My least favorite activity...

Driving!!!

I used to love to drive. It was when I'd blow off steam. Turn up the fuckin' radio until my ears would bleed, and press down on the accelorator and edge up to at least five miles per hour over the speed limit. I did my best thinking behind the wheel, tossing a plot around in my head, twisting and turning it until I made myself crazy, but I'd figure it out.

Friday is our big errand day. I have to drive my mother to the doctor, which since my accident (crushed vertebrae) has been my son's duty. I'd curl up in the back seat with a blanket and sleep. My son went and joined the Marines, probably to get a break from all the chores he's had to take up on my account. So, I'm designated driver again. I need a pillow behind my back, not the hard one, the soft, feathery one that I can mash in different shapes depending upon my current needs.

The good thing is that my mother and I plot. Of course, I tell her I have the sex part down, don't need her opinions there. No, no, mom, I've got that covered!

The doctor, WalMart, and the other shops are two hours away.

We have the bank, the post office, of course, and then the drive home.

Then, it's intensive care for me, which consists of me popping the 'bad' pain medication (bad=unconscious) and knocking myself out so I don't have to suffer.

So, I hope everyone has a safe Friday and a great weekend. I should be conscious sometime Saturday afternoon.

Hasta la vista, baby!

24 Hours

Fly from Minnesota to San Diego in 24 hours…WTF?
My son left for San Diego on Monday the 26th to go to Marine Basic Training. I went to bed that night, said a little prayer for him, and was awakened at midnight by the shrill ringing of a phone. As any parent knows, that sends the heart racing. It was my son on the line, and after I realized he was well, he informed me that he was at a hotel in Denver.
Denver? WTF? Was my Ambien kicking in?
No, apparently, the airline made a mistake, and my son and his travel companion weren’t given correct boarding passes when they changed planes, like the two other recruits that were traveling with them. After being up over fifteen hours, they rushed back through the airport, and took the rail train back to the check-in register, only to be told that the flight to San Diego had just taken off.
So, my son made a frantic phone call and the military arranged for a hotel, and a morning flight, and my son was calling from his room in Denver, exhausted, disappointed, and a bit worried that he and his new buddy were going to be reamed-out over a mistake that wasn’t theirs.
Last night we received another late-night phone call. It was my son…reciting what could only be a written statement. In a military tone and cadence he explained quickly that he had arrived, was safe, and that he would contact us before his graduation in thirteen weeks, with more details.
Click.
I hadn’t even said hello, because my mom had answered the phone and had came into my room, stumbling through the dark, tripping over dogs, cats, and their food and water bowls.
“So,” I said to her. “We know he made it.”
I can relax a little bit now. You see, I’ve been on a bender of sorts. Not alcohol but food. I’ve eaten everything sweet within arm’s length. If it wasn’t nailed down, it went into my mouth. Out of the gutter, people.
With my son tucked away in San Diego, now it’s time to turn back to my writing. To focus on my characters, my plots, on finishing my manuscripts. On promotions and marketing, blah.
The good news, it’s back to work.

New review of Leather and Lace, which is released in print in the spring of 2009

Review for Leather and Lace

available now @ Ellora's Cave

In print Spring 2009

http://katiebugdomesticdiva.blogspot.com/2009/01/my-review-of-leather-and-lace-by-taylor.html

Katie, the Domestic Diva has read my current release, Leather and Lace and was kind enough to place her review on her blog.

You can download Leather and Lace now @ Buy Leather and Lace or wait for it to be released in print in the Spring of 2009.

Thanks and happy reading,

Taylor

Cold N' Blah...

*Picture of the east edge of our property, which is the property line that divides our land from the "Indian Woods". They were hauntingly beautiful, but were clear-cut last fall and are now barren and ugly. Very sad, really.

Cold N’ Blah…
No, it’s not the name of some alternative rock band, but how I’m feeling on this short-on-sunshine Sunday. It’s approximately -20 degrees Fahrenheit, which is twenty below zero, peeps.

My son left at noon today with his Marine recruiter. Yes, the hot Irish one, who I discovered was married, not that I asked or anything…smirk.

He’ll spend the night in Fargo, ND, and will be shipping out to San Diego (lucky brat) for their chilling weather. Yes, I’m sure it’s probably dropped into the lower fifties and you’ll know him because he’ll be the one in the Minnesota Wild, short-sleeved t-shirt.

I didn’t cry. You’d all be so proud. No, I managed to keep my chin up, and somehow managed not to embarrass him in front of his recruiter. Immediately after they left, though, I tucked myself into my pj’s, fuzzy slippers, and wrapped my body into my fuzzy blanket like a burrito, watching Lifetime Family Network (the alternative for a gallon of Jamocha Almond Fudge ice cream), lying warmly by the fire for the remainder of the day.

Then, it happened.
Before bed, I flipped the switch for the hall light…you know the one?
It’s positioned on the highest ceiling in the house. Of course, nothing happened. Why does this concern you, you are probably asking yourself, well it doesn’t. But, wouldn’t you know that it’s worked this entire time and as fate would have it, or Murphy’s Law concludes, it blows itself out on the day my son leaves for thirteen weeks of Marine basic training.

My mother is only a few inches taller than my five-foot-three inches, and our only ladder was sawed in-half during my first experience using the chainsaw (Don’t ask). So my mother and I are either going to have to stack furniture or walk down the hallway in the dark, feeling our way over the dogs, cats, and whatever else lurks there while we are supposed to be sleeping or wait for him to return from basic training to change the light bulb.

But that’s a worry for another night. Tonight, it’s too damned cold to get out of bed!
Taylor

It's Time

The day is nearly here!
I’m not sure if there’s anything quite as scary for a parent as what I’m experiencing tomorrow. I have a nineteen-year-old son who’s leaving for basic training for the United States Marines on Monday, and he’ll be off with his recruiter tomorrow, headed for Fargo.
Like any mom, I had that anxiety, but it was buried beneath my feeling of excitement for him and his excitement to make it in and become a Marine.
Last night, however, a lifetime routine became my undoing.
You see, since he was a little tike, we’d have family movie night. I’ve been a tomboy my entire life and have watched the shoot em’ up, blow em’ up movies with him since he was about ten-years old. Last night, that lovely family tradition turned right around and bit me in the ass!
My son rented Borne Identity (which I’d never seen, go Matt) and Blackhawk down. Those of you who’ve seen Blackhawk down can probably see where I’m going with this.
Blackhawk is a true story about American heroes who died in Africa in what was supposed to be a thirty-minute extraction mission, but instead turned into a bloodbath with American soldiers fighting to stay alive in the horrors of an overrun city of Mogadishu.
Okay, my son isn’t going to Moga, he isn’t going into the Army, but with the creative mind of a suspense writer, I spent the entire night have those horrible images imbedded in my brain. Thinking over and over again that it could be any war, any time, and it could be my son.
“Thanks for leaving me with such good images,” I said to him, my eyes red with tears.
He of course, went over all of the reasons why nothing like that could possibly ever happen to him in the Marines. Boys become invincible at around the age of twelve, dontcha' know. I'd forgotten that.
So, I’m up at 8:00 a.m. after receiving only about three hours sleep, and have all of those last minute details to take care of today. Packing his room, which he’s kindly giving over to my mother since her room is no bigger than a closet in a fancy hotel. Going to the bank, visiting a sick friend, and spending one last day with my son before his life is forever changed. He’ll always be my baby, but somehow he’s become this incredible young man, despite it all. Now, he’s following in his Grandfather Jim’s footsteps and becoming a Marine.
And his family, well in truth, we are the few…the proud. And tonight, I pick the flick!
Taylor

"Stretch Your Dollar" Contest/CP author Jessica Shin

Announcing…2009 Stretch Your Dollar Contest/Plus, interview and blurb/excerpt from Jessica Shin author of “Tell me Lies” from Cerridwen Press



It’s already 01/22/09 and I’m wondering how the month has flown by so fast. Maybe because I made a commitment to myself to get it all done this year, and Mother Time took it as a challenge.

With the month of February on the horizon, I wanted to announce the beginning of the 2009 “Stretch Your Dollar Contest”.

The winner will receive a free ebook copy of my newest release, “Body Candy” which will be available 02/18/2009. Please go to my website, http://www.taylortryst.com/ for details on how to enter.

I’ve had the honor of interviewing many great EC/CP author’s and my interview with Jessica Shin was a fun one, I tell you. “Tell Me Lies” by Jessica Shin is available through Cerridwen Press and it’s definitely on my TBR list, since I am a lover of all romantic suspense. Following her interview, Jessica has kindly provided a blurb and an excerpt, so dear friends, enjoy!

Taylor



1. Your new release from Cerridwen Press, "Tell Me Lies" looks like it's an edge of the seat suspense, would you say that writing suspense is what motivates you as an author?
A lot of things motivate me, and suspense is a great example. Like building up to a love scene, suspense gives you little tastes of what’s to come, then POW – hits and delivers! In the case of Tell Me Lies, there’s lots of hits!

2. You know martial arts, which is amazing, are all of your heroines tough and able to take care of themselves?
I like to write a variety of heroines, but even the ones that don’t start out strong end up that way. The metamorphosis of a character is as much a part of the story as the plotline itself, and to me there’s no real climax unless the main character has undergone a true change herself. I like to display the truth of personal change in my writing.

3. How old were you when you began training in martial arts?
Probably as an infant. I have seven brothers and have been beat up more times than I care to remember! Formal training started at 15 with Tae Kwon Do, which didn’t last long. In college I took some Aikido and studied a little Jiu-Jitsu, then I took a hiatus and started with Kung Fu when I was 25.

4. You've written for as long as you can remember, is there anything else you've wanted to be besides a writer?
At one point I wanted to be a veterinarian until I found out how much school is required!

5. Did you chose your genre or did it chose you?
The muse is cruel, dragging me in different directions. A Rapture of Centuries is paranormal romance. The Heat and the Devil’s World is fantasy erotica. Tell Me Lies is suspense (although there are romantic elements important to the plot). I think the one thing that really drives my stories is the power of strong emotions. Both beautiful and ugly, I’m fascinated by the things that move us. Love, lust, jealousy, vengeance, honor and pride…I love them all. I want my characters to be driven, regardless of whether that drive is good or evil. After all, you need a good villain, too!

6. What other skills have you developed in life, that you believe have influenced your writing?
In A Rapture of Centuries, the heroine Noelle is an IRS agent. This stemmed directly from my years working for a tax attorney. I like to keep things as real as possible, even in the fantastic setting of a paranormal environment. Drawing from real life experiences helps do that. Having been through martial arts training helped me create realistic fight scenes in Tell Me Lies. I always hate it when I’m watching a movie and I’m thinking, give me a break! They would both be dead from that…

7. What are you working on now?
As usual, I have a number of different projects going. I’ve got another paranormal romance and an erotica focusing on the personal transformation of the heroine in finishing stages, and something of an urban fantasy in the infancy stage.

8. You've traveled to Europe, is there any other place you want to visit in your lifetime?
I loved Europe and can’t wait to go back. The history there is incredible and most of the places I want to go have that historical draw. Other European countries, Egypt and China are places I’d love to see. Japan, too, but I’d probably spend most of my time there at the sushi bar!

9. Some authors dream about their characters, do you?
Most of my dreaming takes place during the day when I’m supposed to be focused on something else. Some characters, like Adrian in Tell Me Lies, just refuse to be ignored until their story is told. They will show up unannounced and remind me about how I’ve neglected them. It’s a guilt trip, really.

10. What's the one thing you'd like your readers to know about you?
I love to experience things, and it seems that every time I see something or do something…there’s a story lurking within. When I stepped inside Notre Dame in Paris, immediately I felt like I’d been transported back in time to hear a story that must be told. On a street in Brussels I saw a girl and suddenly I knew her and all her secrets. In my own back yard I heard a strange sound which certainly had to be the evil creature that had been ravaging the city. A good story can be found anywhere!

Blurb from "Tell Me Lies"

Adrian Ennis has only known the life of organized crime, having been trained to be a mob assassin from age eight. Crime kingpin Ezra Drake is more like a father to Adrian than her boss and is one of the few people she feels she can trust. But when Ezra orders her to kill Tony, her friend and lover, Adrian’s perception of who is and is not her friend becomes a blurred line of blood and bullets.

When Adrian makes an unlikely ally in Atlanta PD detective Damon Wyatt, she learns the truth about her past, an unsavory web of murder and deceit that includes the destruction of her entire family. With an innocent life hanging in the balance—Tony’s ten-year-old son—Adrian has an opportunity to amend the wrongs of her past and to bring those who destroyed her life to justice…her way.

Excerpt

Just when you think a hit is going to be a simple in and out, bullet to the head, off someone and be done with it, some asshole shows up and ruins things. I was cursing this particular asshole as I crouched behind an overturned cocktail table, bullets zinging by my head. Only moments before, I was a breath away from finishing the job. Hal Greenoe would be dead and my happy ass would be on its way back to Atlanta, end of story.
Unfortunately, in this version of the story Chester the Henchman yelled, “Gun!” drew his own and started firing at me. Hal hit the deck, I tipped the table like a sideshow spirit medium and managed to avoid getting a bullet in my ass, or anywhere else for that matter.
The shooting stopped for a moment. I blew an errant strand of blonde hair out of my eye and calculated the risk of sneaking a peek at the world behind the table. The area that used to be the bar was a mess of glass and liquor. It made me thirsty. The bartender, having mixed his last cosmo, lay dead over the top of the bar. That pissed me off. If I’d just been allowed to do my job that bartender could have poured me a stiff glass of bourbon and I’d be on my way.
“Fuck,” I whispered. I couldn’t stay sitting on the barroom floor, my back to the table bottom forever. I looked to my right. Thirty feet to the closest exit. Two bodies on the floor. Jesus, I thought, Chester is a really shitty shot. To my left there was an emergency exit. That would set off the alarm and probably bring the cops.
I listened intently. The band was either dead or too afraid to move or speak. I heard someone breathing hard and fast, so it seemed that at least Chester had managed not to shoot himself. I only heard one other person breathing. Where was Hal?
The sound of the magazine being released from the frame of the pistol was barely audible. It could be mistaken for any number of things. Metal sliding on the floor under someone’s shoe. A belt buckle being latched. But I knew what it was. I’d heard that sound far too many times to mistake for anything else. It was my escape.
Two seconds after I heard Chester release his empty magazine, I stood straight up. In one swift motion I turned, raised my Para Ordnance 9mm and fired a single round into Chester’s very surprised noggin. Before he hit the floor, I was heading for the exit. I had to find Hal.
He couldn’t have gone far, I reasoned. Then I heard the squealing of tires and knew that he could, in fact, soon be very far away, from the perspective of a woman standing on the street outside a shot-up club wearing three-inch heeled boots. But wait—the car was coming around the corner in front of the club. It had to. There was no exit from the rear parking lot.
I stepped back inside the door to the club and flattened my body against the wall. I saw the headlights of a big black Lincoln careen around the corner. It was just enough warning for me to step out of the darkness and start firing at the car.
I blew out two of the tires and capped the driver. The Town Car plowed into a fire hydrant, sending water shooting in all directions and burying the hydrant in the grill. I dashed around the back of the car and came around the other side to open the back door. It wasn’t even locked. Idiot.
Like it was meant to be, I slid into the backseat next to Hal Greenoe, Boston’s newest crime boss, who had taken an unfortunate interest in the Atlanta organized crime circuit. I shot the two goons who were still alive. I put my arm around Hal’s shoulders and lifted the barrel of the gun to rest underneath his chin.
“I’m Adrian,” I whispered in his ear. A fat bead of sweat rolled down the side of his balding head. “You’re finished.”

President to close Gitmo?

President Obama to close Gitmo?I’m not a lawyer, definitely not one of Washington’s go-to advisers, but I do believe that President Obama’s halting of war crime trials, and the possible future closing of Guantanamo Bay Detention Center is the right thing for America to do. It is one of the greatest acts that he could make as both the President of the United States, and secondly an attorney, on his first day in office.

Some of those detainees have been at Gitmo for six to eight-years awaiting trial and sentencing. This, I believe, is an injustice and the ugly fist of power in its worst form.

Do you remember the picture of those prisoners wearing dog collars, being walked by American soldiers as if they were dogs at Abu Ghraib? Naked bodies piled on top of one another. Abuse and indignities. Inhumane behavior.

I’ll never forget where I was on 9/11/01 or the fear and anguish of the American people the day the towers fell, but I was a ‘prisoner’ of the United States Army in my own right. I spent 35 days suffering at the hands of a drill sergeant, having my rights as an American soldier violated. I know what it is like to suffer mentally, physically, and emotionally at the hands of someone with ultimate power, despite having rights that afford me treatment of an entirely different kind.

I do believe that the perpetrators of the attack that brought down those towers and caused the death of so many American lives should be punished to the fullest extent of the law, but I don’t believe that any government should hide behind a veil of secrecy that allows them to commit crimes against humanity.

Doesn’t that drop us down to their level? Isn’t that in itself a certain type of terrorism?

My prayers go out to each American family who lost a loved one, to each citizen that lost their life on that terrible day. To the families of the heroes in the aircraft that gave their lives to prevent further loss, our debts can never be fully paid to you and our sacrifices never enough.

Over the next four or eight-years, it is up to us to come together as a country. To each make a difference in our communities and the world. There’s no more shifting the blame, no more waiting for the other guy, no more excuses.

President Obama has made that very clear, and I for one am ready to follow his example, and I hope others in America are also willing to bring about ‘real’ change.

President Obama has given me the courage to face my story, to draw it out of the depths of my soul, to face the pain it will cause, but he has allowed me to believe that maybe I won’t ignored, and that maybe, just maybe, we’ll all get the justice that’s due.

Are you ready to reach for justice? I am.

God Bless America and Support Our Troops!
Taylor

Are you inspired?

Today’s inauguration of President Barack Obama will be a record setting event for the White House Mall area. There was a satellite imagine that was amazing, showing the mass of approximately 1.5 million people of all races, creeds and colors standing side by side.

They were there to see him, but I don’t think it’s so much that President Obama is an icon.

Honestly, he’s a man who draws the masses to the streets just to catch a glimpse of him, because President Obama reflects so many of our own beliefs.

If you look hard enough, you can see yourself in his eyes, hear yourself in his voice, know and fully comprehend his words, as if spoken out of our own mouths, no matter who you are.

He’s a community activist who has dedicated his life to pulling people together and he’s brought America together in a time when we were divided by war and parties.

Inspiration. That’s what it’s all about.
I for one am inspired.
How about you?

Taylor

Freedom to Dream

I visited my old friend, Del in the hospital today. He’s nearly seventy-five years old and has COPD, which is most likely due to the hand-rolled cigarettes that he’s smoked for decades, but he’d tell you different.

Old Del is a throwback from another generation. A Korean War Veteran, he spent years of his life working in sheep camps in the wilds of Montana. He lived alone for years, tending his flock, riding horseback, and reading ratty western novels, that he’d purchased on his monthly trip to town for supplies.

Now, he’s come full circle in his life.

After the war, he married and moved back to Northern Minnesota into a home on his parent’s property. Fourteen years later, he and his wife divorced. He sold half of his parent’s ranch to pay the settlement, and built a tiny one-room shack on ten acres, and settled into a contended existence completely alone except for his Jack Russell, Princess, who by the way LOVES chocolate. (A girl after my own heart.)

He has no running water, save the hand-pumped well in his front yard.
He has no electricity, instead using propane to heat the room, and a camping lantern to read his beloved novels.

He’s another old soul who reminds me of my grandmother, who loved reading Louis L’Amour. I suppose for Del, it takes him back to the days when he rode the range, his .357 rife slung in a scabbard on his mount. He guarded his sheep against wolves and Grizzlies, in a time before rancher’s used ATV’s to move herds, and transport their hands to the range.

I bought my horses from Del, which I ended up having to sell after suffering a compression fracture to vertebrae in my spine. Now, neither he nor I have them in our lives.

It’s a sad thing, the aging or breaking down of the body, when the mind still longs to gallop full-stride, to feel the wind in your face, and the power of such a beautiful creature beneath you. To experience the absolute freedom of the ride, only to have it all disappear so quickly.

I delivered a card and a new lighter (attributing to his delinquency, I know) and hugged him goodbye, thinking that maybe I’d come home tonight and read one of my grandmother’s Louis L’Amour novels and see where it takes me.

And the thought made me realize that I’m proud to be an author.
Proud to study my craft, and know that though I’m not writing the next ‘Great American Novel’, perhaps I’m taking someone with me on a journey, and maybe, just maybe, giving them a little more freedom to dream.

Oprah disappointed...me too!

Writer Credibility

I’m sure that I’m not the first author to comment on this subject, nor the last, but due to my personal circumstances, I’d like to address this issue.

I woke up today and did one of the first things I usually do. Like most authors eager to write, I opened up my laptop, turned it on, and…checked my email.

While doing so, a headline about Oprah caught my eye, and I followed the link. What’s new, you ask yourself. There’s always some headline about poor Oprah and her weight, her boyfriend, her weight.

Well, this time it wasn't Oprah who was the subject, but her speaking out about author Herman Rosenblat, saying she's "very disappointed" in his now discredited story about meeting his future wife in a Nazi concentration camp.

"That's what happens with lies," Winfrey had said on an episode of ‘The Oprah Winfrey Show’. “They get bigger and bigger and bigger."

I write for Ellora’s Cave and will have two erotic romances published by the end of February, so why should I care? Well, I care because I too have a story to tell.

At 35 years-old I joined the Army Reserves and made it through seven-and- a-half weeks of grueling training. I was ONE week from graduation when my doctor received results of a bone scan, and it was determined that I had over forty stress fractures in both of my feet.

Well, that certainly explained a lot to me, because every step I took over the previous seven weeks was excruciating.

However, that’s where the story only begins. My female drill sergeant had spent those weeks forcing me to break my medical profile. She forced me to train despite the doctor’s orders. She shoved me up a hill, forced me to carry 50 pounds of gear, she berated me and intimidated me, and she did everything she could to be certain that I would have a physical breakdown. Despite everything, though, I completed every obstacle put in front of me.

When the doctor ordered me home on convalescence leave to heal my feet, she was angry that I’d told him about her abuse, and convinced my commander to keep me in unit for my leave, though every other soldier returns home to recover.

I spent 35 days in the barracks.

For 35 days, this drill sergeant refused to allow me to speak to anyone in the chain of command, refused to allow me to speak to the chaplain, and refused to allow me to see the Army Liaison Officer, all of which were my basic rights as an American Soldier.

I was helpless, hopeless and depressed. I was suicidal. I just wanted it to end. The only power I had was to keep a journal of the things she had done, the way she had treated me, and was still treating me. I mailed that home and then and only then did I find relief.

It’s taken me three long years to be able to face this. Three long years to come to the point where I am able to speak about it without breaking down. I’ve been depressed and anxious. I’ve suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, had panic attacks, and suicidal thoughts.

Any outside stressors bring on a major shift in mood, and I would become almost agoraphobic. I’ve had insomnia since I was placed on ‘con leave’ and nightmares when I sleep without medication.

You see, for three years, I’ve been her prisoner.

I was forced to fight for my veteran’s rights. Two years later, I was service connected and began to receive disability pay and veteran’s services, only to discover that though this military police officer violated my rights as an American soldier, she was promoted and never had to suffer the consequences for her actions.

This isn’t the whole story, but a nutshell, if you will.

You see, I want to write about it now.

I need to write about it. To purge my soul.

To maybe, just maybe let other parents out there know that they could be sending their children into this type of environment, and that they should talk to their kids before they leave for basic training.

That they should read the letters from their son’s and daughter’s with a watchful eye.

These are mostly seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen year-old kids that don’t know they have rights, and suffer horrible abuse because of it, committed at the hands of someone with ultimate power. Their drill sergeants.

Not every drill sergeant, not every trainee, but it happens more often than one would ever believe.

Now, thanks to authors like Mr. Rosenblat, Oprah, the publishing industry as a whole, and readers will always wonder.

It will be just a bit harder for me to tell this truth. Maybe impossible, for Mr. Rosenblat isn’t the only author to dupe Oprah and readers across the globe.

Yet, they all could have done one simple thing to avoid this issue. If Mr. Rosenblat had, he’d still have his credibility, and a book deal. If only he’d written and marketed his book as either fiction or creative non-fiction, he could have avoided this entire scenario. But, he chose to do neither.

He didn’t just dupe Oprah, but he duped Berkley Books, an imprint of Penguin Group, and every reader who plunked down their hard-earned cash and gave themselves over to his ‘story’ believing in their heart-of-hearts that this story was a fact.

That another human soul suffered and overcame and something beautiful became of it.

In turn, he dropped the credibility of writers everywhere down a notch or two.

Responsibility must come from somewhere, and I call to every memoirist out there, to every author like me, with a story to tell.

Be truthful; write not for the dollar, but for and from your heart and soul.

You see, anyone can make up a story, but to reach into the darkness of your soul to extract painful memories, and then to put those memories on paper and allow them to live and breathe one last time…well that takes guts.

It deserves to be honored as such.

Not only do readers deserve as much, but fellow author’s do as well.

Taylor

Insomnia medication...asleep or not?

Insomnia medication…asleep or not?

Three years ago I suffered a serious, life-altering trauma, and have been living with the aftereffects ever since. One of the worst, besides the writer’s block induced by depression, has to be the insomnia. (The word even hurts me to type unspoken. No silly, writer’s block, not insomnia, though that makes my stomach fall like I’m on a rollercoaster at Bush Gardens.) You know the one I’m talking about, you sit in it with your feet dangling down, and the dreaded machine carries you through a series of upside-down loops that were created by either the ghost of Walt Disney or Satan himself.

But, I digress.

Insomnia is a serious and crippling condition that not only affects your mind and body, but your ability to handle what life throws your way.

If you aren’t sleeping, how can you function at work the next day? How well do you deal with stress?

If the kids tromp mud over your freshly waxed kitchen floor you are more than likely going to have a Britney Spears breakdown, than if you’ve had a full eight hours of precious sleep the night before.

If your computer freezes up and control, alt, delete doesn’t revive it like the paddles of a defibrillator, you are more likely to throw your body over the top of it and weep, than if you’ve snoozed effortlessly the night before.

I finally discovered a wonder drug or shall I say, I was prescribed a wonder drug. Ambien. You are guaranteed a full eight hours of drop-off-the-face of the earth unconsciousness when you swallow this tiny, inert looking pill. What you might not know, however, is what happens during that blissful eight hours.

I’ve never walked in my sleep, never talked in my sleep, never ate ice cream in my sleep, until Ambien.

“Huh,” I said to myself on one morning when I awoke with crumbs in my bed. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why or how they’d gotten there. I happened to mention it to my mother and son.

“You don’t remember, mom?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head and smiling, thinking he’d played some sort of son 'get’s even with mom for making him air out his hockey bag' trick.

“You came to my room, knocked on the door and just stared at me,” he said. “Then you went into the kitchen and back to your room. I went downstairs and you were watching TV and eating cookies in your bed.”

Okay, at this point I’m laughing aloud. I NEVER eat anything besides the occasional piece of chocolate in my bed, so he had to be joking. Besides, I didn’t remember doing that, and I told him so.

“I told you that you were going to get cookies on your sheets but you didn’t answer me,” he said.
“I don’t remember that,” I told him seriously, when I saw the look of disbelief on his face.

“Wow,” he said and walked away. This is, of course, standard teenage slang for most situations and dechipered means, 'Mom, your weird'.

Since that night, the conversation has taken on many forms.

Recently, I was having another Post Traumatic Stress Disorder nightmare, and I went into my son’s room about 2:00 a.m. and picked up his hunting rifle. He’d had it unloaded and in his closet, since we live in the country, and have no small children around.

Apparently, I knocked the box of shells onto the ground, picked up a round, and pulled the bolt back. My son had awoken by this time, and asked me what was wrong, what I was doing.

He told me that I wasn’t able to fit the shell into the port, thank God, and he grabbed the rifle from my hands with me muttering that someone was coming to get us. He figured out that I was actually asleep and led me back to bed.

He'd hiden the shells so I'm hoping for no bear, skunk, or intruders.

Apparently, one of my favorite things to do however is to eat. I steal their candy bars like a thief in the night, raid the cookie jar, and even eat the rest of the ice cream and put the empty container back on the shelf as if I were never there.

No wonder I can’t shed those last twenty pounds…but last night had to take the cake.

I remember very distinctly logging off my computer and shutting it down. I took my sleeping pill and retired for the night. Next thing I know my mom is asking me what I’m doing. I open my eyes and my laptop is on my lap, and it's morning.

I know I put it away, but it wasn't away… it was on my lap. I was connected to the Internet through satellite and had my email was up and running. Apparently, some time during those eight hours I’d taken my laptop off my headboard and turned it on. I double clicked on AOL and checked my email.

Once it hit me and I’d realized that I’d been ‘sleep surfing’ I frantically clicked through the sent mail file, worried that I’d written my editor while sleeping or perhaps sent an incoherent email to every mailbox in my address book.

But no, I hadn’t done that. I opened my current W.I.P or work-in-progress as we writer types call it, and checked that for any unintelligible tangents, but to no avail, whatever I had done while sleeping, I’d apparently left no tracks.

It seems like I might be getting more work done asleep than awake. Every writer’s dream come true. Poe would be envious as well as inspired, I think.

Now, what'd I do with that bottle again? Have I told you about my memory problem...okay, we'll save that for another day.

Taylor

Magnolia by Anny Cook of Ellora's Cave

Highly accomplished author Anny Cook has a new release from Ellora's Cave, "Magnolia" and has taken her time to answer a few questions for her fans. Following is an excerpt, so enjoy the read everyone.

Thanks,

Taylor

1. Anny, you have several different series of books, how do you keep track of all of the details and what was by far your favorite to write?
Each series has a "bible" with all of the details for that series--character names, maps, time-lines, glossary, and tons of other details. When I write a new book, I add the information from the new book to the series bible. As for the favorite... well each series has its own attractions. Mystic Valley is all about family and the relationships in the valley. Flowers of Camelot is funny and sexy. I love the freedom the series gives me to be imaginative and creative. Ardent Angels is about a family of angel/shifters. And that allows me to be imaginative in a totally different way. Ardent Angels is also a series about a family so perhaps it's somewhere between the other two.

2. What was the name of your first book and how do you think you ‘broke’ into the publishing industry?

Well I'm almost embarrassed to day this, but I wrote Dancer's Delight after I retired because I finally had time on my hands. My husband nagged me to send it to Ellora's Cave so one day I was so tired of him ragging on me, I sent it off. Six weeks later, an editor asked for the entire manuscript. And three weeks after that she offered me a contract with Cerridwen Press. That's my big story. That was two years ago. Since then I've contracted eleven books, ten of them with Ellora's Cave.
3. Have you always written or was writing something you began doing as time passed, and when did you realize that you wanted to take it on as a serious endeavor?

As you can see from my answer to number 2, I more or less stumbled into writing. Over the years I would occasionally sit down to write, but four kids, full time job, full time school all kept me pretty busy until I retired.
4. Did you chose your genre’ or did it chose you?

Actually I don't choose a genre. I just write the story and let it fall wherever it ends up. The first time I read the opening for my first book, I noticed it was marked paranormal. I asked my editor about it. She sent back two words--blue people. So I guess that blue people make the book paranormal.

5. What is your favorite genre’ to read?

I read everything except horror. I figure there's enough horror in life without adding it through reading, movies, or television.

6.Who is your literary hero/heroine?

Cat from The Windflower by Laura London (Tom and Sharon Curtis). A lot of readers have waited more than twenty years for them to write a book for Cat. If they did, I'd snap it up in a second.
7. What are you working on now?

At the moment I have three projects more or less in progress. Color of Trust is the second book in the Ardent Angels series. It's about half way. Jonson's Poussé is a book set in Mystic Valley. And Plane Crash (still working on a title!) is a time travel novel set in the NY/Vermont area in 500 BCE. It's nearly finished.

8. Do you have a dream project?

Pretty much all of my projects are dream projects. Every book I finish is part of my dream.

9. Have you done much traveling in your lifetime?

Travelling... Um, by the time I was 40, I'd moved 40 times. Does that count? I lived in Arizona, Texas, Arizona, Indiana, Illinois, Texas, New York, and Maryland. What’s the one place you’ve always wanted to see or visit and have yet to do? Machu Pichu

10. What’s the one thing you have yet to accomplish, that you’d like to accomplish in 2009?

I have no idea. At my age, if I haven't done it, it's likely to be something that's not practical -- you know, I'm not likely to travel to the moon or be the next President or meet an alien, werewolf, or vampire. Oh, wait a minute... Maybe... the alien. Yeah, that might be doable.

Magnolia
Anny Cook

Part of the Flowers of Camelot

The Yule season has come to Castle Came-a-lot. With the annual influx of family Prince Undain, the last unmarried son of King Arthur decides to retreat to the tower he shares with his partner, Prince Dennac, on the eastern shores of Avalon.
It is there that Dennac brings Magnolia, the woman he rescues from a shipwreck. Fleeing from a dangerous arranged marriage, she quickly accepts the offer of marriage from Undain and Dennac.
Almost immediately, their honeymonth takes an unexpected turn. Magnolia, with the loss of her virginity, sprouts wings leading them to the inescapable conclusion that she is half-faery. And once faeries sprout their wings, they require frequent hot sex. Dennac and Undain eagerly meet Magnolia’s new demands even as they deal with the Yule celebrations and threats from the evil Prince Rugat.

She woke next to a fire, bound so tightly she could barely breathe. Panicking, she rolled frantically from side to side, trying to free herself from her bonds. The last energetic twist took her right to the edge of the fire just as two men bolted into the room with alarmed shouts.
Her view of the room was a frightening, dizzying smear of color as one man snatched her up in his arms while the other patted out tiny smoldering flickers of flame with his bare hands. By the time her whirling brain caught up with what they were doing, she was seated in a huge chair, still wrapped in blankets while both men glowered at her.
“Let me go!” she cried.
“Quiet!” Long dark hair slithered over the man’s shoulders as he planted his hands on his hips and stared at her with a frown. “What did you think you were doing? It’s insulting that you would choose to burn to death before even meeting us.”
His companion, nearly his match in height and build had silky pale purple hair that fell past his waist. As he tightened the belt of his bulky warm robe, his twinkling green eyes met hers, striking a faint familiar chord. “One would think that you would at least thank us for your rescue from the sea.”
Abruptly the memories pounded at her—memories of sinking below the cold relentless waves as the ship was tossed on the rocks lining the shore. She gasped as she recalled her reasons for leaping into the freezing waters. “I have to hide!”
“No need,” The dark haired man assured her gently. “No one will find you here. No one will harm you while you’re under our protection.”
“Protection?” There was a predatory gleam in their eyes as they stood side by side, watching her with hungry intentness. She suspected that her idea of protection differed radically from their idea of protection.
Then the dark haired man crouched on his heels in front of her. “I am Undain. This is my blood brother, Dennac. And we claim you as our woman…our wife. We will protect you from your enemies.”
“W-wife?” she stuttered.
“Wife,” Dennac confirmed implacably.
Could it be that simple, she wondered? Was it possible that fate had flung her into the arms of the only men who could truly deliver her from the terrible destiny King Xurca planned for her? Even at Xurca’s closed court, their names and reputations were spoken with envy and fear. Undain, son of King Arthur and Dennac, son of Prince Dazhdbog, leader of the Unicorns had enough influence and prestige to thwart Xurca’s plans. Grimly she determined to grasp the opportunity for rescue with both hands. Though inexperienced, she had been reared in the King’s Hall and was no stranger to the idea of polyamorous groups so two men didn’t deter her. And since it was made clear to her from a very early age that she would be expected to enter in an advantageous marriage with one of the king’s allies, she had never expected a love match. A statement of claim was as good as a formal engagement on continental Avalon.
“What is your name, little one?” Undain asked as he carefully loosened the folds in her tight cocoon.
“Magnolia.”
Dennac nodded. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”
Undain stood, swept her up in his arms and headed for the winding staircase.
“W-where are we going?” she asked through chattering teeth.
“To the bathroom. You need a hot shower, some warm food and sleep in that order. Then tomorrow, we’ll discuss our marriage.”

Going to Press!

Going to Press!
As a child of a single mother, she, my sister, and I lived with my grandmother Abigail until I was about ten years-old. She died in 2000 at the age of eighty-seven, after suffering from longtime dementia and newly diagnosed stomach cancer.
I was living in Colorado when we received the diagnosis, and flew home to say goodbye to the woman with snow-white hair and the softest hands I ever remember touching. She was the woman who raised me, but didn’t even know my name.
Heartbroken, thirty days later I received the telephone call advising me that my grandmother was gone, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of her in some little way, and the influence that she had on my life.
You see, my grandmother was an avid reader. She was also, however, very fussy and wouldn’t read anything but a Louis L’Amoure western. Okay, I think she read them all…but you get the point.
Also, if a western so much as hinted of overt sex, employed the use of foul language or excessive violence, it wasn’t worth a penny as far as she was concerned. As an erotic author for Ellora’s Cave, I often laugh aloud at the irony.
I have a vivid memory of her collection of raggedy paperbacks that lined the shelves of her handcrafted oak headboard, custom built by my ex-husband. The covers of the paperbacks torn, pages falling out from overuse, held together by a bit of glue and a prayer. Yet, even as a young child, I knew they were special. Important, even if only to her.
She’d read the good ones over and over again, writing the dates on the inside cover. If they were exceptionally good, they’d earn a star.
After her passing, the only thing I asked for that had been hers in life was her collection of Louis L’Amour westerns. She didn’t have much, we were a poor family, and I’m not ashamed to admit that now. She had a few rings, which were given to my mother, and aunts, and that was the sum worth of her ‘estate’. But the books, those meant more to her than anything she’d ever owned, and they were worth more than gold to me.
Years later, while unpacking her novels to place on her headboard after our last move, I peaked inside and found a paragraph of her handwriting on the page below the date at the top.
It said, “San Diego, visiting David (her only remaining brother). “Very good book. Nice trip.”
Tears filled my eyes because it wasn’t only her writing I was seeing, but her voice I was hearing, and it almost felt as though I was reading a blurb from her diary. I realized then, that she had taken books with her everywhere she went, and read whenever there was a chance to do so. She went into Louis’ world, and took him into hers.
We lived in Arizona, and most of Mr. L’ Amour’s writings were of the state as a Territory. Horses, cowboys, and the great American West...
For the first time today, I discovered that my first release, Leather and Lace from Ellora’s Cave would go to print, and be available sometime in the spring of 2009. After gimping around the house at top speed (you ever tried running in a back brace?) and shouting to heaven with joy, I calmed down enough to tell my mother and son the good news.
It only took a few minutes before I looked at my grandmother’s picture on our oak bookshelf and felt my eyes welling up with tears. “I did it,” I thought, hoping for pennies from heaven, hoping that I’d made her proud.
Does it make me any better of an author? No, it does not. But I’ll finally be able to hold my book in my hands, see the cover, smell the paper, and place it on my grandmother’s headboard, which I also inherited by default.
It will certainly be in good company. I just hope Mr. L’Amour doesn’t mind...
Taylor
Taylor Tryst
http://www.taylortryst.com/
http://taylortryst.blogspot.com/