Guest Post: Celebrating a New Release with D.M. Burton

Hello regular readers! I'm handing over my blog today to show you what a writing friend and colleague has been up to. D.M. Burton's latest is a middle grades science fiction adventure! Read on to learn more! -SB

_______________________________________

Her father is gone! Taken by the Queen of Compara’s agents. Mara has to rescue him before the Queen tortures and kills him.

Instead of the kind, loving father she’s always known, he’s become demanding, critical, with impossible expectations—not just as Father but also as the only teacher in their frontier outpost. Mara would rather scoop zircan poop than listen to another boring lecture about governments on Central Planets. Give her a starship engine to take apart or, better yet, fly, and she’s happy. Now, he’s gone.

Never mind, they’ve had a rocky road lately.

Never mind, Father promised she could go off planet to Tech Institute next month when she turns fifteen, where she’ll learn to fly starships.

Never mind, she ran away because she’s furious with him because he reneged on that promise. Father is her only parent. She has to save him.

Along with her best friend, eleven-year-old Jako, and his brother 15-year-old Lukus, Mara sets off to find her father. Her mentor, old spaceport mechanic, seems to know why the Queen captured Father. In fact, he seems to know her father well. But, does he tell her everything? Of course not. He dribbles out info like a mush-eating baby. Worse, he indicates he’ll be leaving them soon. And Lukus can’t wait to get off our planet. Mara’s afraid they will all leave, and she’ll be on her own. Despite her fears, Mara has to rescue her father.

_________________________________________

Excerpt: 

At spaceport, the sound of voices, two male and one female, make me stop. They’re coming from the back side of ‘port and speaking Coalition Standard. Strangers. Nobody in our village uses Standard. After school hours, Father teaches those who want to learn Standard—like Lukus and Wilanda. He makes me stay, too, so whether I want to or not I’ve learned the language of the Central Planets.

The speakers pass within a meter of where I’m making like a statue. They’re so busy talking in low tones about the target and their mission they don’t even look my way. As they head toward the village center, I slip around to the back of the ‘port building. I gasp at what’s parked there. A sleek Gilean Cruiser. What a fine ship. Jako would go ballistic if he knew. I’d seen one before, just once when Magistrate from the Consortium of Mines came after the riot. Basco let me work on it.

Okay, not really. I got to hold his tools as he repaired a small leak in the hydraulics. Father thinks I don’t want to improve my mind. I sure do. I want to learn to all about starships like this. And fly them, too.

I linger for a moment, wanting to reach out and touch the shiny skin of one of the fastest ships in the galaxy. Only the thought that they might have left a guard on board prevents me. Reluctantly, I make for the hills and the safety of the scrub trees. They offer some concealment, especially now that the clouds are breaking up. Looks like no rain tonight. First Moon is setting behind the mountains. Soon, larger Second Moon will rise in the south. When it does, it will flood the farmland and illuminate the foothills.

Heavy footsteps come from the southeast. I crouch under the thickest scrub tree in the copse and hear grumbling. The Dunpus brothers. If they catch me out alone, I’m done for.

“. . . gonna get that Teacher’s kid, teach her a lesson.”

“Yeah, and the little brat, too.”

“It’ll take too long for that little brilium rat to come out of the mine tunnels. The girl is easier. We’ll wait outside her house, and when Teacher leaves . . .” The oldest one’s voice trails off as they stomp away.

I’m clutching the tree so hard I have splinters. Jako and I’d better make sure we see them coming or we’re going to be in deep planetary poop.

After I climb toward a mine that was played out years ago, I crouch behind a rock near the entrance. I don’t want to run into any packs—especially not the two-legged variety, like the Dunpus brothers. Gangs usually roam the village late at night, searching for anything people haven’t locked up or just wreaking havoc. I’m lucky I haven’t run into them. Whoa. Maybe that was why Lukus pulled a knife.

Jako lives in one of the tunnels. He would be good company. With Lukus at the café, Jako will be alone. Finding him is my biggest problem. I could search the tunnels, call his name. But then I might run into a gang roaming the mine. Or, the Dunpus brothers could return.

When I took off from home, I didn’t think about the dangers. I guess I didn’t think, period. Running away is a stupid idea. Coming up here alone is even dumber. It’s one thing to come with Father or to explore with Jako during the day. Everything looks different at night.

I square my shoulders. I can’t depend on anyone except myself now. Father forbid me to go to Pamyria, to the Tech Institute. I’m going anyway. I just have to figure out how.

_______________________________________

About the Author:

The first time D.M. Burton saw Star Wars IV: A New Hope, she was hooked on science fiction and space travel. The Star Trek movies made her want to travel to other planets. Alas, she is still Earth-bound. D.M. and her husband live in Michigan, close to their two children and five grandchildren.

Join D.M. Burton's readers’ group on Facebook.

For more info and excerpts, visit D.M.’s website: http://www.dmburton.com

She writes adult fiction as Diane Burton, where she combines her love of mystery, adventure, science fiction and romance into writing romantic fiction. Besides writing science fiction romance, she writes romantic suspense, and cozy mysteries.

For more info and excerpts from her books, visit Diane’s website: http://www.dianeburton.com

Connect with Diane Burton online.

Blog:  http://dianeburton.blogspot.com/

Twitter:  http://twitter.com/dmburton72

Facebook:  http://facebook.com/dianeburtonauthor

Goodreads: Diane Burton Author

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/dmburton72/

Sign up for Diane’s new release alert: http://eepurl.com/bdHtYf

GIVEAWAY

A $10 AMAZON e-GIFT CARD

Many chances to win.

a Rafflecopter giveaway OR: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/16cf1daf22/?

Guest Post: Jordan Elizabeth's New Release!

Hello regular readers! I'm handing over my blog today to Jordan Elizabeth to celebrate the release of her newest book with her. Please read on to see what she's been up to!

_______________________________________
CASTLE OF BLUE STONES
A New Young Adult Fantasy from Jordan Elizabeth

Volcanic ash has ruined the world and only remote outposts remain. At the castle in the mountains, covered by snow, everyone only sees shades of blue.

Except for Jaisy.

By day she explores farther down the mountain. By night, she’s plagued with dreams of a panther and ghosts calling her name.

When Jaisy’s job sends her into the dungeon, she discovers a hidden room filled with dangerous information. There are secrets within the damp, stone walls that those in control don’t want anyone to know.

The leaders will kill to protect those secrets – even executing one of their own.

Jaisy will not go quietly into the blue night, no matter how hard the leaders attempt to silence her.


Get your book today from Amazon for 99 cents! getbook.at/CastleofBlueStones

Chapter 1

They tell me the world shouldn’t be blue, but that’s all I see. Everything has a twinge of blue, from the mist that sometimes rises in the morning to the snow that never wants to leave. The Guardians tell me the snow should be white, that which stretches everywhere across the mountains. I know what it looks like, white, when I close my eyes, a stark absence of color, but I shouldn’t, for all I remember is blue in all different shades.

The cold dampness bites at my toes. The extra two pairs of woolen socks, all I can fit into the old boots, aren’t working. I glance over my shoulder, up the hills to the castle of dark blue stone – they say it’s such a dark grey it looks black – where the windows haunt my dreams. That glass that reflects the sunlight screams at me to ignore the worn-out leather boots and the threat of frostbite on my cheeks, to keep trudging and never dare go back.

Except, I will. What lies beyond all the snow and rocks? They tell me nothing, that I should be thankful to have survived the volcano that killed ninety-percent of the population with ash, which brought about what they call an ice age. Out there, I will freeze and starve. Death will claim me.

I tug off one of my wool mittens to study my fingers, still pliable enough that frostbite hasn’t begun. I’ve gone what might be an extra half-mile from my last trek. I mark each time I stop to go back by painting on a rock. I choose a rock tall enough to protrude from the snow.

My breath puffs in front of my lips. I’ve gone a mile, by my reckoning. I always push myself for that one extra mile. They’re used to it, back at the castle. My boss won’t expect me back until morning when we file for breakfast, and judging by the sun lowering in the sky, I have a few hours before twilight.

I pull my glove back on and continue. The snow drifted, so in most places, it reaches my shins, but sometimes it comes up to my knees, or my waist, but never deeper. I’ve laced the ankle boots as tight as they go, with extra woolen legwarmers, to keep the snow from falling inside.

Someday, I will find what calls to me. Whatever it is, it is mine. It wants me there.

The wind tears through the leather coat. I’ll need to sew extra material into the lining. The dress underneath is thick, with a collar that buttons to my chin. I won’t freeze. The ice would be the winner then, not I.

“Jaisy…”

I stiffen. No one would follow me. They don’t go outside except for the balconies, for fresh air when the sun is warm.

“Jaisy.”

The voices have begun again. “Who are you?” My own voice is higher-pitched, shrill, desperate. It bounces off the boulders rising jagged; it rattles through the mountains into the cloudless sky.

The voices only reach me when I leave the castle, when I am far enough away that it is only a speck of blue.

Flakes of snow spiral into the image of a young woman. Her hair is copper, with a tiara on her head, set with pearls. A sheer veil drapes around her bare shoulders. Her red dress is sleeveless, with a gold sash across the front.

She is not blue.

“Shayna…” It is her voice, deeper than mine, which answers my question. The flakes fall back to the ground, banishing her. She’s appeared before, always leaving without more than a few words. Last time, she swore she loved me.

I sit in the snow and adjust my hat. My heartbeat races, my palms itch as though a thousand spiders bit them.

A dream approaches. “Take me.”


#


A woman shoved my arms into the sleeves of an oversized brown coat and jerked at the fastenings. “You do not look back. You keep going.”

“Grandma, Lana isn’t here. They’re going to hurt her.” My voice wobbled and tears blurred my vision. I wiped the burn away on my sleeve as she fastened the final brass button. “Grandma.” She needed to listen – Lana had to be saved. “Our lives are linked. If she dies, I die.” It was more than that. Lana had become everything to me since I turned thirteen, two years ago.

“That’s not how it works. If you die, she dies, but if she dies, another will take her place.” My grandmother cried as I did, her blue eyes shining and the kohl around her lashes running. Her brown coat was as hideous as mine, shapeless, a peasant man’s; I had to be short, so mine dragged along the marble floor.

Antorge bolted into the library and slammed the door shut. “They’re here.”

“The spirits save us.” My grandmother drew a heart over her chest to call on their good graces. How could they help us when we were abandoning our pets to fight for us? Lana, my panther, should be at my side, not snarling at the palace gate.

Antorge pulled me into his arms to lay his lips against mine. “I love you, Jaisy.” Gone were his regal clothes; in their place, he wore a baggy, woolen tunic and black slacks tucked into boots. He could’ve been a servant rather than my betrothed.

My grandmother fiddled with the lever beneath the ship painting; the secret panel in the wall swung outward. “Come, hurry.”

My heart thudded against my chest and I tightened my fingers around his. “We’ll hide in the wall.”

“We’ll keep going.” My grandmother scowled as she vanished into the shadows of the passageway.

Antorge and I had played hide-and-seek in that dank area when we were children. Father had told us it’d been used for refugees in the wars one-hundred years ago. It would be used again for that.

As I stepped inside, Antorge pulled me back around to press his lips to mine. “I love you.” He nudged me inside, one hand on the panel.

“She said to hurry…” A roaring started in my ears. The candles around the library had grown too bright. “You’re not coming.”

Now he cried; so many tears amongst us. “I’ll lead them away. It’s you they want.”

“They want all of us.” Grandmother grabbed my sleeve from the darkness, jerking me back. The panel closed, sealing a wall between Antoge and me.

“He’ll be fine,” Grandmother whispered. “He’ll find us if we don’t find him.”

The tunnel led us up and down. The tears refused to stop and a sob choked my throat. Our ancestors had done this before, they would pity us. My brunette bangs fell over my eyes, long curls catching on my lips. In the dark, my hair could have been sable.

The passage opened beneath the bridge in the city. Snow fell in thick flakes from the sky. It had never snowed so much; it had begun when the evil ones first entered the country.

“The temple will protect us,” my grandmother said. She believed so heartedly in the ancestors. We needed Lana and the other soul pets, not long-dead ghosts.

The ice in the pond cracks and a hand jutted out, skinny enough to accentuate every bone. Yellow fingernails, an inch long, curled around the fingertips.

“What is that?” I screamed.

I would waken in Antorge’s bed with sunlight painting us in colors from the stained-glass window. We would giggle, he’d kiss me, and I’d tiptoe back to my bedroom, biting my knuckles to stifle my laughter.

This couldn’t be real. A nightmare terrifying enough to send a child scurrying to its parent.

The hand seized the dragging coat. I reached for my grandmother, catching sight of her green eyes and silver hair, before frigid water closed over me.


#


I open my eyes to realize I’ve fallen backwards. It has begun to snow, flakes settling over me. When I blink, I feel frozen tears.

I’ve had that dream before, and each time the loss of the young man stabs me so hard I want to scream.

“Grandmother?” No answer besides the wind.

I walk to the nearest rock and pull the paint stick from my pocket. They say the paint is red, but it appears murky blue. I color in a square as large as my head and tuck the paint stick away, buttoning the pocket. If I head back to the castle, I’ll stop crying. The grandmother and Antorge will fade away, back into the daydream, and everyday activities will take over. I won’t be lost to my own mind.

Antorge and my grandmother will never be real. I’ve made them up, even though the dreams have color and I can feel them touch me.

They tell me I never had a grandmother, so she can’t be factual.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” the Guardians say. The volcano killed my family when I was two years old. I’ve lived at the castle ever since.

About the Author

Jordan Elizabeth writes down her nightmares in order to live her dreams. When she's not creating art or searching for lost history in the woods, she's updating her blog. Jordan roams Central New York, but she loves to travel.

Guest Post: Harding McFadden: Can We Chat for a While?

-->

NOTE: To my regular readers, today I am pleased to bring you a guest post from Harding McFadden. I hope you enjoy his piece about his writer's journey! -SB

Can We Chat for a While?

by Harding McFadden

            I wrote my first “book” when I was about eight years old: a twelve-page beast of a thing with knights, evil kings, elves, robots, and a large red self-destruct button inspired by some old Iron Maiden album cover and watching the first Terminator at too young an age.  I was so proud of the thing.  I even begged my oldest sister to take it to school with her to type it up and print it out, so that I could proudly give copies over to everyone I knew, which amounted to family too polite to turn me down.  I look back on it now and cringe.  It’s terrible. 

            By the time I was seventeen I was submitting short stories to magazines.  This synced up perfectly with the worst bout of insomnia that I’ve ever had to deal with.  One, maybe two, hours of sleep a night, for weeks on end with one terrible weekend-long crash.  At the end of one of these, with the crash in sight and the room spinning, I decided to sit down in front of my typewriter and kick out a little story.  At two or three in the morning, as my folks later informed me.  The end result was a short story (less than a thousand pages) that I titled “Mr. Peabody and the Headless Boy,” which, I will test until the day I die, is the single best thing I’ve ever written. 

            Very proud of this little gem, I submitted it.  Much to my chagrin, no one was interested.  Fantasy and Science Fiction?  Nope.  Analog? Nada.  Weird Tales?  My personal favorite: “Bleak, incoherent, and hard to follow.”  I still have that rejection letter in a box in my attic. 

            Long story short: it hasn’t seen the light of day, unless you happen to be a good friend, or relative.  Until later this year, but more on that later.

            Like so many folks, I guess, I’ve dreamed of writing a novel since first putting pen to paper.  There’ve been plenty of false starts.  A crime novel that let me know inside of the first chapter just how little I know about law enforcement.  A horror western that I wrote a detailed outline for, along with the first two-fifths of, amounting to about 120 pages, and which I fully intend to finish one day.  But the novel, as a form of artistic expression, has forever eluded me.

            I think it was Koontz who said that agents dislike working with short story writers, as they see them as amateurs, unable to give them the 100,000 words that they are looking for.  So, that’s me: the perpetual amateur, with delusions of grandeur.  However, I will always defend those delusions, as what in the name of God are the good of delusions of mediocrity? 

            So, two hundred short stories, twelve sales, later, I am looking at the author’s proof of my second book.  How did I get here?

            About ten years back I decided to attempt an intellectual exercise: to outline a long story, with a defined beginning, middle, and end.  A science fiction epic for readers of all ages, full of action, adventure, heroes, villains, and concepts on a grand scale.  Much to my shock I spent the following decade doing just that: outlining.  The result?  A long story, told over many smaller volumes and related short stories, that in my head is called The Last War.

            When my friend Chester Haas—cowriter on the first volume of this long story—finished up our little book, we were proud of the finished product.  When those beta readers that we dropped it on went through the roof for it, our pride grew by leaps and bounds.  When I read it to my two awe inspiring daughters and they told me they liked it, I was through the roof.  But, as the old saying goes: pride goeth before the fall.

            No agent wanted to touch the thing.  “Too short,” and “too offensive” were phrases that were thrown our way.  I still don’t understand this last, but then again it takes a lot to offend me. 

            In my youth I was prone to depression and anxiety, at least in small bursts.  These feelings reared their ugly heads once again when it started to look like our work would amount to nothing, with family and close friends being the only folks to read something that I’d had a hand in writing, yet again.

            Enter Sarah A. Hoyt.

            A well-established and talented writer in her own right, Mrs. Hoyt did me the honor a few months back of accepting my friend request on Facebook (let this be a lesson to you folks out there: yes, writers are just people, but some are fine examples of humanity, and Mrs. Hoyt is one such).  Full disclosure: upon friending her, I’d yet to read one of her many works of fiction, having only been exposed to her articles in places like L. Neil Smith’s The Libertarian Enterprise.  Yet, those articles were so incredible that I found, and still find, myself sneaking them out with each and every new issue published.  So she’s a good writer, but here’s what’s made me a fan for life: when I sent her a message, she answered.

            I asked her, very selfishly I admit, if she had any advice for someone trying to get started, and in no time flat she got back to me offering many sage words of advice, arguably the most important of which were: “Go indie, young writer, go indie.”

            Such a simple thing, words given by a stranger that meant more than those given by most folks that I’ve known in the flesh much longer, and they changed the way I was looking at this.  Sure, it would be nice to be walking through a brick and mortar book store and see something that I’ve written up on the shelves, but that’s just ago.  The fine folks at my local library have taken pity on my need to feed the green-eyes monster and have everything that I’ve every had published up on their shelves, listed, not by editor, but by my name, so that I can drive down the M-rack whenever I want and bask in those few slim volumes whenever I’m feeling down.  So, brick and mortar be damned.

            And so, last November my first book, The Children’s War, was published on Amazon Kindle, with an absolutely incredible cover by Mrs. Katherine Derstein. 

            When I first held it in my ready little hands, I could have cried.  As has been pointed out to me endlessly: yes, it was self-published.  I am no less proud.  Couldn’t care less.  It’s out there, for the reading public to enjoy or hate to their heart’s content, as I’d always imagined it being. 

            One down.

            Coming up in late-February or mid-March will be the second book, The Great First Impressions Trip, again with an incredible cover, this one put together by the great Dr. Victor Koman, out of the kindness of his heart, and another great writer who happens also to be  a good fella.  Coming soon (another three or four months) will be The Judas Hymn, a collection of my published short stories, along with a dozen others (including the previously mentioned “Mr. Peabody and the Headless Boy”) featuring a downright off-putting cover by Xander Van Hawley.        After that?  Lord, lots more.

            You see, I’ve got a big story to tell, and it is my sincere wish to tell it well.   

            I guess it’s getting past time to wrap this up.  I’ve pimped the books to annoyance. I’ve thanked those folks that’ve helped me, when I in no way deserved their help (add to that list Samantha Bryant who, when I asked if I could write a guest blog for her said “Yes.”)  All that is left is to thank you, whoever took a few minutes out of your busy day to read these ramblings from a poor beggar, asking for your business.  I hope that you enjoyed our time together.

__________________________

Check out The Children's War here!

Guest Post: Kristen Brand: Superheroes as Metaphors

It's my pleasure to welcome Kristen Brand to my blog this week. Kristen writes superhero, too, and we've recently "met" on the internet. She's the author of Hero Status, a novel I'm 3/4 finished reading and that I'm really enjoying! If you enjoy my Menopausal Superhero books, I think you'd enjoy Kristen's work as well. 

Here's her guest post on Superheroes as Metaphors:

___________________________________________________________

You’re running late for a date with the girl of your dreams. You’ve got errands to run, a demanding boss who won’t stop contacting you on the weekends, and to top it all off, the Vulture just started attacking Downtown, so you’d better put on your costume and swing over to stop him.

We’ve all been there, right?

Well, maybe not that last part, but most of us can probably related to being pulled in five different directions by vying responsibilities.

At a glance, superheroes don’t seem all that relatable, what with their incredible powers, idealized/sexualized bodies, and often otherworldly origins. It can be hard to see ourselves in billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, who sneaks out of charity fundraisers to don a cape and cowl and beat up murderous clowns. But many of us can sympathize with having a loved one hurt by violence and feeling the burning need to do something about it.

And I doubt anyone reading this grew up on Themyscira (though if you did, could you tell me how to get there?), but we may recognize that feeling of leaving home for the first time, filled with wonder at the outside world, only to realize it’s filled with some terrible people and can be just awful sometimes. (But we have to carry on and try to make it better anyway).

The X-Men are a metaphor for prejudice and discrimination. Captain America is the perfect vehicle to explore the dichotomy of loving one’s country while fighting to fix its problems. Ms. Marvel is so popular in part because of how the title uses superheroes to address a number of social issues. As decades come and go and culture shifts, superheroes have stood for any number of things.

But boil them down to their most basic concept, and superheroes are about making the world a better place. There’s something appealing about that idea, that if you were bitten by a radioactive spider or secretly had alien DNA, you could use your powers to help people and truly make a difference in the world. Because face it—the world could really use some help, and it would be nice if all problems could be solved by flying really fast and punching a masked villain in the face.

Every year, there are articles saying superheroes are on their way out, that the market is oversaturated and there are no new stories to tell. I’m sure that will be true someday. Nothing lasts forever, after all. But as long as the genre keeps addressing meaningful themes in a way that resonates with its audience, I think it’s here to stay. Superheroes are about a lot more than epic, city-destroying fights with villains.

Don’t get rid of the fight scenes, though. That’s the fun part. 

_________________________________________

About the Author

Kristen Brand is a comic book fan and all-around geek. She writes novels with lots of action, witty banter, and a bit of romance. You can find out more about her work at kristenbrand.com, or check out her first novel, Hero Status, about a superhero who retired and married his arch-nemesis.

Guest Post: Balancing on the Road by Megan O'Russell

It's my pleasure to host Megan O'Russell on my site today. Her day job is a little different than most, and the story of how she balances that against her writing life is a fascinating one. Enjoy! -SB

_______________________________

I have the privilege of two very wonderful careers. My “day job” is as a professional performer traveling across the country with different shows. I get to play on stage for a living. It’s pretty great. I’m also a writer with three different Young Adult series currently in progress and another contracted.

I am incredibly privileged to be able to work in areas I truly love. But balancing two competitive and time-consuming careers can be a bit testing at times.

As I write this blog, I’m riding in a car as my husband (and fellow performer) and I drive to Florida to put our car in storage for a month while we fly up to do a show in Alaska for a month. Once we’re done in Alaska, we’ll be flying back to our car in Florida to hop straight into rehearsal for the next show. Earlier this year, I performed on the national tour of The Wizard of Oz, where I split my time between the tour bus, stage, and whatever hotel room I had landed in.

It’s a hectic life, but I love it.

I talk to my fellow authors and so many of them have these routines for writing. They sit in the designated writing spot with their favorite beverage and tunes ready to help them find inspiration. I honestly don’t even know what that kind of routine would feel like.

While I was on tour, I spent my afternoons on the bus writing and editing. There was no desk or comfort involved. I looked like a typing pretzel. There was no quiet or soothing music. The movies playing on the bus were beyond my headphones’ ability to block. I spent time in hotel rooms and backstage writing. Any spare moment I could grab.

While on tour, I finished three manuscripts. It wasn’t always easy, but I knew what I wanted to accomplish so I powered through even as the soundtrack of Trolls played in the background.

But as hard as I worked, I had some amazing experiences as well. Landing in a city and trying to find your way to food and adventure presents a unique challenge. I needed to get my word count in, but I lack the ability to resist a Christmas market in Detroit. Having a morning off the tour bus where I could sit at a desk and work was a rare privilege. But what’s the point in being on tour if you skip a trip to world famous pancakes?

Finding a way to keep the career goals pushing forward while taking full advantage of the

experiences offered by touring was not always easy. Not going to lie, there was a brief phase when someone tried to restrict my time on my computer, and I just about hopped on a plane and flew straight home. But aside from fighting for my right to work as I choose, the ability to forgive myself and create a work budget became the most valuable tool that I have.

Burn out is very real. FOMO (fear of missing out) is incredibly real.

Life becomes a budget.

If I want to write a 60,000 word book in a month (Not that I’m implying that’s how fast something of that length has to be written), I’ll aim for 2,500 words a day. That’s 75,000 words after thirty days. With a surplus of 15,000 words, that gives me six-to-seven full days where I wouldn’t have to write any words at all. One full week of being able to say that I want to explore a new city instead of staying with my computer, taking a sick day to rest, dealing with editing coming in from my publisher.

With that freedom, I’m not panicked about running behind. I’m not freaking out about hitting deadlines. Plan to work with a surplus, not to survive a deficit. Do the numbers always work out? Not at all. But it’s a healthier base line to begin with.

And when your website crashes so you don’t have time to write and your publisher needs seven guest blogs in two days, forgiveness is the best tool you can have.

Forgive yourself for desperately wanting to find locally caught lobster instead of pounding out the rest of the chapter. Allow yourself to choose a full night’s sleep instead of pushing into the wee hours to get caught up.

We’re all only human. All the details, obligations, and wonderful experiences this insane world has to offer are larger than we could ever hope to be. It’s okay.

What my schedule and allowed writing time will look like when I get to Alaska, I have no idea. The next nine months are packed with huge amounts of performing work for me.

The 2,500 words a day will probably be cut down significantly. I don’t know what my wifi situation will look like. I don’t know how many hours a day I’ll need to be at the theatre.

But that’s okay. I’ll survive. I’ll get my edits into my publisher on time, my blogs posted somehow, and if the word counts don’t line up, I’ll forgive myself.

I’ll keep writing grand adventures and keep living my own.

_________________________

Megan is a Young Adult author who spends her time traveling the country as a professional actor. Megan's current published works include the Girl of Glass series, How I Magically Messed Up My Life in Four Freakin' Days (The Tale of Bryant Adams, Book One), and The Girl Without Magic (The Chronicles of Maggie Trent, Book One).

When not on stage or working on her books, Megan can be found blogging on LifeBeyondExaggeration.com For more information on Megan's books, visit MeganORussell.com or follow her on Facebook or Twitter. 

Guest Post: Favorite Five by Patricia Josephine

It's always such an exciting thing when a new book comes into the world and July 24 is Patricia Josephine's book birthday. 

To help her celebrate, I've invited her to share my blog space and tell us about her new release. 

At first, Quinn isn’t impressed by Keane. He’s cocky and has sex on the brain. The polar opposite of her. Despite their differences, something blossoms between the two.

Never one to take things seriously, Keane is an incubus coasting through life without a care. When he meets Quinn, her lack of reaction to him piques his interest. No human has ever been able to resist him.

As Keane and Quinn struggle to understand what is going on between them, something sinister rocks their world. Young incubi are vanishing, and Keane's friends go missing. Someone is after his kind. When Quinn is kidnapped, Keane must uncover who is behind the abductions and get to her before it's too late.

____________________________________________

Favorite Five: Tempting Friendship

by: Patricia Josephine

Another author did this for her book, and it looked like so much fun, I had to get in on it. Here are my answers to my favorite five things about Tempting Friendship.

1. What was your favorite line of dialogue?

"Seriously?" That's Quinn's favorite reaction to outrageous things and it often got he and Keane bickering which was fun to write.

2. What was your favorite scene setting?

When Quinn and her friends are in the private room at the strip club. It was fun writing their reactions to such a posh room.

3. What was your favorite cliffhanger? 

When Quinn sees what Keane is. It gave me an evil laugh. >8D

4. Who is your favorite secondary character? 

I love Quinn's BFF, Abby. She's carefree, sweet, and, a great friend. She always knows when to push Quinn and when to listen.

5. What was your favorite change? 

There really isn't one that was big enough to think it made the story so much better. There were lots of little changes, but nothing big.

_______________

Buy your copy: 

Amazon: http://mybook.to/temptingfriendship

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/877864

Kobo:  https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/tempting-friendship
iTunes https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/tempting-friendship/id1412307824?mt=11

Enter the Giveaway!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

___________________________

About the Author

Patricia never set out to become a writer, and in fact, she never considered it an option during high school and college. She was more of an art and band geek. Some stories are meant to be told, and now she can't stop writing.

She writes New Adult under the name Patricia Josephine and Young Adult under the name Patricia Lynne.

Patricia lives with her husband in Michigan, hopes one day to have what will resemble a small petting zoo, and has a fondness for dying her hair the colors of the rainbow.

Social Media Links:

Website: - http://www.patricialynne.com

Twitter - https://twitter.com/plynne_writes

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/Patricia-Lynne-aka-Patricia-Josephine-142279346417071/

Google+ - https://plus.google.com/u/0/108938106639683446081

Newsletter - https://www.patricialynne.com/newsletter.html

Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13460894.Patricia_Josephine

Amazon Author Page - https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00UH7GAK0

Smashwords - https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/patriciajosephine