First Day of Spring: Imbolc, Publishing and a Cover Reveal Coming

Blessed Imbolc!

Today marks on the modern Catholic calendar, St. Brigid's Day, the patroness of Ireland. While the modern calendar says winter and in some places snow is on the ground, on the old calendar it is an approximate date for Imbolc, the first day of Spring. It translates from Old Irish as "in the belly" and is said marked the pregnancy of the ewes. It is one of the fire festivals, or major festivals, on the Druid calendar. With Beltane, it is one of the two that are goddess-centered days.  There are several traditional ways to mark Imbolc/St Brigid's Day. Many of these carry whispers of pre-christian traditions.

This is a symbolic time for me. In November, just after Samhain (the Celtic New Year) I launched Three Worlds Press as a full-fledged publishing company. The early months have been exciting. As with the Spring, we are poised for the new, explosive growth of Spring. Everything smells new, green and earthy. Who cares if snow is in the forecast for today.

Pay attention...this is a double blog day as a cover reveal from Three Worlds Press follows shortly!

I want to share just a few links with you to explore and celebrate.

From the Irish Central website: http://www.irishcentral.com/roots/St-Brigids-Day-February-1-marks-start-of-Celtic-Spring-138470479.html

Wikipedia gives an acceptable overview here:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imbolc

Imbolc is the date of the second event on my upcoming novel Dark Dealings. While Micaela does not realized it, the event marks the beginning of a new cycle of her life and the birth of her "true" self in a dangerous world of magic, vampires and shapeshifters .

Review: Once A Goddess by Sheila R Lamb Human meets Myth

Let me start by saying something.  The plot and characters of Sheila Lamb’s Once A Goddess are near and dear to my Irish heart.  My own novel, Dark Dealings, because of it s Druid themes contains many parallel references.  But NEVER think that Once a Goddess is a novel of one culture and one time. It is a story of love and loss, loyalty and independence and those who fight for what they know to be real.

This is a remarkable work of world-building and character development. In  Ms. Lamb’s novel, names from Irish lore are given flesh, human desires and vices while remaining magical creatures from a long distant past. Names like Brigid, Morrigan, Ogma, Dagda, Lugh and the Fomorians.  The main female protagonist is Brigid, a complex and layered woman, torn between her anam cara and her duty to her people.

For the sake of peace, Brigid of the supernatural Túatha dé Danann enters into an arranged marriage with Bres, the next chieftain of the enemy Fomorian tribe, whose iron weapons and brute strength challenge the Danann magic. The Danann instruct Brigid to spy for them, and to keep the source of their powers secret, dangerous tasks that complicate her goal of making the best of her forced union. 

Sacrificing her own hope for love, Brigid faces the Fomorians alone. She must confront her rival, Morrigan, who competes for Bres's affections, as she begins to suspect that he is breaking the truce through lies and political manipulation. When his tyranny threatens the very existence of the Danann, Brigid must risk her life to unseat Bres from power.

This is an amazing read. A must buy. I give it

    

Visit her website Pagans, Saints, and  Potatoes  to learn more about her and her work.   

Once a Goddess is available in eBook and paperback at Amazon  and in paperback from Barnes & Noble

          

              

Last Bite at the Apple: Chapter 3 Dark Dealings

Dark Dealings, my debut novel, releases officially as an eBook on May23rd.  Today, I give you one last sample chapter to whet your appetite...or your thirst.

Watch here for upcoming details of the launch contest and blog tour!


Links to Chapters 1 and 2 can be found to your right >>>>>>> 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Chapter 3

           

Micaela stared into chocolate brown eyes. Not Reece, Adam. She shook out the cobwebs of the vision. Her fingers were cramped and curled. She had let go of Adam’s hands and wrapped her own hands first around the invisible rifle and then around the orb. Her palms were warm.

“Micaela, are you okay? You were gone a while.” He massaged her palms and knuckles.

“How long?”

“Ten minutes, maybe more,” he said.

Ten precious minutes. Panic squeezed her chest. “Joshua’s Cave. He’s in Joshua’s Cave. He’s hurt bad.”

“That’s over a mile from the trail.”

From the shadow of the trees, Chief Deerfield, Adam and Reece’s grandfather, emerged and spoke to Adam. “Listen to her, Red Hawk. You know what she saw.”

Micaela let out a soft gasp. “Adam, how much did you see?”

“We’ll talk later, Micaela.” Adam called to the men. “We know where he is. Grab the two-ways and the rifles.”

They raced in the direction of Joshua’s Cave. No questions.

Her head throbbed and her stomach churned. Years before, after the doctors had eliminated a possible brain tumor, they told her the auras, the headaches, the nausea were the result of migraines, but she knew better. Micaela crawled off the step, threw up into Una’s azaleas, and then passed out. When she opened her eyes, Chief Deerfield and Peggy stood over her. Tears ran down Peggy’s face.

“They radioed. They found him, Micaela, just where you said. They’re bringing him down now.”

Chief Deerfield helped Micaela stand up. Her head still pounded and her legs were rubber. He handed her a piece of willow bark. “You remember what to do with this, White Crow.”

When they were seven, Reece had begged his grandfather to make Micaela a member of the tribe and give her a Pokanoket name. Her parents and Una had been at the ceremony.

“Is Reece all right?” She chewed on the bark. The pain started to recede.

“He will be. We will take him to the enclave and help him through this time.”

Micaela’s first inclination was to insist Reece be airlifted to New York; she had a friend who would arrange a police escort. Micaela would call in favors from anyone necessary to ensure Reece’s survival. But she had grown up with the Nation and knew better, they had their own resources.

She watched as the enclave’s EMS vehicle pulled closer. Paramedics in scrubs climbed out accompanied by the aged shaman of the Pokanoket. “If you need anything, Chief Deerfield, Peggy, please tell me.”

Peggy’s eyes were locked on the path to the mountain. She didn’t answer. But knowing now how much Reece loved Peggy and how she returned that love, Micaela didn’t mind.

Chief Deerfield took her hand and walked with her and Peggy to the edge of the forest to wait. “I know what this has cost you, White Crow. We thank you for what you have done for Reece and Peggy… and for Adam.”

“I didn’t want Adam to blame himself, I know how that works.”

“Adam has a destiny and you have helped him on his path.”

Could she get off this path? For now, she would wait in the darkness with the others for Reece to come home.

  

The search team crashed back through the underbrush with a makeshift stretcher holding Reece. Paramedics met them; one grabbed Reece’s arm and, barely breaking stride, started an IV line. They eased Reece onto a gurney and slid an oxygen mask slid over his nose and mouth. The shaman stepped up with Adam as Peggy stood on the other side of Reece and brushed his hair back from his face. When she took her hands away they were smeared with his blood. The shaman began a chant. Micaela stood silent as Adam mirrored the shaman’s motions and words. When they had finished, Peggy bent over and lifted Reece’s oxygen mask so he could speak. She whispered back and laid a kiss on his cheek, then called Micaela over to his side. Reece’s face was gray; his brown eyes had a scary milky film.

“Hey Reece, long time, no see.” Micaela felt the tears pool in the corners of her eyes.

“You were there.” He attempted a smile.

“You’ll be all right. It will be just like before.”

“I’m going to be a Dad. I owe you, if you hadn’t told me….” His eyelids sagged and then shut.

Micaela eyes rose to meet Adam’s. “Is he okay?”

“We gave him something so he could sleep and heal.”

“Any idea what attacked him?”

Anger flared in Adam’s eyes. “Yes, the warriors will deal with it.” He took Micaela’s hands; a tear trailed down his cheek. “Thanks for telling him about the baby. It probably saved his life.”

“When I came out of the vision, you knew, too.”

Adam looked to the old shaman before he answered. “I told you I understand more than you realize.”

Peggy and Adam climbed in the back of the ambulance while a stone-faced warrior escorted the shaman to a waiting Jeep. Micaela watched the motorcade pull away, and then went inside.

 She woke the next morning on the sofa; a quilt covered everything except her cold bare feet. Her grandmother must have taken her stockings off. Micaela swung her feet to the floor, ready to head upstairs for a shower. Her headache was gone, but her body ached with exhaustion. She rested her elbows on her knees and weighed the merits of standing. Brown, dried pine needles protruded from between her toes. Maybe someone had used the quilt for a picnic. She carried it out on the porch and shook it over the railing. No needles. She pressed it to her face. The quilt smelled of detergent and fabric softener.

Una fussed over her the rest of the weekend. She cooked Micaela’s favorite breakfast of Secret Recipe pancakes. They went to Lafferty’s on Saturday night for Shepherd’s Pie. Una insisted on a private booth and Lafferty made sure they weren’t disturbed. Micaela noticed the furtive glances and whispers but no one came near; a blessed change from years ago. Afterwards, they drank tea with a side of Paddy’s Irish by the hearth.

Adam called Sunday morning to tell them that Reece was hanging in. It would be a long road but they were optimistic. After lunch, Micaela sat on the front porch draped in a crocheted throw while Una sat beside her sipping tea. It had rained through the night and into the late morning. Tears of water dripped from the leaves that remained on half-stripped branches. Soon the ground would be covered in frost and then snow. And so began Samhain, the Druid winter when life retreated beneath the earth and darkness ruled.

“I should get on the road. I promised Parker we would meet for a late dinner.”

“You tell your young man I expect to see him for Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t want to hear either of you are too busy.” Una shifted in her Adirondack chair to face Micaela.

“He won’t be able to make it. He’s leaving in the morning for a new office complex project in Vancouver. It’s a great opportunity. He should make partner when he’s done.”

“How long will he be gone?” The furrows between Una’s brows deepened.

“It’s supposed to take several years. He’ll be back every couple of months.” The next part was going to be hard; she knew how much Una liked Parker. “We’ve agreed to take a step back in our relationship. Just friends and all.”

“The wheel turns.” Una nodded. “Are you all right with this arrangement, dear?”

“Parker is great guy, he’s smart, sweet. We’re good together. I suppose it should be enough.” Micaela twirled a multi-hued yarn tassel on the throw between her fingers. “Not everyone can have what Mom and Da had. Can they?”

“Your mother asked me the same question not long before she met your father. Will you be here for Thanksgiving?”

“I’ll do my best, but I was just assigned to a new financing deal, my first international assignment. I don’t know what my schedule will be yet.”

“You tell Brian Moran that Una Rourke wants her granddaughter here. He won’t argue.”

“It’s not entirely up to him. One of our major clients asked for me specifically and I don’t think they celebrate Thanksgiving in Ireland.”

“Ireland. Who would the client be?”

“Knowth Corporation. Judy will have a briefing file waiting for me tomorrow morning. I understand they’re headquartered north of Dublin.”

“Knowth Corporation. Interesting.”

“You’ve heard of them?”Micaela asked.

“They’ve been around for a long time. Would it be Byrne Connor, you’re dealing with?”

“Actually, my day-to-day contact will be a Liam Farrell. We are supposed to speak by video conference on Tuesday morning.”

“Of course.” Una nodded. “The Farrells have always worked for Knowth.”

Micaela knew her grandmother kept tabs on things back home. She didn’t realize it included major players in the financial community, especially ones who were as reclusive as Byrne Connor. “Is there anything else you can tell me, Una?”

“Nothing right now. Give my regards to Liam and Byrne.”

Available at Amazon for the Kindles, Barnes & Noble for the Nooks and soon at Smashqwords for most other eReaders (included iReaders)

A St. Patrick's Day Crisis

Ireland, The Emerald Isle, Saint Patrick and the Druids. This is the time of year when everyone pretends to be Irish---they can only dream.
I am 100% on both sides, with family from the east to west (Dublin to Galway), a Sinn Fein great-uncle who was brother to a member of the British Army, who went AWOL in Pretoria (apparently a great way to get out of impoverished Ireland in the early 20th century)

I great-grandfather who came to America in 1842 perhaps from Longford, may have served in the Army of the Potomac in one of the Brooklyn Irish Brigades and, at the age of 72, sired my grandfather.

Let's not even begin the discussion about corned beef not being Irish...and green bagel?!?

All right..go for it. The Irish love to mix it up.

The burning question is do you take your Irish soda bread with or without caraway seeds?

What are the true traditions?

I know I have Irish followers, and those that wish they were, from all over the globe and we are never shy about voicing our opinions on any topic.

So Caraway or No?

What's right or wrong with the day?

Grandma and Doing What You Have to Do

                I’ve mentioned my grandmother here once or twice.  She came to this country from Ireland in 1928, just in time for the Great Depression. In Athlone and Galway, she was a certified teacher. When she came here, she was told she couldn’t teach in America. This was the age when companies still had signs up that said Irish need not apply. She was told that she talked funny (and this in New Jersey), or that she was only going to get married and pregnant so why bother taking her on. So, as she told me, she did what she had to do.  That involved scrubbing floors and other “menial” tasks. She did marry and had four sons (a small family by standards then). Unfortunately, she married the stereotypical Irishman for that day, he was an alcoholic who liked to drink away his check.

                But she always did what she had to do to survive and hopefully thrive. 

                I wonder if we haven’t lost the ability to do what we have to do. We have become a people of doing what we want when we want. Is this some of the appeal of social media? I am just as guilty of getting sucked into the instant gratification and neglected my writing. 

                But sometimes circumstances remind us to do what we have to do no matter how uncomfortable.

                I recently resigned from the bank where I had worked for the last six years. I had started when it was called something else. It was a good place to work by and large. We put the customer first and believed that doing the right thing would drive results and profitability.  We treated employees like assets not expenses.  The place I use to work is in the terminal stages of a merger with another large bank creating a national behemoth. It was a process three years in the making.

                Those who know me know that I am not adverse to change. When the changes started coming, there was concern over the direction we were headed. But I counseled patience. Things would get better when the dust settled.  As time passed and changes continued, I counseled patience saying things had to get better.  After years of dealing with people who made a mockery of management and a farce of the term leadership, it had taken a toll on my physical and mental health and my family. So after trying patience and weighing the pros, cons and consequences, and without any immediate prospects I severed my relationship with that bank.

                This was not an easy decision to make as it puts a strain on personal finances in the near term. But in the long run, it has given me control back of my future, allowed me to begin healing my psyche from the almost daily trials. It has given me hope.

                And my muse is back. I had been too exhausted to hear her.  While I search for my next source of immediate cash, doors open for me. I am speaking at a Women in Business breakfast next month. I am putting a long term business plan together for my writing ventures and meeting some wonderful writers and entrepreneurs along the way. I am finding self-discipline and I am rediscovering my passions.  Which is a good thing, as I intend to try my hand at erotica for NaNoWriMo. But more on that in a later post.

                And in many ways I have my grandmother to thank for this.

                Have you made big changes in your life? Share your story with us.

Hurricanes and Writing in the Dark

                So Irene blew through the Northeast this past weekend leaving destruction in varying degrees in her wake.  We were fortunate and suffered very little property damage.  My thoughts and prayers go out to those less fortunate.  We did lose power for approximately thirty-six hours but we were prepared with a generator to hook up the refrigerator, one television to entertain others and an oxygen concentrator for my father.  My father normally lives on his own in a 55-and-up community about two miles from our house.  He has emphysema (50 years of smoking will do that to you) and requires oxygen supplementation. Prior to Irene’s arrival, we picked him up and brought him to our house in anticipation of the power outage. His development is still without power.

                On top of that, my daughter is preparing to move to the New York apartment that was the result of the hunt covered in a previous blog. There are boxes, furniture and goddess only knows what piled everywhere.

                Did I mention my father is hard of hearing and likes to turn up the volume so that the neighbors can listen along?

                Don’t get me wrong, I love my family and am grateful for the minimal impact Irene has had on us. But hurricanes, fathers and moving daughters can throw a routine into chaos.

                On the full night of the black-out, I sought out the solitude of my writing cave in the spare room we have on the second floor.  It was dark and there was no electricity so I lit three candles and surrounded my paper with them. For someone who writes about vampires and ancient Druids, it was the perfect ambience for working on the sequel to Dark Dealings.  The soft flicker of the candle flame was soothing and chased the stress into the shadows.

                The pieces are starting to fall into place for Book 2 (as yet untitled) and I have Christopher Vogler’s: The Writer’s Journey, Mythic Structure for Writers to thank. It is one of my touchstone works when I feel like my story arc is floundering. In his work, Vogler takes the Hero’s Journey, as well-described and analyzed by Joseph Campbell, and applies it to modern storytelling first in movies and then in the written word. It is not a formula approach to novel writing but a study of the common elements found in great and memorable stories since we first sat around the cave fire. It helps me focus on why my plot may feel dull and listless.

               

                Like my ancestors the bards of Ireland, I spent the night in a darkness broken only by the flickering tongues of flame. I thought about how to make my story better. I want a novel that will transport someone from their normal world, to take them on an adventure and give them a gift to bring back with them. And so I struggle and study and learn from other storytellers, from readers and from the flame.

                Come back this weekend to meet one of those storytellers, Steve Umstead, a fellow PubWriteGroup member. We learn from each other every day on our journey to be the best writers we can be.

                So the storm moves on and so do I until the next hurricane, earthquake or, dare I hope, flash of inspiration.  It is only the beginning of the season you know.

Welcome to Ogham Court: Threads and Theme

                So I was sitting having lunch at the day job, trying to send a message about my current WIP.  The title of the short story that started it was “The Shop on Ogham Court.”  Being from the East coast where we are always in a hurry, I started talking about it in shorthand as just “Ogham Court”.  That triggered a whole word association/stream of consciousness thing.  I thought about Ogham as history, hidden language, cryptic, multiple meanings and foreign.  Court became a string of justice, judging, rules and laws.  Suddenly my WIP began to take on a theme and subtheme.  Parts that I had written took on a new direction.  I think I have found the deeper meaning I need to get the momentum going.

                I had already poked and prodded Nora, the main character, about her past and present circumstances.  She told me a lot about growing up with a moderately successful father and stay-at-home mother.  Living in an affluent town in North Jersey and summering at their beachfront house on Long Beach Island.  She described as moderate, although we would consider it rich.  That’s because her father, she never calls him “Dad” went from moderate success to blockbuster and moved his movie production career and himself to the West Coast and a whole new life.   Mom moved back to the Miami area, where she grew up, and is now a hostess at a South Beach restaurant.

                Nora was “displaced” from her first job out of college and went to help out her elderly Aunt Aine.  Aine owns a little Irish Shop on a fictional street in Tribeca (Ogham Court).  The front of the shop if filled with standard stuff: sweaters, china, crystal and linens.  But as you venture deeper into the store, you find music instruments then ancient statues and the like.  Another part at the rear contains herbs, oils and other medicinals.  All the way in the rear of the shop are rooms, one of which is usually locked.  Aine calls it her tea room.  She goes in there with certain regulars for tea and conversation.

                So Nora has been judged by her employer, she judges her parents.  She has entered Aine’s world  on Ogham Court where the rules and laws are strange and foreign.   It is about to get stranger.

                In the weeks and months to come, I will be sharing some of what develops on Ogham Court and my discoveries about Nora and what the future holds. Perhaps I should pour a cuppa and read her cards?

                Just a side note, Nora, Aine and Devlin (we'll talk about him later) make their first brief appearance in Dark Dealings, my upcoming urban fantasy novel.

April Fool's and the Amadán

            One of the theories on the origins of April Fool’s Day is related to the old calendar.  In the Middle Ages, even though the calendar was changed to mark the New Year as January 1, many still celebrated the more ancient practice of marking the New Year at approximately the Vernal Equinox.  In France and other locations it was a week-long celebration ending on April 1.  It is thought that these celebrants were referred to as April Fool’s by the more modern and self righteous new calendar adherents.

           

            One of my personal theories is that it was a resurrection of the Feast of Fools, celebrated on December 28 until the sixteenth century.  Many are familiar with the Feast of Fools from the scene in the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  It was a festival that turned the hierarchy upside especially the clergy.  It was by all accounts celebrated with ridiculous ceremonies and mock consecrations and general buffoonery.  It in turn was a replacement for the Roman Saturnalia.  The growth of April Fool’s seems to have begun after the Catholic and Protestant Churches succeeded in eliminating the antics of the Feast of Fools.  As you may begin to see, the word fool had different implications in those days than it does now. Think court jester or The Fool of the Tarot.  Neither form of the fool is foolish, but is viewed as a vagabond or a trickster. Sound familiar???

            Near to my heart is “the fool” in Ireland.  If you are familiar with Gaelic you are not surprised that there are two words for fool.  The Irish word for a female fool is an óinseach.  Interestingly enough there is no popular folklore around this.

            The Amadán is the male fool.  In Irish myth there are two forms.  The Amadán na bruidhne, is considered malevolent, the fool of the fairy mounds and palaces.  This fool is thought to be responsible for the fairy stroke and more active in June.  He causes sudden and mysterious death.  The Amadán Mór is viewed as benevolent. He is part of Irish folklore, including the Eachtra an Amadáin Mhóir, which is considered part of the Fenian Cycle.   Visit this link for a translation of the story. http://www.answers.com/topic/eachtra-an-amad-in-mh-ir  It is often compared to Perceval of the Arthurian cycle.  . In the Eachtra. the Amadan, the son of a murdered king, flees to the forest with his mother.  There he grows large and hairy during the night.  At one point he loses his shins and after a quest and some trials.  When he meets achampion who challenges him for his wife, our hero declares he will defend her with only his fists.  The champion calls him a Big Fool. He wins the battle and has his legs restored by the magic of the Druid. 

            So when someone asks me how I can merge Druids, vampires and shapeshifters in my novel, Dark Dealings I think of stories like this and quote Una Rourke, my main character’s grandmother and Druid priestess, “We who have touched the Otherworld know differently.”  All things are possible.

            There are other practices around the Amadán.  Feel free to share them here.  Has anyone heard of blessing the entries with salt, ash and holy water to keep the Amadán out?

Greetings from the Grove

A short wish on the glorious morning!




Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh!

St. Patrick and the Druids

As this is the Storytellers Grove and I am the chief bard, I have reposted here one of the better sites I have found about Saint Patrick. I found it one of the more informative on his mission, myth and relations with the Druids.

St Patrickl

from

http://www.sacredfire.net/celtchrist.html

St. Patrick (AD 385-462) was captured and enslaved in Ireland as a youth, escaped, and finally returned as an adult to spread Christianity as a Catholic missionary. He was not Irish by birth, but was believed by some accounts to be either the son of a Roman Officer, or a British Celt. In his confession, one of the few documents known to be written by Patrick, he describes his father as"Calpornius, a deacon, son of Potitus, a priest, of the village Bannavem Taburniæ"  

In legend, Patrick is given credit for driving the snakes out of Ireland. In reality, the 'snakes' may well refer to the Druids, who were discredited and finally driven underground with the coming of Christianity. Patrick is credited with establishing Christianity in Ireland, and in the following centuries it either ousted or assimilated the old, pagan beliefs. Pagan festivals and holidays were adapted into Christian holy days, and many of the local god and goddess stories converted into tales of Irish saints. The most famous example is the Celtic goddess Brigit, or Bride, who is now known in the Christian Church as St. Brigit, Ireland's premier female saint. St. Patrick's birth name was Gaewyn and the estimated date of his birth was 390 A.D. in Roman Britain. At age 16 the man who would later be known as the patron saint of Ireland was kidnapped by Irish raiders and sold into slavery. He escaped slavery six years later and fled to the European mainland where he received his religious training at Catholic monastaries. He took the name Patrick upon joining the priesthood and eventually attained the rank of Bishop. It was then that Patrick set out to do missionary work in Ireland. In around 432 A.D., he arrived in Ireland and began to compete with the priests of the pagan faith for followers. St. Patrick's struggle with the pagan order of the time began during the Celtic springtime fire festival known as Beltane. The ritual commenced with the ceremonial lighting of the High King's fire, from which all the other fires in the land would be lit. According to legend, St. Patrick lit an Easter fire on a nearby hill. The High King sent nine chariots to vanquish Patrick and put out his fire. Circling counter to the sun's path, the chariots attacked, but were unable to prevail against the holy fire. Still, Patrick's work was cut out for him. In his struggle to discredit the Druid elders and gain the confidence and later the souls of the Irish population, he was (in his own words) forced to "curse their fertile lands, so that they became dreary bogs; to curse their rivers, so that they produced no fish; to curse their very kettles, so that with no amount of fire and patience could they ever be made to boil; and as a last resort, to curse the Druids themselves, so that the earth opened and swallowed them up." St. Patrick began teaching Catholicism and the Holy Trinity to the Pagans by using a three leaf clover (a plant used in many of their rituals) to represent the father, the son and the holy spirit. His efforts were successful in converting the Gaelic population to Catholicism and making Ireland a fortress for the Catholic faith.

 

For more interesting information visit: http://mysite.verizon.net/cbladey/pat/patrick.html#Main

Reality, Forests and Vampire Facelifts

As the publishing and bookselling market evolves, it is human nature to speak and think in absolutes.  The sky is falling!  We can all become blockbuster authors.  Examples are given for both.  Recently the success of Amanda Hocking has received enormous attention.  I do not know her personally.  But she is reported to be the 26 year old phenom of the indie writer world.  But what has impressed me the most is her rational, measured and mature response to this. I have talked about the work outside the manuscript that is involved in going indie.  I cannot speak with Amanda’s authority as a writer, but I have been a business person, both corporate and self-employed, for more years than I will admit. I have written and reviewed business  plans and I know this.  My manuscript is my product and my business. I must decide what is the best approach for me (each author must make their own decision) in the now and the long run.  I need a business plan.

Writing is on the one hand creative and ephemeral, but it also requires discipline and knowledge of craft to produce a product that someone (many someones) will want to read.  I talk about putting on our writer hat or putting on our editor hat.  If I choose the indie route I must also put on several other hats: publishing, packaging, marketing, publicity. 

I am still undecided on the trad vs. Indie route. 

Whatever route I choose or you choose, read Amanda’s own words and go in with eyes wide open.

http://amandahocking.blogspot.com/  Some Things That Need To Be Said

On a subject dear to my heart, please sign the petition to save the forests of Ireland:

http://www.thepetitionsite.com/2/help-save-irelands-forests/

And just for fun, check out his idea before you get your headshot, esp the paranormal writers, like me.

http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-504763_162-20010412-10391704.html  Vampire Facelifts

Friday Fascinations: Family and Phantoms

Yesterday I talked about inspiration.  Today, I want to share some of my own experiences.

I few weeks ago awoke with a name in my head:  Marie Owens.  I didn’t know anyone by that name.  I asked my husband and others.  The name rang no bells.  So I went to Google and found that slightly over 6 months before, an amateur historian by the name of Rick Barrett had succeeded in having her recognized as the first female police officer in the Chicago and in the United States.  She joined the Chicago Police in the 1890’s (I live in New Jersey).  Her parent fled the Famine in Ireland and settled in Ottowa,Canada.  I don’t know why her name came to me.  She has become a phantom that follows me wanting to be heard.  If Rick Barrett reads this or any member of her family, I am not insane…just Irish.  I would love to connect.

I have also been followed by my great-grandfather, Michael Kenney.  He came to America in 1842 at a young (but indeterminate) age.  He may have been sent here as protection from the sins of his father. He also may have serve in a Brooklyn Irish Brigade in the Civil War.  He was in his late sixties or early seventies when he gave birth to my grandfather.  If anyone has information, contact me.

Somewhere in my psyche I know that these are stories I am suppose to tell.  Whether it is as non-fiction or Historical fiction or fiction based on their lives (but they and I will know that it’s about them).

So those are the people/characters that are haunting me now.  Who is invading your dreams? What are the stories you are supposed to tell?