The Footsteps I Follow: Authors I Admire - Guest Post: Kristin Flynn

I love the imagery and emotion that Nicholas Sparks brings in his work. He holds his audience captive, and that is something that I am hoping to achieve. This can also be said for Alison Gaskin Bailey. S.C. Stephens can have you rooting for the bad boy and that has to be saying something. Kelly Elliot has the sweetest saga out there, I think. I can read a Michelle Valentine book in two days. Oh and Kristen Proby too. Tara Sivec has me spitting my coffee/wine out at the computer screen. She’s hilarious.

Guest Blogger: Sara Ray McPark

So, y'all, I asked the FANTASTIC Kristin Flynn, author of Good Night, Morning to provide me with a very special guest post for you all.  If you've read Good Night, Morning, then you know who Sara Ray McPark is.  If you've not yet read this book by this fantastic author - you really and truly should.  My review will be coming up in the next couple of weeks rest assured.  I challenged Kristin with this post and that makes me smile.  So, without further ado, I provide you with a guest post by Miss Sara Ray McPark.

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Most people make fun of southern girls. I frankly, love being one. I grew up with my grandparents in my life, saw them on a constant basis and I think I am a better person because of it. Granted I have a case of thunder thighs because of all the fried chicken and cobler, but I got an early lesson on what a day of hard work is really worth.

Now, love is something my family was never afraid or ashamed of. I still kiss my parents goodbye and goodnight. My grandparents too. I'm just in my second semester of my freshman year in college, and the adjustment has been hard. Have you ever seen that show "How I Met Your Mother?" That describes my childhood perfectly, but it was my grandfather telling me the story about how he met my grandmother. My parent's aren't as open as Grandpa James is, but they do try - bless their hearts.

I'm in a new relationship myself, and my amazing Grandpa wrote the whole story down for me to show me some guidance on how to nurture a new relationship and there's nothing more wise about going about things like that than a good ol' country boy.

Grandpa showed me from a young age how a woman is to be treated and I won't settle for any less than what I deserve. Some of these other girls I see here at school don't understand their worth and that there are amazing guys out there. I have proof, look at Grandpa!

Ladies - please respect yourselves and be with a man who treats you better than you treat yourself. You deserve than and nothing less. If you don't believe me, come back to Cape Holly with me and sit down with Grandpa James. He will teach you a thing or two. Oh, and bring an appetite because Grandma Kate throws it down in the kitchen with some fried chicken and cobler! Let's just visit anyways - I'm getting hungry!

Sara Ray McPark.

Character Guest Post: Adele Rose - 100th Post

I was going to type an introduction for this guest post, but I think I will let it speak for itself. It is an honor to have this short story written by Adele Rose from The Dwellers Saga by David Estes as my 100th Post here at Confessions of a Bibliophile! 

The Shattered Stones of Fate- A Dwellers Short Story

A character guest post by Adele Rose from The Dwellers Saga by David Estes

Hours before The Moon Dwellers

Sometimes time ticks by at a pace so dismal you can almost see the stones of fate gathering moss before your very eyes. And other times…well, life seems to roar past with the speed of an inter-Realm through-train, whipping your hair around your face and forcing your eyes shut against the airborne debris.

Today starts with the former, but you can never guess which way it’ll end.

Class is heavy and tight on my skull, full of “important” dates and wars and a history that only half sounds real. Did humans really live on the earth’s surface once? It’s hard to believe, and yet everyone says it’s true. And if they did, why did they seem to be constantly in the midst of disagreement and strife?

My grandmother—may she rest in peace—used to say that being outside was like laughter and a warm blanket and the hug of a friend; but of course, those were the same things her mother had told her. No one really knows anymore—all we have are stories from the generations before us. Do I believe them?

Does it matter if I don’t?

I massage a knot in my forehead, the beginning of a sharp headache. Something pokes me from behind. I ignore it.

Poke poke.

“Gannon, you do that again and I’ll break your arm,” I hiss.

“Ms. Rose…something to share?” Mrs. Hill asks, stopping in mid-lecture, her hands on her hips.

“No,” I mumble, writing Gannon on my blank notebook page. When the teacher resumes her monologue about some kind of civil war, I slash through Gannon’s name with a single stroke of my pencil.

Poke poke.

You’ve got to be kidding me. I whirl around, my pencil snapping under the strain of my fingers, which are already curling into fists. My chair falls over with a slam. “Do that I again…” I say, pushing the unfinished threat out into the air.

Gannon’s face is even whiter than usual, his big blue eyes as wide as false moons. “I—I—”

“Yeah, everyone’s sorry,” I say, feeling bad seeing Gannon look so scared. After all, he’s one of the few people who are ever nice to me anymore. But my breathing is heavy, my blood running hot and angry through my veins. An overreaction. Something my father has always warned me against.

I try to swallow it down but all I get is a lump in my throat.

“Ms. Rose…”

Suddenly I’m aware of the many eyes on me, staring, some with open mouths of shock and others with smirks of amusement. I cringe and turn to face Mrs. Hill, who’s placed her lesson plan on the table in front of her. Never a good sign.

I know I should apologize but the lump gets in the way. So I just stare at her, feeling my face redden.

“I’ll not have students threatened in my classroom,” the teacher says. I’m already grabbing my pack and pushing for the door when she says, “Detention. Now.”

The grey-stone halls are empty and hollow, like the feeling I’ve had in my chest ever since the other kids started talking about my father a week ago. I asked Father about it, but he swears everything’s okay, that it’s no big deal, that the rumors and gossip are exaggerations. But his words don’t match his eyes like they usually do. He’s protecting me from the truth: a dangerous world has become infinitely more dangerous.

As I stride down the hall toward the detention room—my fourth such journey in the last week—the playground shouts hit me like bursts of gunfire:

“Your father’s a dead man!”

“Better start looking for a new dad!”

“Complainer!”

I touch a hand to my gut, half-expecting to feel moist holes in it, but all I get is the brittle texture of my school-tunic. Dead man! New dad! Complainer!

Are things really that bad? If they weren’t, would I have broken those three kids’ noses? Would I have two black eyes and fire roaring through my skin?

When I reach the detention room, I glance through the window and see the regulars: Drummer, the heavily pierced kid who can’t seem to stop tapping his fingers on his desk; Gina, the girl with the spiked purple hair and unexplained scars up and down her arms; Chuck, the dude who smells funny and is addicted to pulling bad pranks. Freaks. Am I one of them?

I stride past the room and push through the school doors. Mother will be furious when she finds out I ditched school again, but she’ll just have to deal.

There are a couple of punks on the corner, smoking something that doesn’t smell like normal cigarettes. “Try it,” one of them says as I pass, holding out a joint.

An insane urge to kick him rolls through me, balanced only by a desire to take him up on his offer. I ignore him and run past, wishing my feet had wings—that I could fly: out of subchapter 14 of the Moon Realm. Out of the underground world of caves and rock and disappointment. Excitement shivers down my spine at the thought, making me feel nauseous because of the conflicting emotions, like I’m spinning and spinning.

Turning a corner, I take the next block in stride. It’s only when I reach my neighborhood that I slow to a jog, hoping Mother will be out.

She isn’t.

Worse, she’s standing in front of our house, looking right at me, like she has delinquent-radar or something. I stop, consider turning and running in the other direction, think better of it, and cautiously approach her.

“I know what you’re going to—” I start to say.

“Come inside, I’ll make you something to eat,” Mother says, cutting me off.

She turns and makes her way back to our small stone cube of a house, holding the door for me. I follow her inside, wondering whether this is one of those mom-pretends-to-be-your-friend-as-punishment teaching moments. I hope not—I’d prefer a harsh punishment dealt by a swift hand any day.

“I shouldn’t have left school,” I say, dumping my pack and my words in a heap on the floor. My only hope is to control the conversation.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Mother says. She doesn’t sound angry. Why?

She starts chopping something with a dull knife. Potatoes. I gawk at her, unable to feel my feet, like I’m floating. Who is this woman?

Before I can consider the possibilities, Father pushes through the back door. “Hi, Adele,” he says, as casually as if school and work are meant to be over.

“Why aren’t you at the mines?” I ask, more sharply than I intended.

“Why aren’t you at school?” he counters, but a smile plays on his lips. His eyes disagree with his mouth, remaining downcast and tired, like he’s just woken up.

“The school called,” Mother says, stirring a pot. “Adele was supposed to go to detention but she left.”

God. Word travels fast. Mrs. Hill must have expected it. “I hate school,” I say. I hate people, I don’t say.

“I know,” Father says, to my surprise. If Mother is a clone, Father is a robot. Where are my real parents?

I stare at him. He stares at me, his smile gone. Mother nonchalantly stirs a pot.

The unanswered question springs back into my head. “Father…why aren’t you in the mines?” I ask again.

He sighs, scratches his head, looks more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him. “Oh God,” I breathe.

“They let me go,” he blurts out, turning to head back outside.

“They what?” I say, following him onto the back patio, a familiar place where we’ve trained every morning for the past ten years. Now a place so foreign and frightening I barely recognize it. “You lost your job?”

He nods. “I guess I stood up for one too many people,” he says.

“Fix it,” I say, a knot forming in my stomach. People don’t just lose their jobs in the Moon Realm. There are always repercussions, especially when it’s related to a complaint.

“I can’t.”

“You can,” I protest.

“It’s unfixable,” he says, and before I can contradict him, he throws a punch at my head.

I duck, grabbing his arm and swinging a low kick at his legs, which he easily hops over. He lets me try again, this time with a hooking fist, but at the last minute he ducks and my momentum of my wayward punch spins me around. He grabs me from behind, trying to lock my arms, but I manage to twist out of it before his hands can get a good grip.

I whirl around, my chest heaving, my blood flowing, my adrenaline higher than the dim and rocky cavern ceiling that arcs above us. I charge my father, aiming dual jabs at his chest.

He grabs my arms, pulls me into him. I’m squirming and clawing and bucking…and then I hear it.

A strange sound, low and guttural. A groan. I stop moving, listen to the slightly disturbing noise.

“Adele,” Father says, hugging me, crushing my face into his chest. “It’s going to be okay.” That’s when I realize: the strange sound is me. Grunting and groaning and protesting the truth.

“Nothing’s okay,” I manage to wheeze out, breathless. A hot tear spills down my cheek and I wipe it away angrily. “Nothing.”

Father’s eyes are sad, and this time they match his lips, which couldn’t form a smile if we were suddenly rich and living in the Sun Realm. “Be strong, Adele,” he says. “For your mother, for your sister, for me, for yourself.”

“No,” I say, even though I know I will. It’s the only way I can be. It’s the way he’s built me.

“No matter what,” he reminds gently.

I push away and go to bed early, eating my pathetically unfulfilling supper alone in the room I share with my sister and parents, wishing I was oblivious the world that’s about to end.

And times races on and on and on, shattering stone and bones and lives, twisting fate into a blind whirlwind of grief and splintered moments.

I awake to the sound of our front door slamming open.

~~~

The Moon Dwellers by David Estes, is out now on Kindle, Nook, and everywhere ebooks are sold, or in print on Amazon.com! And don’t miss the thrilling sequels, The Star Dwellers and The Sun Dwellers, or the action-packed sister series, The Country Saga (Fire Country, Ice Country, Water & Storm Country) also available! And now, a sneak peek at the prologue from the book, which picks up where David’s short story ended!

Prologue

Adele

7 months ago

Hands grope, men shout, boots slap the rock floor.

Clay dishes and pots are smashed to bits as the Enforcers sweep recklessly through our house. There are more bodies in the tiny stone box that I call home than ever before. The walls seem to be closing in.

My mother’s face is stricken with anger, her lips twisted, her eyebrows dark. I’ve never seen her fight like this. I’ve never seen her fight at all.

It takes three bulging Enforcers to subdue her kicking legs, her thrashing arms. For just a moment I am scared of her and not the men. I hate myself for it.

I realize my sister is by my side, watching, like me. I can’t let her see this—can’t let this be her last memory of the ones who raised us. I usher her back into the small room that we share with my parents, and close the door, shutting her inside alone.

When I turn back to the room, my mother is already gone, taken. Undigested beans from our measly supper rise in my throat.

My father is next.

The Enforcers jeer at him, taunt him, spit on him. As he backs his shoulders against the cold, stark, stone wall, five men corner him. Smart. They don’t underestimate him.

He makes eye contact with me; his emerald-green eyes are hard with concentration. Despite the inherent tension in the room, his face is relaxed, calm, the exact opposite of his eyes. Run, he mouths.

My feet are frozen to the floor. My knees lock, stiffen, disobey me and my father. I am ashamed. After all that my father has done for me, when it counts the most, I fail him.

One of the men lifts an arm and a gun. I hold my breath when I hear the shot, a dull thwap! that doesn’t sound like a normal gun. The man moves backwards slightly from the force, but his legs are planted firmly and he maintains his balance.

My father slumps to the floor. I feel my lips trembling, and my hand moves unbidden to my mouth. My frozen feet melt and I try to run to him, but a big body bars my way. I don’t think—just react. I kick him hard, like my father taught me. My heel catches the Enforcer under his chin and his head snaps back. Like most people, he underestimates me.

The next Enforcer doesn’t.

The Taser rips into my neck and tentacles of electricity slam my jaw shut. My teeth nearly snap off my tongue, which is flailing around in my mouth. They don’t take it easy on me just because I’m a kid, or a girl—not after what I did to the first guy. Still stunned by the Taser, I barely feel the thump of their hard boots as they kick me repeatedly in the ribs. My eyes are wet, and through my blurred vision I see the arcing nightstick.

Strangely, it feels like destiny, like it was always going to happen.

I hear my sister’s screams just before I black out.

The Moon Dwellers by David Estes, is out now on Kindle, Nook, and everywhere ebooks are sold, or in print on Amazon.com! And don’t miss the thrilling sequels, The Star Dwellers and The Sun Dwellers, or the action-packed sister series, The Country Saga (Fire Country, Ice Country, Water & Storm Country) also available!

Guest Post: Alexis Cain

It's been a while since I've let someone take over the reigns here for a moment at Confessions of a Bibliophile, so I'm gonna change that! Today, we have author Alexis Cain taking over my slice of literary heaven.  This was originally going to be part of her blog tour, but it was canceled due to real life intruding (darn real life!).

Alexis Cain is the author of Ensuing Darkness.

So, I leave you with Alexis taking over! Enjoy!

Alexis Cain can be found:
Goodreads
Blog


-Martha

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Every writer has a unique way of writing their story. It may not work for everyone, but it’s ‘perfect’ for them.
Demosthenes would shave half his head before starting to write so he’d be too embarrassed to show himself in public.Victor Hugo, author of Les Miserables and the Hunchback of Notre Dame, would give his clothes to his valet, instructing him not come back until the writing was done, then wrote naked.Lyndall Gordon wrote in T.S. Eliot: A Modern Life that in the early 1920s, the author answered to “Captain Elliot” in his hideaway above Chatto & Windus, a publishing house on St. Martin’s Lane; but at another hideaway on Charing Cross Road, visitors were asked to inquire at the porter’s lodge for a man known only as “The Captain.” Upstairs, Eliot’s face would be “tinted green with powder to look cadaverous.”Thankfully, my quirks aren’t as extreme as theirs… yet. I mean, I haven’t even gotten to the point of being overcome with insomnia like most writers slip into. Haha, yeah I still need that7-8 hours of beauty sleep for my day job for now, but the quirks I do have pretty much all fall into one category. The fact that I guess I’m a little OCD (I’ve been told anyway).The first two are small things. First, is that I can’t listen to rap or commercials while writing. I used to write while listening to the radio, but as soon as a commercial or rap song came on I was snapped out of my zone when I realized I was writing what those people were saying.Secondly, I know authors are supposed to read a lot; some say even more than they write. Well, not only can I not read at all while writing, usually when I’m reading I get an idea and have to stop until I get done with setting up the initial setup for that idea. I’m just so scared that somehow something from the book I’m reading will find its way into my new story. The only way I can read and write is if the book I’m reading is strictly for research purposes, like re-reading the Harry Potter series and The Vampire Academy series to study how J.K. Rowling and Richelle Mead wrote.And I’ve saved my biggest quirk for last. When I’m starting a new story, I set up two MS Word files, one labeled (intro) and the other (story). I have to completely set up the facts before I can start the actual story. Here are just some of the things I have listed on my hyperlinked “Table of Contents”:Possible titles (book and chapter) run by husband for confirmation)Ideas, Suggestions, & RemindersChaptersSummaries (Main summary and then summaries for each chapter)Main Characters & DescriptionsExtra Characters & DescriptionsLocationsResearch on Creatures and/or real world places in book
Speaking of research, I guess that would count as another quirk all by itself because it takes me a few days to a week to get through that because I have to make sure I have ALL the facts. So all in all, it sometimes takes me from 1-3+ weeks to actually get to writing the story, though usually I still jot down scene ideas for later.And that’s it! These are all of my writing quirks…. that I know of.
I want to thank you, Martha, for having me! This was very fun to write and to be completely honest, I didn’t even realized I had these quirks until now, haha. -_^

Guest Post: Jason E. Maurer

For my guest post, I’ve chosen to discuss self-worth and homosexuality and how the two go hand-in-hand, mainly because that is what my new novel “Trust and Love” is all about.

The main theme of my novel is the “It Gets Better” Campaign because it is the struggle of nearly all people in the LGBT community [LGBT stands for Lesbian, Gay, and Transgender] to overcome their own fears, and stand up for themselves in a world that still thinks of us as being sinners.

The “It Gets Better” Campaign stems from the unfortunate suicidal deaths of several gay teenagers, who were bullied in school by youngsters like themselves who do not understand that we are just as human as everyone else. My heart has broken so many times over the past few years to hear of another loss of someone who gave up the fight.

I look back on my own high school turmoil, and am thankful that none of my suicide attempts succeeded.

I had few friends, although the ones in my close circle were treasured more than I could ever describe. Some of us are close to this day.

Being gay was not something anyone talked about, except to make fun of those unfortunate boys who showed any sign of being a “sissy”.  I grew up listening to the negativity spouted by others, and realized early on that I was not “normal”, that the things I felt for the guy who lived next door were wrong.

I wish more than anything that the “It Gets Better” Campaign had been around when I was a teenager. My life in school would have been much, much different. I might have had the courage to stand up for myself, instead of having everyone harass and make fun of me, saying I was worthless and nothing but trash.

This is why I stand so adamantly behind “It Gets Better”. I want that tormented young boy who is sitting there holding a bottle of pills to know he is not alone. I want that young girl who is holding a knife to her wrist that I understand what she’s going through. I want them to know that suicide is NOT the solution to their problems. I want them to understand that their lives WILL get better.

It took many years for me to realize that I wasn’t a freak, that the way I felt toward others of the same sex was okay, that I wasn’t some piece of trash to be so easily discarded.

If you are one of those teenagers who feel like your world is crumbling down around you because the bullies won’t leave you alone, then I have some advice. It may sound hopeless and almost like wishful thinking, especially if you are afraid of them, but things are never as hopeless as they seem. My advice is this:

1. Stand up for yourself.

2. Never back down.

3. Fight for what you believe.

If one of those bullies is attacking you and your beliefs, you have every right as a human being to protect yourself. Stand up tall, look your enemy in the eye, and defend, defend, defend.

Even if you lose the fight, remember that the pride of standing up for yourself and fighting for your beliefs is better than not doing anything at all.

I survived my high school years, and you will too.

And do you know why?

Because there are others in this world who love you for being who you are, and will stand by you no matter what.

My novel “Trust and Love” may seem more like a fairytale than real-life, but the message remains:

Do Not Give Up On Yourself, Because We Will Never Give Up On You.

By writing my novel, I hope to assist everyone in realizing that suicide is not the answer, that your life is more precious than you might think right now, and that we are here to support you no matter what.

Visit www.itgetsbetter.org for information on how to help us win the fight.

To buy “Trust and Love”, visit http://www.amazon.com/Trust-and-Love-ebook/dp/B00AS5AEBM/ref=la_B0080HHLPC_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1356936849&sr=1-1

All my love to everyone and best wishes for a wonderful 2013!

Jason E. Maurer

http://jasonemaurer.blogspot.com