Saturday, March 31, 2012
So I forced a few words to one of my stories. Here Nolan tries to wrap his mind around the reason Thana was in the cemetery opening up a coffin in a mausoleum. Here's a bit from, My Girlfriend is a Necromancer:
“So, what do you do when you’re not robbing graves?”
"I don’t rob graves. I work for an insurance company.”
“I get it. You raise the dead to get out of paying the life insurance.”
Of course he’d been joking, but when she turned toward him, she looked completely serious. “That’s right.”
All he could picture was her propping the body up on the doorstep, ringing the bell and running like hell. The chick had really lost it. Nolan couldn’t help it. He grabbed his gut and laughed. She slammed on the brakes and mashed him further into the dash. With his cheek smushed into the windshield, the situation didn’t seem as humorous. "You have to understand how ludicrous what you told me sounds."
“Many people would rather have their loved one than the money. I’m doing them a favor. It's not ludicrous and what I do isn't sleezy or wrong.”
“Let's just say for a moment you actually could raise the dead. Leaving zombies at someone’s front door isn’t doing them a favor, and yeah, it's kind of sleezy. They buried them for a reason.”
“They’re not dead when they go home and they're not zombies. They are who they were in most cases.”
“So you say.” Nolan pushed back from the window and resumed his previous pose with his knees in his pits. He reached into his pocket and turned on his phone.
Thana eyed him. “What are you doing?”
“Calling the psychiatric ward to tell them I found one of their escaped patients.”
“I’m not crazy.”
He snorted and started to dial. Thana ripped his phone from his grip and tossed it out the window.
“You owe me four hundred dollars for that phone.”
“I couldn’t let you call. My gift isn’t common knowledge. Think of the people who would twist it for their own personal needs.”
“Like raising the dead to get out of paying on the insurance?” Cute, but what a freaking whack job.
She jerked the wheel and turned into the local supermarket. “I’ll prove it.”
“Oh this is going to be good. What are you going to do?"
"I intend to show you it's true."
"While you're in there, why don't you get your prescription refilled?”
She pulled into a parking spot, slammed on the brakes and threw the car into park. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
He gave her a salute as she jumped out and rushed for the entrance. Lifting his wrist, he checked his watch. Nolan knew it would be prudent to ditch the nut and try to find out who buried him alive, but he couldn’t help it. That same instinct that made people rubber neck at traffic accidents had him dying to know what she was going to do to prove she could bring people back to life. He fiddled with his watch and watched people in the parking lot, wondering how many of them would suspect a crazy person was shopping with them.
Ten minutes later, she came back out with a plastic bag. She climbed in the driver’s side and tossed it on his lap. Nolan stared at the plain white paper wrapping used by butchers.
“Open it up and check it. Does it have a pulse?”
Nolan sighed and handed the bag back to her. “Seriously?”
“Humor me.” She shoved it back at him.
He grabbed it and unwrapped the butcher’s paper to expose a trout. The eyes shiny and clear, the fish had a fresh smell, but was definitely no longer with the living. “Okay, it’s dead.”
“You’re sure? It’s dead?”
“Of course I’m sure. This sucker isn’t swimming anywhere but into a skillet, or under a broiler in butter.”
Thana reached out and touched it.
The fish jerked and began to thrash in his lap, smacking him with its tail. “What the fuck.” Nolan threw the door open and shoved the fish off his lap. It continued to flop around on the pavement until a large truck pulled up next to them and smashed it flat. Its tail twitched under the tire as teenagers jumped out and headed into the store, reminding him he hadn’t hallucinated it.
“Now you know why I’m a vegetarian. Nothing worse than your food thinking it needs to start moving again.”
Nolan swallowed and turned toward her. His mouth opened and closed. What did one say in a situation like this? “So.”
“I’m a necromancer. I bring people back from the dead.”
Have a nice weekend everyone.
Friday, March 30, 2012
If I drank perked coffee, I could just hook up a line directly to my mouth to get me going, but alas, I'm an instant coffee drinker. I've swallowed 2 steaming cups, burned my mouth, and must get going, but I'll leave you with the trailer.
If you go to see it, let me know your thoughts. Happy Friday!
Growl and roar--it's okay to let the beast out.-J. Hali Steele
Thursday, March 29, 2012
When I initially submit a book to one of my editors, I've been over the thing so many times I'm sick of looking at it. Typically, I write a first draft and put the book aside for around a month. When I take it back out again, the book is printed out and I attack it with a red pen. I'm mostly looking for misspelled words. Continuity errors. Missing punctuation. And generally anything that doesn't look right. When everything's transferred to the computer, my CP and beta readers get a crack at it. When I've gotten it back from everyone, I go through the book again fixing things they've pointed out, looking at their suggestions and deciding what needs to change, if that's the case. Then I go back over it again - twice (as I said, by the time I submit the book, I'm sick of looking at it).
Sure, this a lot of tedious work, but it sure does make for an extremely clean manuscript that gets subbed to my editor. It also means, if the book is accepted, edits are pretty painless and I could feasibly get through them in a day. Do I? Nope. I go through the book again, aside from my editors comments and look for things.
And this doesn't mean I haven't had to do revisions. I have. I've gotten revision letters before. In fact, I had one where I ended up adding 10K words by the time I handed the book back in. Revisions are handled the same way as if the book were fresh out of the gate. I just attack each item one at a time. Usually the important thing to remember for revisions is something you change is going to effect something down the line in your story, so it's really a matter of being conscious about everything that happens. Again, turning in revisions is the same as turning in the manuscript initially for me: Turn in the cleanest book you can at the time.
I've had people ask why I go through all of that. Why I go over and over the book numerous times such as I do. The answer is simple: It's my name on the cover of that book...
Writers, do you have a process that you follow when it comes to edits (even just personal ones)?
Also, time is winding down on The Romance Reviews Book of the Year votes (ends Mar 31--this weekend!). While you don't have to vote for my books that are nominated (PERFECT LIMIT for Best Erotic Romantic Science Fiction / Futuristic and RAGGED EDGE for Best GLBT Menage a Trois (or more) Romance) I would sure appreciate it!
Click here to see the entire list.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
I can't say that's a bad thing. Being humble is a good thing.
My mom always said I didn't need to grow too big for my britches. I think she's right. But I also think a balance has to be struck.
Should you consider yourself a great talent? Probably not. (Even if you are.) Should you consider yourself worthy? I'd say that's a much healthier outlook. And yet, once in a while a talent comes along that can't be denied by the rest of us, even if the person possessing the talent is content to hide from the limelight.
Watch and enjoy the emergence of such a talent from the shadows.
I dare you to not be moved by this young man.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Wren doesn’t expect Ginger to stay by his side once she discovers his ability to drain life with a mere touch, yet she lingers. When an unusual talent of her own reveals the location of Wren’s father, Wren’s isolated world implodes. With the help of the demon protectors he’s sworn never to trust again, Wren risks everything to rescue his father, confront the demon who stalks his and Ginger’s every step, and claim his eternity with the most courageous woman he’s ever known.
© 2011 Sarah Gilman
The tattoo of a bloody knife and scattered feathers caught Ginger Magellan’s attention. Her stomach curdled at the sight of the archangel poachers’ insignia. The bearer of the gruesome illustration ordered an espresso from the petite girl behind the bar.
“There isn’t a fallen archangel around here, is there?” The barista’s voice rose.
“Not for much longer, there won’t be.” He turned away and pulled out his cell phone.
From where she sat in the café, Ginger wrapped her hands around her coffee and stared into the dark brew, eavesdropping on the poacher’s conversation.
“The house has been abandoned for years, but it’s the right place. I saw him fly in the fog this morning. Devil has a balcony entrance on the third floor.”
Devil. Ginger hid a snort of disgust under a fake cough.
The poacher continued after a moment. “Yeah, white wings, black markings. It’s Wren, for certain. And not a Guardian in sight. He’s all ours.”
Ginger tensed. No Guardians? Why would an archangel be without his demon bodyguards?
“Meet you there in thirty? He’ll be back before the fog clears.” The poacher accepted his drink from the barista with a charming grin. She refused his payment and wished him luck. He blew her a kiss and left the café.
Clenching her teeth, Ginger tucked a twenty under her coffee and rushed for the exit without waiting for change. She stepped into the foggy autumn morning, shivered, and buried her hands in her pockets. Two police officers chatted next to their cruiser, but she turned and hurried in the other direction. Archangel poaching, though technically illegal, was applauded and encouraged by most of the human population. She couldn’t trust the police.
She’d warn this “Wren” herself.
Ginger couldn’t let the poachers hunt and kill Wren like an animal. Neither the demons nor the fallen archangels were the Lucifer-like monsters most humans feared them to be—even though she’d never seen an archangel, they were so rare after centuries of poaching. A demon had raised her as his own and remained her best friend as much as her “father,” twenty-eight years later. She needed to call him; he’d know what to do.
Ginger jumped into her little Chevy, shut the door, and pulled out her cell phone. Why would an archangel be living around here? And without Guardians? Even Vermont was too populated for a being with a twenty-foot wingspan to hide. Was this archangel out of his damned mind?
Her father answered on the second ring, despite the predawn hour in Alaska.
“Hi, honey,” he said, his voice alert.
“Devin, I just ran into a poacher in town.”
He growled, a sound that reminded Ginger of a cougar. “Just stay away from him, Ginny. Like all the other tourists, he’ll move on soon.”
“No, Dev, he and at least one other are hunting an archangel in the area.”
A beat of silence passed. “They’re going to be disappointed, because there are no archangels in Vermont.”
As a Guardian, he would know; that’s why she’d called him. But her instincts churned in protest.
“Are you sure? They’ve seen him. White wings with black markings. His name is Wren. They said he has no Guardians.”
The silence stretched out so long Ginger checked her signal. “Dev?”
“Raphael’s son.” Devin’s voice sounded thin.
Raphael. Recognition and surprise forced the air from her lungs. The last of the original fallen archangels had been killed when Ginger was a child, along with his human mate. Most of humanity had hailed the death as a step forward in cleansing the earth of the demon and fallen archangel menace. Ginger cringed at the memory.
“Wren has refused our protection since his parents’ deaths,” Devin said. “A Guardian betrayed and murdered his family. It’s been years since we’ve had any news of Wren.”
Heartache burned Ginger’s chest. “I’m going to warn him.”
“Ginny.” Devin’s voice deepened. “Out of the question. The poachers—”
“I wouldn’t be your daughter if I sat by and did nothing, Dev.”
A pause. “I know. I’m sending Guardians from Sanctuary. Wait for them.”
She chewed her lip. Sanctuary, Vermont’s demon colony, was three hours away. Wren didn’t have three hours.
“Tell them to hurry. Love you.” She disconnected the call.
Ginger pulled the car into traffic and headed south out of town toward the only abandoned house in the area. After miles of dirt roads and thick forest, she drove by the crumbling remains of a Victorian. She continued past the forlorn structure and hid her car in thick vegetation, then ran back down the road and up the overgrown driveway on foot.
Ginger scanned the sky, patches of velvety morning blue visible through the fog. No archangel in sight. She stepped onto the rotting porch, happy to find the wood sturdier than it appeared, and tried the front door. The old mahogany opened an inch before it hit what appeared to be a heavy piece of furniture. Wren must have barricaded the entrance.
She pried a moss-covered plank away from a broken window and stuck her head inside. “Hello? Wren?”
Wary of the broken glass, she wiggled through the small opening and fell into the kitchen. Her butt went through a rotten floorboard. She cursed and got to her feet.
The air inside the house felt colder than the brisk morning outside. Stray beams of sunlight penetrated the boarded windows, but darkness obscured most of her surroundings. The smell of mold made Ginger cough. She stepped to the base of the stairs.
No answer. No surprise.
“If you’re hiding in here, you need to leave. Poachers will be here any minute!”
She climbed the stairs to the third level, testing each step before shifting her weight. At the top, she opened the first door on her right. No furniture occupied the large room, but blankets and a tattered pillow lay on the floor. Apples he must have snatched from the orchard and a pile of paperbacks sat nearby. A white down feather longer than her hand lay on the floorboards.
Curiosity took over, and she picked up the feather. She ran her fingers along the edge, the texture sublime enough to put silk to shame. Acid rose in her throat and she let the feather drift to the floor. The money people paid for archangel plumage kept the poachers in business. Religious hysteria gave the murderers a convenient smoke screen.
“Greed knows no boundaries,” she said to herself.
Ginger checked the other rooms, found nothing, and left the house. She hurried around to the back of the property and found a spot to sit where she could see the balcony, which had been stripped of railings. Cold dew on the grass soaked her jeans. Her heart pounded as she strained to see the sky through the lingering fog. What would he look like? If archangels were as breathtaking in person as they were in photos…
Three poachers emerged from the woods and crossed the lawn to the front porch, their gruesome tattoos covered by black jackets, an arsenal of guns and knives strapped to their hips. Ginger crouched lower in the grass, her palms sweating, her mouth dry and sticky. She was damned lucky they hadn’t seen her, that she hadn’t been trapped in the house.
Minutes passed and Ginger stayed still. The poachers didn’t come out. No sound carried from the house. After an agonizing eternity, the last remnants of the fog thinned, and movement drew her attention.
The archangel, moving swiftly, flew in low over the treetops. Wings blurred as he landed on the balcony. The resulting breeze fanned her skin.
Wren’s twenty-foot wingspan framed his body, more striking in person than in any of the pictures she’d seen. No wonder the balcony railings were gone. He found his footing and folded his white wings, the black markings forming a pleasing angular pattern reminiscent of a snowy owl. His flight feathers overlapped behind his legs.
Beautiful, yet purely masculine. Wren’s body was carved from long, elegant muscles that could only belong to someone who needed to lift his body weight in flight. He wore tattered black pants that set off both his feathers and the almond skin of his upper body.
He rolled his shoulders, ran a hand over his dark, spiky hair and reached for the door.
Ginger jumped to her feet, her heart pounding.
“No! Poachers! They’re inside!”
The archangel stared down at her, his eyebrows high in surprise, and spread his wings. He leapt off the balcony and ascended in a flurry of wing movement. Ginger trembled with relief. She watched him fly, mesmerized.
Wren circled high above the house, his wings fully extended as he soared. The sensation of his gaze on her made her breath hitch. Why wasn’t he leaving?
“You goddamned, meddling bitch!”
She whirled around and came face to face with the poacher from the café. Brown eyes wide with rage, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her off her feet.
Wren dove, his wings angled for maximum speed. The woman below had saved his life. He couldn’t just leave her. The poachers would kill her for her interference.
The woman twisted within the poacher’s grasp and threw a punch. The human let go of her, raising both of his hands to his face. After a brief stumble, she took off full tilt toward the road. Excellent, maybe she’d make it on her own…
Two more poachers came out of the house and cut her off. Sunlight glinted off knives in their hands. The first poacher recovered and closed in behind her.
With practiced precision, Wren soared mere feet over the grass, aiming for the group. The men blocking the woman’s escape pivoted and threw themselves to the ground. Eyes wide, the woman’s jaw dropped and she tried to scramble out of Wren’s path.
Wren seized her jacket and hauled her into the air. Wren’s flight feathers missed the third poacher by inches. The human scum flailed and fell backward into the grass.
Wren beat his wings and carried the woman toward the road. She clung to his neck, her breath rapid and warm on his skin. Her hair hit him in the face and her heady, jasmine scent filled his lungs.
“Do you have a car?” he yelled over the noise of flight.
She nodded vigorously.
“Then go. Fast.” He landed on the dirt road at a run and let go of her. She stumbled and fell. Back on her feet a second later, she disappeared into the trees. Relieved, he ascended and banked to head north.
The first gunshot missed him, but a second pierced the muscular part of his wing. Air rushed out of his lungs in a strangled scream. He fought through the blinding pain, landed behind the abandoned house, and sank to his hands and knees in the tall grass. Warm blood streamed down his feathers.
The poachers closed in, their guns aimed in his direction. Wren braced himself and stood, dragging his injured wing. His body shook and cold sweat broke out over his skin from shock, but he faced the humans with his shoulders squared and his chin high.
Wren’s blood iced over as the poachers encroached. He had one weapon at his disposal, one chance left to walk away alive. He flexed his fingers, preparing to strike the moment they stepped too close.
But the poachers wore gloves, boots, jeans and leather jackets zipped up to their throats. Damn it. If he couldn’t touch their skin, he had no chance. His pain momentarily took a back seat to bone-deep fury.
“Lark sent you.” Who else but Lark would know to tell them to cover their skin, that Wren could leach their life away at will if he touched them? Fully aware of Wren’s macabre talent, the former Guardian had worn leather himself the night he’d murdered Wren’s parents, eighteen years ago.
“Yes.” The nearest poacher held Wren’s gaze, his mouth a thin line, his brown eyes narrow. He stood well out of Wren’s reach, gun aimed and steady.
Wren fisted his hands at his sides and braced himself.
The poacher lowered the gun an inch and cocked his head. “You look just like your old man.”
“You are not fit to speak of my father!”
“Would it interest you to know he’s still alive?”
Wren flicked his uninjured wing. What kind of sick joke is this? “Fuck you!”
The poacher lifted his shoulders. “You’ll see.”
Knots of pain formed in Wren’s chest. His father, Lark’s prisoner for nearly two decades? But alive? Or were these poachers just lying for the sick fun of it?
Another poacher, a short man with a black bandana around his head, holstered his semi-automatic and drew a tranquilizer gun. Wren dodged, but the blood loss left his legs cold and heavy. A dart struck him in the shoulder. His skin burned. He ripped the dart out and backed further away, but his vision blurred and his legs collapsed. With his face in the cold, wet grass, he fought to remain conscious.
The brown-eyed poacher came forward, knelt, and stroked Wren’s outstretched wing as if showing affection to a prized pet.
“Get your damned hands off me!” Wren struggled to speak, his lips as numb as the rest of his body. His vision grew blurry.
His form an indistinct smear against the blue sky, the poacher yanked a feather free and tucked it behind his ear. He fisted his leather-gloved hand and ground his knuckles into the gunshot wound.
Wren clenched his teeth and suppressed a scream. The agony pushed him over the edge, into oblivion.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Blurb: Some love affairs last a lifetime, others never end.
Fifty years into the future, if you’re one of the damned, you don’t run for your life, you run to save your soul. Jocelyn Miller is wanted for crimes she committed before she was born. Homeless, blind and out in the elements on one of the coldest nights of the year, her desperation results in a bad decision. When Jocelyn and her brother Nate rob a convenience store, Jocelyn comes face to face with her worst nightmare and greatest love, a reaper named Gabriel.
Got Romance Reviews ~ “What a wonderful, inventive, and suspenseful read. From the prologue you know that you are reading a book quite different from most anything else out there.” http://www.amazon.com/review/R24NE45LJQSNJN
Happily Ever After Reviews ~ “I have to say I was completely fascinated from the first moment of the prologue. I knew I was reading something I’d never even imagined reading before.”
Jocelyn’s fingers closed before she realized what Nate crammed into her hand. She shoved the gun back at her brother. “I don’t want that and I’m not going in there to help you do whatever you’re planning to do with that thing.”
se strand of her hair into her hood. “I'll be right back. Nobody’s going to get hurt.” He turned. His boots crunched on the snow as he walked away, stringing her nerves tighter.
Thanks for visiting today.
Friday, March 23, 2012