He knew she was due in court and expected her usual conservative attire. Maybe it was a trick of the light or just that he sensed a faint happiness emanating from her, even from this distance, but she seemed to almost sparkle in the beams of light cascading through the buildings this morning. The pale ice blue of her blouse enhanced the smooth paleness of her skin – and with her hair swept up from her neck and her carrying her dress jacket instead of wearing it, he had an expansive view.

Automatically, Derry took up pace behind her. Far enough so that she didn’t notice, but not so far that he couldn’t help if she got into trouble.

Her route to work had been a very real concern for him even before she started hanging around with Jase Murphy. The street rats that lived in this section of Boston were dangerous, but predictable. They were stupid and ruled by their cocks.

Jase, on the other hand, was just downright unpredictable, almost obsessive at times. He would just as soon kill Bryn as fuck her. Unfortunately, Jase had already done the latter with her full consent – and marked her as his property. Derry doubted she knew just how quickly the man could turn on her.

“Let’s keep it casual,” she’d told Jase last week in the bar. Derry made it a point to eavesdrop on their conversations whenever possible. And though he put on a perfect face of agreement in response, when she turned to the bar to grab a beer, Derry saw that look of fierce possession only a stalker has.

Derry took a sip of his coffee to wipe the taste of disgust from his mouth. He growled at the thought of that scumbag touching her.

What a sweet piece of ass.

Derry was drawn immediately out of his brooding, senses on high alert trying to figure out where the errant thought had come from. It could’ve been from any of the apartments or stores lining the street – about anyone, anywhere.

He slowed his breathing and calmed his thoughts, sending his senses all around him to find the source.

A few blocks up and to the right … Was it before or after where Bryn had just been? Derry sped up his pace, listening intently while keeping his gaze locked on Bryn’s hurrying form. She was late, he knew, but if some miscreant who’d become interested in her saw her rushing, she might be in for some trouble.
T
hat’s it. Make me chase you. It’s half the fun.

Derry could actually feel the guy’s adrenaline spike and his cock swell. Wasn’t being able to hear other people’s thoughts – bidden or not – enough? Did he really have to feel how fucked up they are down to their souls, too?

And still, Derry couldn’t place where the predator stalking Bryn was, only that he was on the move and catching up to Bryn. He looked in every alley, every crook where someone could hide out and follow an unsuspecting target. Gods, it was so easy in the damned neighborhood, dark and grey everywhere you looked.

Two blocks before Derry could see Mallory’s shingle hanging over the dank sidewalk, adding a slice of green and golf to the monochromatic theme of the surrounding streets, he picked up on the dark energy that was skirting around the backs of the standing buildings.

Derry ducked off of the main road to trace the man’s steps and found that he was setting up to intercept Bryn just as she crossed the street by the pub.

Derry faded into smoke, raced to the back of the bar and snuck around the side before either his charge or his quarry made it to the corner. He walked silently up the small alley that separated Mallory’s from the three-family house next to it and peered around the corner.

Bryn was checking her watch, not paying attention as she hurried her pace even more. Her stalker was walking leisurely up to the corner, nearly bursting with anticipation as he fingered the cool blade in his pocket.

I’ll bet you scream as good as you look.

The man’s whole groin twitched with a rush of blood from his speeding heart. Derry stepped out of the alley, coffee still in hand, and stared at the two people on a collision course with each other.
With a thought, the man with the knife stopped short, grabbing his throat. His body was slammed hard into the concrete wall of the corner bodega and was pinned there so that his toes just barely touched the sidewalk.

Derry stood there in front of his pub staring at the man, watching his face go from a rich beet red to a blooming purple, and he smiled. Damn, he loved being able to command energy some days.
Intent on her path, Bryn crossed the street and checked her watch again. Concentrating hard on prolonging the man’s suffering, Derry didn’t notice Bryn was heading directly toward him until it was too late. Before she could look up, she crashed into Derry’s chest, spilling his coffee and breaking his concentration.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry,” Bryn apologized, not really looking at his face, only his body so she could see if she’d scalded him with his own coffee.

God, how stupid can you get, Bryn.

Derry caught the thought and grimaced at yet another recrimination she gave herself.

“It’s all right Ms. Mercer,” he said in his light Irish burr and smiling down at her. She was batting at his arm and jacket trying to clean the mess, and he put both hands on her shoulders and pushed her back to arms-length. “Nothin’ that won’t wash out.”

Her breath caught, and she immediately stiffened in defense at the sound of her name. She turned her scalding green gaze on his face and jerked herself back out of his grip.

“Did I scare you, love?” he said gently in response.

“Derry,” she breathed in relief, but still backed up a step or two. “Sorry. I’m just a little distracted this morning. I didn’t realize it was you.”

“Anytime, love. Are you alright?” he asked as he looked for a moment over her shoulder at the thug who was coughing and holding his throat like it had been in a vise. But his skin was smooth and white – untouched.

Eyes wide, the man looked about as if he would find whatever had caused his choking fit somewhere on the empty street.

As he made to stand, the thug found himself unable to move. Derry intensified his stare has he reinforced the command for the man’s energy to remain still.

“Yeah, fine, I guess,” Bryn answered, now trying to see if she had any remnants of coffee on her blouse. “It’s just not the morning for this.”

At her words, Derry turned his gaze from the piece of shit panicking around the corner to the woman in front of him. Her movements were jerky, her energy prickling with annoyance and haste. His skin could actually feel the thrum of her vibrating aura starting to heat his skin, which was mere inches from him now.

He had but to reach out and place a mere finger on her bared shoulder and he could savor the full thrill of the burgeoning energy that swirled around her, and, he knew, within her as well. Such promise in such an innocent package.

The gentleness of her features betrayed little of her inner struggles now. But Gods, she was lovely, Derry thought; addictive, really. As she brushed down the front of her blouse, Derry couldn’t stop his eyes from dwelling on the soft slope of her neck, bared to the world with her upswept hair and outlined by a fragile silver chain.

He wondered if it was as warm as it looked, if it would feel as smooth in his mouth as he imagined in his mind. His gaze followed the v-line of her collar to consider more intriguing elements of her form, when his eye caught hold of the prize the chain protected.

Priorities, he reminded himself. Priorities.

“Anything wrong?” Derry asked, looking into her impossibly radiant eyes and sending her a look of pure concern.

“Not really,” she said, returning his stare. “I’m due in court today to finalize an adoption. It should be a very happy day, actually. It’s just…”

She paused, struggling with her expression, like she couldn’t decide what she was feeling.

“It’s just what, love?”

“There was a last-minute change in the scheduling and now the case is being heard by a real hard ass judge. Unpredictable, you know? Makes me nervous that he’s handling this. It’s not usually his type of thing.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said.

“It’s just rubbing me the wrong way,” she said, running her hands up her bare arms as if to warm herself.

“I wouldn’t worry, love,” he said as he reached out toward her throat. “Your talisman here will guide you, bring you the blessings you seek.”

His nails lightly caressed the skin of her chest as he took the charm in his hand for closer inspection. He ran the pad of his thumb over the circular knotwork of the cool metal. It was soft to the touch, but fortified from within. Certainly, it was made of silver, but there was more to that. A spark, almost of life beating within the entwined strands of silver. Magic. He could feel the thrum of magic infused into the talisman.

The pattern was definitely that of the queen’s family. Now he knew it to be Lady Áine’s lost talisman. Derry’s eyes flew to Bryn’s and took in a quick breath at the realization of what this could mean. Bryn’s cheeks flushed at his touch and she looked at him with alarm in her eyes.

“Maybe you should keep your hands to yourself,” Bryn said with a scowl as she stepped back and took the necklace back into the protection of her hands.

“Shit,” she said after glancing at her watch and starting to push past him annoyed.

“Forgive me, Ms. Mercer, but it’s been long since I’ve seen a true talisman of my home.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked guardedly, turning back to him.

“Where did you get your necklace?”

“Why are you asking about my necklace?”

“You don’t know what that is, do you?”

“I don’t even know what you are right now, but you know what, I don’t have time for this. I’m sorry I knocked into you. Send me the dry cleaning bill.”

Bryn took off again past Derry with an impatience that hadn’t been there a second before.

“Will you be at the pub tonight?” he asked her back as she strode away toward her office.

“Does it matter?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“That’s nice.”

She kept walking without so much as a feigned glance behind. Derry sent his senses out into the few blocks ahead and into the building where Bryn worked. Sensing no negative energy or threat, he set down his coffee cup on the ground in front of the pub and walked around the corner to the paralyzed thug.

The man was now tearing in fright, quietly talking to himself. It sounded like he was fighting with some unheard voice that went back and forth from angry to panicked. Derry stopped in front of the man and a disgusted look slid onto his face.

“Help me man! Help me! I can’t move! Help me up!” the thug cried with desperation seething from every syllable. Derry bent over and picked the guy up by his collar and slammed him one-handed into the building.

“You’re up,” he spat. “Now I think we need to have a chat, you and me, about manners.”

Derry’s eyes grew pitch black with the tiniest flicker of orange flame dotting the centers. The man in his grip began to shake, but as he went to scream, no sound came out of his mouth. Every last molecule of oxygen had been ripped out of his body.

Chapter 1 - Part 1/NaNoWriMo Update

2009-11-07T22:50:00.002-05:00

Had kind of a rough week, but I'm up to about 5,260 words as I close this week out -- which is a lot more than I've written in months. Yeah NaNoWriMo! Here's a tease for Chapter 1:

Chapter 1

Bryn Mercer woke with a start, the way she always did after the dream that had plagued her since childhood came. One of the few constants in her life was the surety the same feelings of violence would pervade her sleep every night. Though nothing more than a vague recollection would follow her into the daylight, however, yet the dream always haunted her, and she didn’t know why.

Shaking her head to clear what few images she could remember from her mind, she slid out of bed and padded to the shower. Today was supposed to be a good day; Adrian Marx would finally be going home.
As she stepped into the rush of hot water, she thought how rare it is for a nine-year-old to be adopted and by good people – really good people, not just the kind that put on a show for the social workers and then turn around and beat their kids.

Bryn had spent twenty-six years in the Massachusetts child protective services system. She was initiated the day the Boston police found her in an abandoned car on Mercer Street when she was an infant. She knew all too well the kind of people who took in foster children, and exactly what many of them were after.
In fact, she knew the moment she met every foster family she’d ever been placed with whether or not they were really interested in providing her a good home or if they were just in it for the money – or worse.

The social workers never believed her when she told them something was wrong before she’d even walked into the house; she always had to wait for the first punch, the first denied meal or the first hand to be shoved down her pants before they’d take her back into the state facility to await another placement.

Then there were the social workers who didn’t even believe her at all and sentenced her to play in a domestic hell. “They’ve been one of our families for years, and we’ve never had a complaint against them,” was often the response. Bryn had learned early that if she wanted her sanity to survive, she had to learn to control whatever this was that tapped her into the emotions of others – block it out when she needed to so she could get through the day.

By the time she’d aged out of the system, she’d spent so much time shut down emotionally, she’d nearly forgotten how to live any other way. The blades she’d used on herself to lessen the pain left by the physical blows showed in the scars on her left arm and thighs. It sounded strange, but it worked.

Soon after Bryn began cutting herself, it didn’t hurt as much when her foster mother slapped her across the face for not putting a plate in the right cabinet. When they gave Bryn her walking papers on her eighteenth birthday, she was utterly numb to all but a select few things in her life.

Instead of running as far and fast as she could from the system, she spent the next four years earning her degree in social work, so she could ensure other children never go through the things she did.

Bryn stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel as she went back into her bedroom. She dried the silver necklace with the antique-looking knotted pendant first. Even if she wanted to take it off, she couldn’t. There was no clasp or even the tiniest imperfection of in the chain that would allow it to be removed from its owner’s neck.

It had seemed to grow with her over the years, something that was totally impossible but still tugged at Bryn’s mind as she moved the towel over the metal over her chest, making sure the mirror was nowhere in sight. She didn’t need to be reminded of what she looked like, see the evidence of her past reflected in the light of the present.

Her skin was shockingly pale, so much so it almost glowed in the sunlight and brightened a dark room. Her arms were too thick to be elegant, too taught with underlying muscle. There was no hope for her curved waist and flared hips, which made buying clothes as fun as running through downtown Boston naked. She hated her soft stomach that Eddie, her boss and longtime friend, called her “little pooch.”

Sure, her legs were long, but were thick with muscle. Mix that with the long expanse of her legs on a frame no one would ever describe as tall, and you had the perfect picture of Bryn Mercer, anti-beauty queen if ever there was one.

Not that it mattered to the low-lifes who peppered the streets of Boston’s South Side at any given time. Bryn had lived and worked in this rough-and-tumble section of the city’s Irish community for most of her adult life. Exposing any femininity at all opened you up to unwanted (and sometimes dangerous) attention. A pair of tits and a pulse were all they needed.

After allowing the lotion she rubbed into her skin head to toe to air dry, Bryn slipped into a conservative set of deep blue panties and a matching bra that minimized the size of her breasts. She then went to task on her hair. The long black strands touched her should blades when it was wet like this. But after she blow dried it with a straightening brush, it sat just below her shoulders and was a rich, dark brown that glowed auburn in the sun that escaped from the side of her drapes.

Bryn combed her hair out and stepped into a loose-fitting black pencil skirt with a flared bottom that ended below her knees. She then slid into a sleeveless powder blue scoop-neck shell and slid on black silk thigh highs before stepping to the mirror to style her hair.

Even after living with eerily luminous aquamarine eyes for her whole life, the day’s first look always sent a shock through her. In her head, she knew they were hers, but they always caught her off guard as striking, unnatural. It was like she had jewels the color of deep Caribbean waters surrounded by the faintest border of dark purple instead of standard-issue blue, brown or green. And damn it if they didn’t actually shimmer. Who has eyes like that, anyway?

The older she got, the more pronounced the color became – the more people stared at her and her oddity. When she could afford it, she bought green contact lenses to make the color more normal. Even with the lenses, though, her eyes still stood out as bright as emeralds. But that, she could deal with. At least green was normal.

Shaking the startled look off of her face, Bryn popped her lenses in, applied some eye liner and shadow, and stepped back to look at the finished package. It was a little dressed-up for the ten-block walk to work, but with the matching jacket to cover her arms the only thing the guys hanging out on the corners and in the bodegas would see was her calves. Dressing up for Adrian’s big day was worth risking added attention on her way to work.

The sound of the phone ringing caught her attention just as she was heading out the door. She paused to check the caller ID and found it was her boss on the line.

“Eddie, what’s up? I’m on my way out. Got the Marx hearing this morning.”

“That’s why I’m calling. There’s been a last-minute change in the judge. You’re not going to like it.”

“It’s family court. How bad can it be?”

“It’s Cranston.”

Bryn dropped her keys on the kitchen counter as the shock nearly overwhelmed her. She’d hoped she’d never have to see Judge Cranston again.

“That’s impossible. He’s a criminal judge.”

“Yeah, well it seems he’s pissed off someone pretty high up and sent to family court to make good. You sure you’re up for this?”

“Of course I am.”

“Cause if you’re not, I can make it down there, step in.”

“It’s a routine adoption hearing, Eddie. How bad can he mess it up? Besides, I made a promise and I intend to keep it. He probably doesn’t remember me anyway. I’m late. I’ll talk to you later.”

God, let him have forgotten her.

Prologue

2009-11-04T11:32:00.001-05:00

As promised, here is the prologue to my novel, Lost Sidhe. This scene takes place in the past and has not been edited in the slightest, so if there are errors, please take this for the first draft that it is. Any feedback is always appreciated!

Prologue

The inside of the car was so hot that an uncharacteristic flush swept over Áine DeDanann’s fair cheeks. She looked down affectionately at the baby sleeping in her arms, gently tucking the child’s fine brown hair behind one ear so she could see all of her daughter’s face.

Áine sat still on the back bench seat as a curtain of sadness fell over her eyes of crystal violet, just like the flowers would look if viewed through water. Her loose auburn curls framed a face that smiled gently, as if assuring herself of something.

“It will be alright, my love,” she whispered to the child, who opened her eyes at the sound of her mother’s voice. The woman stroked the baby’s cheek in a gesture of comfort, feeling the smooth pale skin so like her own. “I promise you, I will keep you safe. He will not take you. That is the only gift I have to give you now. I am so sorry.”

Tears fell on the pink blanket that swaddled the infant, who blinked brilliant aquamarine eyes at her mother as if she understood what she’d said and all that was happening around her. A tiny hand grasped the Áine’s finger and held it tight. She smiled at her daughter’s gesture and kissed her on the forehead.

“Sleep my angel,” she whispered. She began a soft chant of unintelligible words that filled the car with a sound so melodic it could have been music emanating from the woman’s throat, not words.

The lullaby continued for what seemed like forever, though the baby’s eyes drifted closed almost the second Áine began her hypnotic song. The metal and glass around the two began to vibrate and glow the longer she sang, enfolding the vehicle and it passengers in a shield of energy that protected all within from the outside world.

Time was running short, but Áine was determined to have these last precious minutes with the child she loved more than her own life. Then she would end this tragedy that should never have been allowed to go on for so long. She took comfort in knowing her daughter would be protected from the monster’s vision in this car and that she would soon be with her beloved Michael once again. What happened after her death, she would have to trust to the gods.

She felt his presence before she saw the red light of the demon’s aura through the car window. He wouldn’t see her, but could probably sense her even through the barrier she had conjured to protect her child. Áine would let him pass and appear down the street for their final meeting, so as not to alert him to where her daughter might be. For now, he only wanted her, not the baby. When he realized that would never happen, he would take the child, and that, she would not allow.

Áine unfastened a silver chain from her neck. She slipped it around the sleeping child before pulling the blanket more tightly around the baby to ensure she was protected on all sides. Her hand caressed the pendant, a circular Celtic symbol that looked antique, and moved down to the matching embroidery on the quilt. Both chain and blanket glowed momentarily and then went back to their pristine state of rest.

“Your birthright, my lady,” she said. “Wear it always and trust in its protection, the protection I give to you, most precious daughter of the sidhe. I love you.”

She leaned over the still sleeping baby and kissed her gently once more, spilling one last tear on girl’s cheek. Then she was gone, streaming invisibly out the car and down the street to reappear just feet from the man walking casually to the corner. He stopped, though with no show of surprise on his handsome face. The man was tall, with waves of blonde hair resting on his shoulders. Power radiated off of his huge, muscular frame like heat, a tangible reflection of the menacing aura he wore like a cloak. It wasn’t just pure physical strength that inspired fear when in his presence; it was that extent of raw energy at his command that even the least sensual human could feel a miles away.

Terror shot through the woman’s frame, working its way swiftly and insidiously through every muscle. She stood tall and elegant in a thin muslin dress that accented her healthy curves and angles, her spiral auburn hair flowing about her face and down her back. In front of this golden demon, she looked slight, almost frail. He smiled handsomely at her presence, showing white teeth that had just the right amount of sharpness to them to make such a showing of pleasantry intimidate. His stark nose, gently curling forelock and iced silver eyes smoldered with suggestions better left unsaid at the moment. That single look was enough to speed the woman’s heart with fear and anticipation of what she knew was to come.

“Fearless to the end, my lady,” he said, smile widening. “Where is the child?”

“Safe.”

“So you think.” He began to circle her slowly, eyes devouring her head to foot. The man’s black button-down shirt and fitted black dress pants only added to his intimidating presence. As he circled, he stepped closer to the woman until he was within touching distance. From behind, he reached out a hand and captured one of her curls, bringing it to his face.

“Why must you make things so hard on yourself, Áine?” he said after sliding her hair over her shoulder and inhaling her scent from the nape of her neck. His other hand slid from around Áine’s side to lay flat on her stomach just below her belly button. “This could be where my child begins his life. You make beautiful babies, you know. Would ours be any less wondrous than your little halfling?”

“Your mind must be deteriorating faster than the rumors say, Regan, if you truly believe that. Any child of a demon can be no more or less than a demon. Taking me will not purify your line.”

“But it is not purification I seek, my love,” he said, sliding the hand up Áine’s rib cage and over her breast, where it lingered and stroked over the fabric of her dress. She closed her eyes as revulsion slid into her stomach in response to feeling Regan grow rigid and heated behind her. The hand then traveled to rest on her throat, fingers stroking her pulse.

“I will not give myself to you. You know that.”

“Unfortunately, I do. Yet, I offer you one more chance to consider my offer. Stand at my side and merge our kingdoms. We will rule the Draoda Tír together, unstoppable. And I shall allow your daughter to live and flourish in my court. Your resistance has already forced me to slay that human lover of yours. Must you resign your child to the same fate as her father?”

Áine laughed quietly.

“I have given her the freedom to live in a world without fear of demons or dark sidhe. She shall grow to be a child of light, never to be hunted. You will never lay eyes on her again. I do not fear for her fate.”

Regan stood silent for a moment before sighing and tightening his grip.

“Your death makes the girl the next sidhe queen. She will be invaluable to us all, considering her fragile age. Our kingdoms will unite. It is written. Why not save us all the trouble and simply surrender to what should have happened a long time ago?”

Áine pushed off him in a rush of energy she projected backwards into his body. The force propelled Regan into the building behind him, causing brick to crack and dust to rise.

“The hard way it shall be, then,” he said, apparently unruffled from Áine’s attack. “I am not above simply taking what I want, my queen.”

“Then come and get it,” she said, smiling before she launched from her palms an enormous lion made of raw flame that raced toward him, jaws open and ready to devour. He parried quickly, floating above the creature before raining ice down to cool the fire. Regan conjured a cyclone of wind to surround Áine in a vortex that sucked the air from her lungs. She erected a cage of energy to protect her from the winds and bring in air from above the cyclone.

“You have grown strong, my lady,” Regan conceded as he dissolved the winds with a wave of his hand and made his way closer to Áine. “Which makes me want you all the more.”

She built a sphere of water around her enemy before he could reach her, which knocked him off his footing and deprived him of air. She knew it would not hold him for long, but it would buy her enough time to formulate her next attack. Before she could summon enough electricity from the atmosphere to charge the water, the sphere exploded, sending water speeding mercilessly in all directions.

The blast hit Áine like a thousand cinder blocks dropped from stories above and slammed her hard into the concrete sidewalk. Pain tore through her and the world began to swim with darkness when she felt the heavy press of a body on top of her.

“Do you yield?” Regan said as he straddled her waist and leaned over her face, eyes glowing a deep ruby red. “Being my queen could be quite … pleasurable.”

He ran a finger down her jaw line to trace her throat and lower. She spit in his face before he reached the span of skin between her breasts. He looked at her, anger flashing on his face.

“Remember this, Áine. If I can’t have you, I will have your daughter. That is a promise. I cannot promise that I will be as tender with her as I will with you.”

She made to spit at him again, but this time he was ready and punched her in the jaw before she got the chance. Blood trickling from her mouth, Áine smiled.

“I’d like to see you try.”

With those last words, she hit him with a wall of energy that cast him off of her and far into the air above. To stop his fall, Regan had to counter his flight with an expanse of energy below, which crushed into Áine’s body with enormous force.

Blood flowed from her mouth, as tissue and muscle contracted under the pressure of the attack. It would not take long. By the time Regan landed, Áine she’d be dead -- as it should be. She smiled one last time and let the darkness take her to the next plane.

Good Intentions, Novel Intro

2009-11-02T22:19:00.000-05:00

Just like New Year's resolutions, some of my NaNoWriMo resolutions have already bit the dust. :( I came down with a sinus infection that has inhibited my ability to concentrate, so I only got about 300 words done yesterday and about 1,000 done so far today. But, I am not being too hard on myself and am determined to plow through tonight and get up to 3,000 words at least.

One pledge I will come through on right now is some information about my novel. I like to think of myself as a Celt. My heritage is Irish, German, and Eastern European, with a little Italian mixed in for good measure. Though the Celts are known mostly for their history in Ireland and Scotland, they were also very prevalent throughout the Germanic and Eastern European countries.

So, when I went looking for inspiration for a story premise, I turned to Celtic mythology. There, I discovered the sidhe (pronounced sh-ee), a race of faeries who had power over nature and were the complete opposite of what most people think of when they hear "faery." No little wings or faery dust, sidhe are the size and shape of humans. They have powerful control over nature and a long history of waging battle throughout Irish mythology. Faeries that kick butt -- sounds cool to me.

Based on this concept, I developed a paranormal/suspense/urban fantasy-type story that involves a cast of supernatural characters, including:

A sidhe queen who gives up her life to ensure a future for her daughter
Her halfling daughter who is raised as a human in a gravely flawed foster care system
A sidhe warrior who was forced to flee his homeland into the mortal world after the queen's fall
A collector demon (collects the powers of other magical beings upon the moment of their death) who is obsessed with the queen, her daughter, and fulfilling a prophecy that is yet to be determined
A sleeper villain who acts as a puppeteer among these characters to gain his revenge for a wrong that was done to him

This may sound simplistic, but I don't want to give away too much of the plot. I will post the prologue later in the week to give a taste of this little universe I've created.

Halloween Cutie and NaNoWriMo Resolutions

2009-10-29T14:08:00.002-04:00

One of the best reasons to love this time of year is the costumes that turn cute little kids in to adorable ones. I know I'm biased since she's mine, but Little Red Jordan Hood is going to be super cute this Halloween, and I just had to share.

So, Saturday is the last day of October, which means National Novel Writing Month officially kicks off on Sunday. Already I've gotten e-mails reminding me about the date and a list of activities for the North Jersey virtual team. This includes weekly "write-ins" at several Panera and Borders locations. There have also been tips about getting ready to write, such as outlining chapters, completing character sketches, etc.

One perspective on this monumental task that I can really appreciate came from Lynn Viehl in an e-mail I read late last night. She says that she's been so caught up in deadlines for the bread-and-butter writing she does, that she really hasn't had any time to write what she really wants to for herself. And she's going to use NaNoWriMo to have some fun with writing about some ideas she's had for a while.
Oh how I can sympathize! It is not very often that I can work on my novel, which I guess I began work on in 2004. This idea simply wouldn't leave my head so I wrote a short comic book script, with the intention of scripting the story into a 5-issue series. Then I thought it would work better as prose. So after I finished my master's thesis last year, I knew I couldn't continue with the story I'd created for that project until I got this older one out of my system. In August 2008, I sat down in earnest to turn the story I'd been writing in my head for 4 years into a manuscript.

Today, I'm about 50,000 words (165 pages or so in) and haven't touched it since June because of various projects/deadlines, etc. My goal is to complete another 50,000 words by the end of November and have my crappy first draft complete (I always tell my students that first drafts are not good, and so I hope if they're reading this they see that it applies to me too!). To help stay on track, I resolve to do the following:

Complete the rest of my chapter outlines before Sunday so I can jump right in from the beginning.
Write at least 1,500 words per day, but aim for 2,000 -- rain or shine, tired or awake, holiday or weekend.
Not put off to tomorrow what I can accomplish today (translation, put off writing today with the promise of doubling my word count tomorrow).
Attend at least 2 write-ins at the Rockaway Borders (Borders is awesome for writing).
Not beat myself up too much for missing a goal.
Not to go back and read through what I've already written -- that always causes me to rewrite and sucks up major time.
Not to second-guess what I write -- that's what revision is for.

Can I do it? I sure hope so! I'll be posting synopses and scenes throughout the month and would love any feedback anyone has to offer. Happy writing!

Food Drives for Fluffy and Fido

2009-10-27T00:15:00.000-04:00

Halloween is almost here, which means the holiday season isn't too far behind. Already there are Christmas tree displays at Target and BJ's, not to mention the whole seasonal section at the grocery store has one shelf dedicated to Halloween candy while all the rest of the space for Christmas and Hanukkah items. It drives my husband nuts, which is enough of a reason to love this seasonal shift. :)

I've also noted several collection boxes for food and clothing items on the campuses where I teach. With the current state of the economy, the food banks here in NJ have been overwhelmed with clients, as I'm sure is the case all around the country. Students all over are trying to help out with various food drives leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday.

When we were talking about it the other night, my sister, a veterinary technician at Red Bank Veterinary Hospital, brought up an interesting point I've never thought of. She contacted a local food bank and asked if they'd had any inquiries about pet food, since she wanted to donate some bags of kibble in addition to regular food items.

It seems like an obvious connection to make; if people are having trouble feeding their families, of course they'd be having issues feeding their pets. I don't know why I hadn't thought of it before. We routinely donate supplies to the local animal shelters, but those only benefit the animals in that specific shelter. Providing pet food to a food pantry helps prevent those who are struggling financially from having to give up their pet because they can't afford to feed them anymore.

She also told me that an animal hospital in our area serves as a pet food bank. People can drop off food for cats, dogs, and other household pets that is distributed by the local Meals on Wheels program. How cool is that?

The next time you're thinking about what to donate to the local food drive, consider adding a bag of kibble or a case of canned food to your list. Save Our Pets Food Bank provides a listing of pet food banks nationwide. If your area isn't included, check with your local food pantry about donating some pet food. They may think you're crazy at first, but if you explain why you want to donate the food, they're likely to understand.

Children’s Lit Project

2009-10-23T11:00:00.001-04:00

A friend and colleague of mine, Steven Withrow, told me today about a very interesting project. He’s working with award-winning author, journalist, and filmmaker Edward J. Delaney to film a documentary about children’s literature, entitled The Library of the Early Mind. They are travelling the country interviewing prominent children’s authors about their work and genre. Just a sampling includes Padma Venkatraman, Lois Lowry, Brian Selznick, Mary Ann Hoberman, Carolyn Coman, and Natalie Babbitt.

So far, Steven says his experiences with these authors have been “amazing.” I can see how it could be since this is such a wonderful idea. There is a general lack of recognition for children’s literature among mainstream America, and a film like this – especially if showcased at film festivals – will go a long way toward raising people’s consciousness about this genre.

Both of my girls love books and reading, and I firmly believe that this is because I have read to them since they were babies. Children’s and young adult books are such a pervasive part of our culture and an important component in educating growing generations. I’m really looking forward to seeing what these authors have to say and how these two very talented individuals tell their stories.

If you’d like to check out this project or see some clips of the interviews, visit The Children’s Lit Project.

Merricks and Red Caps and Shades, Oh My!

2009-10-18T23:23:00.003-04:00

This time of year, everyone is posting lists of their favorite vampires, weres, and other creatures that go bump in the night. Over the last few years, though, I’ve noticed a trend of bigger, badder monsters popping up in mainstream fiction. So, I thought I’d mix things up with a list of interesting monsters you’re probably missing out on this Samhain.

Monster: The Many-Mouthed Thing
Author: Karen Marie Moning
Book: Darkfever
Lowdown: This series involves the Fae, which are broken down into two divisions: Seelie and Unseelie. Though neither can be considered the “good” side, the Unseelie are the more overt monsters. The Many-Mouthed Thing is an Unseelie with “myriad leechlike mouths, dozens of eyes, and overdeveloped sex organs.”

Monster: Tattoo Demons
Author: Marjorie M. Liu
Book: The Iron Hunt, Darkness Calls
Lowdown: The series follows Maxine Kiss, a demon hunter who is protected by five demons who live in her flesh during the day. When the sun goes down, they peel away from her and regain their true forms and fight the forces of darkness by her side. Zee, Aaz, and Raw have “skin the color of soot smeared with silver and mercury, lean and warm…with spindly arms and bristling spines of razor scales…claws instead of fingers and toes. Their feet are vaguely human, as are their rakish faces angular to the point of pain.” Dek and Mal have “long, serpentine bodies … no legs and only two arms – vestigial limbs good for little more than grasping my ears. Heads shaped like hyenas, with smiles to match. Best little bodyguards on earth.” Favorite snacks: Teddy bears, Snickers bars (wrapper and all), and whatever’s handy in the nearest toolbox.

Monster: Red Caps
Author: Laurell K. Hamilton
Book: Seduced by Moonlight
Lowdown: In her Meredeth Gentry series, Hamilton introduces all sorts of horrific and beautiful Fae, not the least of which are the Red Caps. She describes them as the “shock troops of the Unseelie, only stronger, bigger, and more uniformly vicious.” They tower at 8 to 10-feet of pure, yet graceful muscle, covered in skin of yellowed paper or dust. Their eyes are “oblongs of red, as if they looked out at the world through fresh blood.” On their heads are scarlet caps that drizzle blood that is reabsorbed by their skin.

Monster: Shades
Author: Karen Marie Moning
Book: Darkfever and throughout the Fever series
Lowdown: Unseelie that can’t be seen by humans. Looks like a huge oily patch of shadow that can only exist in the dark. Attacks without warning and drains the life out of anything that has a spark to give. Leaves only “indigestible” materials behind (clothes, jewelry, “dehydrated human matter” that looks like paper husks).

Monster: Fomorii
Author: Cheyenne McCray
Book: Forbidden Magic
Lowdown: This series has been described as “Charmed meets Kim Harrison’s witch series,” and begins with the Fomorii as the big bad guys to beat. Former gods of the sea, they’ve been banished to an Underworld for everyone’s safety. Their looks vary in terms of colors, and numbers of arms/legs/and other appendages. Universally, they’re ugly, blood thirsty, with needle-like teeth, tough hides, and dragging knuckles. They smell like rotting fish, but that goes away when they take over just about any body, drain it of life, and cover their tracks.

Monster: Merrick
Author: Rhyannon Byrd
Book: Primal Instincts Series
Lowdown: Unlike more traditional takes on the shapeshifter theme, Byrd introduces a “collection of non-human races referred to as 'ancient clans’” two of which are the Merrick and Casus. Merricks look human, and for all intents and purposes are human, as the characters that introduce the concept have no idea what they really are. Their Merrick lies dormant until a Casus comes into the world. Male and female Merricks take different forms: expanded face, flattened nose, sharpened teeth and talons, and increased muscle for the men; fangs and increased strength for women. They need to feed on blood during sex, and only come out to play when threatened by a Casus.

Monster: Casus
Author: Rhyannon Byrd
Book: Primal Instincts Series
Lowdown: Evil beings who once lived on Earth but were banished to a holding ground in another dimension for munching on people too often. They’re shapeshifters of a sort who can possess the human bodies of people with some Casus blood in their lineage (after they kill them of course). When one passes into our dimension, they awaken a Merrick that has been dormant in some unsuspecting person and battle ensues. Casus are sadistic, love torture and eating people alive. They don't all take the same shape, but generally have muzzles, sharp teeth, and claws in their natural form; in human form look like whomever they possess, but with ice-blue eyes.

Monster: Monstruo
Author: Laurell K. Hamilton
Book: Obsidian Butterfly
Lowdown: LKH is the queen of monster-building. Still not quite sure what this monster is. She writes: “It was a woman’s face with one eye gone stiff and dry like some kind of mummy. Face after face rose brown and withered like a string of monstrous beads, strung together with pieces of body, arms, legs, and thick black thread like gigantic stitches holding it all together, holding the magic inside. It rose up and up until it towered against the ceiling, curving like a giant snake to stare down at me. I estimated forty heads, more, before I lost count, or lost the heart to count anymore.” Um, eww.

Don't they Know it's Fall?

2009-10-15T18:58:00.000-04:00

October is my favorite month and fall my favorite season. No, it's not because my birthday's on the 23rd, but it's more about the cool crisp air and earthy atmosphere. Something about the smell of dried leaves and pumpkin picking just soothes my overworked soul.

So why is it that today, in Northern New Jersey where the leaves are just starting to change for the season, there was nothing but snow and slush falling from the sky! Now I don't live in the mountains -- like my sister who rents a condo at a ski resort about a half hour north from my house. I would expect this kind of weather by her or even up the mountain from my house (I live in the foothills). But throughout Bergen county, which is in sight distance of NYC? All day? Come on!

When I got home, there were even some cars that had accumulation on them! It was only a few days ago that the temperature got low enough to need a jacket. It's too soon for snow!

National Novel Writing Month - Cough, Cough

2009-10-10T13:46:00.002-04:00

For those of you who don't know, I've been sick over the last month and have finally gotten a somewhat accurate diagnosis: pneumonia. At first, I (and my doctor) thought I was having a bad reaction to allergens in the air, which set of the worst case of asthma I've ever had.

Well, now I'm on my second round of prednisone and first round of strong antibiotics and have my fingers crossed that I'll be able to get out of bed soon, take a full breath, and get back to class (my most sincere apologies to my Thursday and Friday students for canceling class this week).

In the meantime, there's not much to do, except catch up on my grading, watch horrible daytime/weekend TV, and fiddle with my laptop. Since completing the two idiot's guides I've been working on since April has sucked up a lot of my time (not to mention a few more bouts of respiratory illness over the summer), I thought it was time to get back on track with my paranormal suspense novel.

To that end, I just signed up for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). How it will go is anyone's guess, but I've been working on this draft for over a year and really need to get to finishing my crappy first draft so I can pretty it up and shop it around. I encourage anyone else out there who is thinking of writing a novel to join in.

At the very least, you'll get some good motivation and possible meet a few writing buddies. I can't tell you how helpful it is to write with someone else. My friend Millie and I had on-and-off dates at Borders to write over the summer and I really did get a lot of motivation and pages done as a result. Happy writing all!

Big Project Done!

2009-10-06T00:17:00.001-04:00

Yeah, hurray! My second big book project for the year is done (until author review) -- and I soooo need a rest!

I just got an e-mail from the marketing department at my publisher about the launch of the Pocket Idiot's Guide to the ASVAB, which will hit shelves the first week in December. This book marked my first foray into mass-market nonfiction publishing. In the end, it clocked in at 208 pages and was a bear to put together with my writing partner and editors between April and June.

But for the whole summer and into this semester, we've also been putting together a Complete Idiot's Guide to the ASVAB, which is slated to be double the length. It was a monstrous task that I have to send my most sincere thanks to Laura Stradley (my co-author), Kara LaFrance (my SIL and most awesome illustrator in the world) for moving heaven and Earth to get this done. It took a lot of long nights, arguments, blood, sweat, and tears, but it is finally all squared away and off to the editors.

I had no idea when I signed on to these projects that they would be so complex and exhausting. And yet, I feel like they are also very much worth the time and effort. This experience has been amazing and I hope to repeat it again next year with a book about academic writing (which has nothing to do with math or science, unlike the ASVAB!).

Now on to my next goal -- get my paranormal suspense novel done and hit the fiction shelves.

Shadowlight by Lynn Viehl

2009-09-27T18:03:00.006-04:00

Earlier this year, Lynn Viehl released the latest (and sadly the last) volume in her wildly original Darkyn series, Stay the Night. True to Viehl’s creative style, she planted the seeds of a spin-off series by the end of this book and gave a sample chapter from the inaugural story of her new Kyndred series, Shadowlight – just to pique the senses.

The idea of a spin-off book series intrigued me, especially since I couldn’t help but feel I was left hanging a little after reading Stay the Night. Her new take on the vampire mythos through the Darkyn series (check out my Stay the Night review for a recap ) was awesome and wonderfully complex.

In fact, the whole series showcases Viehl’s skill with the pen and story structure, which in turn set my expectations high for Shadowlight and prompted me to contact Viehl directly for a galley to read. She graciously acquiesced and off I went to discover this new, yet familiar world she created.

The Kyndred series centers on a small population of orphaned children were genetically enhanced with the same virus that caused the Darkyn to rise from the dead stronger than any mortal, immense longevity, and some special powers unique to the individual. For some reason, though, these children (dubbed the Kyndred) grew up semi-normally, only to die and reawaken with these new powers and no explanation as to why they live.

Jessa Bellamy is our heroine in Shadowlight and has no clue that there is anything amiss with her, other than she can’t touch anyone without knowing the worst things that have happened to them or have done. However, just because she doesn’t know she’s Kyndred doesn’t mean others don’t.

Genaro, the owner of GenHance, a multi-billion-dollar biotech company that is a front for its master’s development of the same agent that turned innocent children into Kyndred, has identified Jessa as his latest target. He plans to grab, dissect, and dispose of her to further his research. Of course, like any good master villain, he sends his underlings to do his dirty work.

Then there’s Gaven Matthias, who is intent on stopping Genaro from getting anywhere near Jessa – by kidnapping her first. He’s cagey, mysterious, and definitely hot, but has a mission to identify and save as many Kyndred as possible – especially since it appears he was the first (just one of many question marks left open by the end of the book).

Like Viehl’s previous books, the plot here is intricate and induces page turning – an attribute I greatly admire in her work. Unfortunately, for a first book in a new series, it is almost too complex, with a whole cast of characters being introduced and jumps in time that leave you wondering what the heck is going on at times.

It also gets off to a slow start as the foundation of back-story (which you won’t understand until later on in the book) is laid. I also noted that there was not as much of a pull between her male and female lead throughout the story as I would expect from her characters. Sure, there is some attraction going on throughout the story, and, of course, they inevitably get together, but I wasn’t really feeling like it was natural or climactic when it finally happens.

That said, I think Viehl introduced a very interesting mix of personalities, motivations, and powers in her new characters. She also brings in old favorite characters from the Darkyn series. For example, Sam and Lucan (heroine and hero of Dark Need) provide an interesting subplot and create a link between the Kyndred (which Sam was, but doesn’t even know about now) and Darkyn. I think Viehl holds a special place in her heart for these two characters, since it’s the third story she’s written where they play a significant role.

Viehl also takes us down a historical path that pre-dates the Darkyn, which according to her lore manifested shortly after the Crusades. Shadowlight goes back to ancient Rome and hints that there is much, much more to learn about the Darkyn/Kyndred phenomenon than even the most engrossed reader could imagine.

I also like the more modern and less “curse” focused storylines that are at play here. The Darkyn series blended modern attitudes from the “new” characters with the old beliefs of medieval men and women. Shadowlight heralds in a new age of history, logic, and science.

I hate to say it, but I’d give Shadowlight between a C and C+, with the caveat that any fan of the Darkyn series should read it in order to continue their obsession with Viehl’s universe. Those new to her work may find themselves confused, to which I urge them to go read all of the Darkyn books and then give Shadowlight another chance.

I have no doubt that all will be revealed in time and that the second installment in this series will be less extreme in its complexity. I believe that like any good writer, she’ll learn from what works and what doesn’t in her work and use those lessons in future work.