Tag Archive | writing

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TIRGEARR PUBLISHING!


tirgearrpublishing

Tirgearr Publishing opened its doors on 29 February, 2012, Leap Day.
We took a big leap of faith that day to start our new venture.
Now, one year on, things couldn’t be better. We have a great team of authors, our staff is growing, and our collection of books is second to none.

To celebrate, we’re putting all of our books on sale.
All Kindle titles for just 99c!

Join us from Sunday, 3 March, to Saturday, 9 March, for our one year anniversary sale. These days coincide with Read an eBook Week.

What a great opportunity to pick up some great digital books at a fabulous price.

This is no one-day sale. This sale goes all week!

During our sale week, you could win some FREE books.
Comment on one of our media sites and it could be you!
We’d love to hear comments on books you’ve read,
but we’ll take a simple hello or even a smiley.
Heck, just ‘like’ a post on our Facebook page between 3-9 March,
and we might pick you to win a book.
Just make your presence known and if we pick you,
you can choose any book in our catalog.
Tirgearr Publishing
One Year Anniversary Celebration – Kindle eBook Sale
3-9 March, 2013

http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com

http://www.amazon.com/TirgearrPublishing

Fiddlestix – Part 29


Now that Bobby and the Noir are out of the picture, it remains to take out Donnan Varin. Is a military maneuver their best option? Or would some handy manipulation of Varin’s greed serve them better?

Amber Garwood, aka Scarlet Varin, sighed heavily, sitting down at the table with them. She laid her head on her arms, shoulders hunched as the tears fell.

“Please don’t tell Don you found me,” she begged. “He wants me dead.”

“I figured that out,” Fiddlestix told her. “What I don’t know is why.”

“I told about the buildings.” Scarlet Varin raised her head. “He says the decisions were made without his permission, but it’s not true. Before his death, he gave instructions about the housing developments. It was all in files that I took with me.

“He’d been pulling his illegal activities for years. I finally decided I had to tell someone. I took the files to the district attorney, only to find out he was in Don’s back pocket. I had to run.”

“So this whole thing about wanting to find you was just a blind?”

She nodded rapidly. “But it’s more than that. He’s been secretly supporting Château Noir for years. He was trying to get Bobby to take over the Harlich land for him.

“You see, this is prime property. If he could get his hands on this and build expensive houses in a safe environment for the ultra rich, he could make a fortune.”

“But it’s only safe because of Karl and the Harlichs,” Fiddlestix was appalled.

“Exactly, but he was figuring on the protection of the Noir. With them behind him, no one else would dare to mess with him.”

“I just can’t believe I fell for it!”

“Don can be a pretty convincing actor when he wants to be. He had me fooled for years, and I lived with the man!”

“So are we taking this Varin guy out?”

Deacon had been quiet for awhile, but Fiddlestix could see he was fuming.

“Is he really a threat anymore?” This from Karl. “He no longer has the Noir to back him. How dangerous is he?”

“Very,” Scarlet Varin said adamantly. “He’s a rich, determined man. He’ll just hire someone else and try again.”

“There must be a way to get to him!” Fiddlestix told them. “There has to be!”

“There is a way,” Scarlet Varin whispered. “But it’s going to take all the cunning we’ve got.”

Scarlet smiled disarmingly, the genuine delight making her face light up. Most of her makeup had been rubbed off since morning and her hair was no longer helmet hard. It made her look far more friendly and approachable.

“Deacon, how well can you act?”

Several days later, they headed to Varin’s island estate, approaching his compound from the ocean using the Ophelia.

Deacon was resplendent in a shiny, royal blue suit. His blond hair was neatly plaited, falling down his back in a long queue. Loki, Tully and Stumpy flanked Deacon were dressed as corporate bodyguards. The three of them looked uncomfortable in their black suits and narrow ties. Tully was understandably distressed at having to leave his arsenal behind. However, he couldn’t play his part if he clanked.

Varin met them at the dock. Smiling like a movie star, Deacon walked off his boat surrounded by his bodyguards. Hand extended, he approached like Don Varin was his best friend.

“Mr. Varin,” Deacon said loudly in his best Southern drawl. “Preston Keith, pleased to meet you.” He pointedly ignored the bodyguards.

“Mr. Keith, welcome to my humble abode,” Don Varin said with false modesty. “Won’t you all come in,” he invited with a gesture.

Loki took in details of the house transmitting them to the boat with his cyber eye. Fiddlestix and Deacon’s soldiers watched on a computer screen and listened to the conversation on their earpieces.

“Please sit down, Mr. Keith,” Varin gestured grandly to the most comfortable couch Deacon had ever seen.

Instead of sitting on the luxurious, dove gray leather, Deacon sat on an uncomfortable looking chrome chair because it had the best vantage point in the room. He couldn’t help thinking like a soldier even if he was pretending to be a corporate. Stumpy, Tully and Loki took up positions around him, each scanning the room as discretely as possible.

Fiddlestix – Part 27


He just blew up the truck, but has Tully unleashed something far worse?

What stepped from the rear looked no more like a man than a tornado looks like a Ferris wheel. It was well over seven feet tall and bristling with weaponry. It moved unsteadily as if something was wrong with its hydraulics.

Tully slowly and carefully sighted his weapon. Fiddlestix could see him counting to himself and thought she caught his whispered, “Take cover in five, four, three….”

A blinding flash of orange erupted from the chest of the cyber soldier. He faltered mid-step, spinning a hundred and eighty degrees in a graceful arc of flames. Righting himself, he stopped to get his bearings, then swiveled around to face Tully once more. Fiddlestix saw what was left of his face set in determined lines as he moved toward the demolitions expert. He might be a walking tank, but he was slow and clumsy.

The cyber soldier turned his body to take aim at the annoying gnat of a man. With a roar, he fired at Tully. The heavy metal pellet whizzed toward him. Despite its speed, the walking explosive dove out of its path as the pellet flew past him and buried itself in the ground where he’d been standing.

“Bollocks!”

Suddenly the cyber soldier stopped dead in his tracks, swiveling around to his left. He was searching for something.

“Bloody hell,” Tully cursed loudly. “What’s he up to then?”

A shadow slipped out of the trees opposite the warrior and another to his left flank. Only a blur of movement was visible to Fiddlestix, but she was sure her men were attacking.

“He’s on Stumpy and Loki.”

“I see that. They’re barking mad!”

A whirling blur set upon the cyber soldier from the left. Deep cuts appeared in his skin and cyber hydraulic fluid gushed out. Another whirling shadow attacked from the rear, pounding into the cybered man like pile drivers.

“Quit playing, gents,” Tully muttered into his mouthpiece. “Finish the bugger off.”

As if in response to his command, the cyber warrior crumpled to his knees, flattened and bleeding from dozens of wounds. With a mighty crash, his head was smashed by an invisible blow.

In a shimmer of silver light, Stumpy and Loki reappeared standing over the dead cyber warrior, panting and grinning proudly. With a roar that rivaled their opponent’s they raised their hands above their heads.

A shot rang out and Stumpy staggered back a step. Another caught Loki in the chest, spinning him around with such force that he lost his footing and fell on the dead cyber warrior.

“NO!” Fiddlestix rose from her hiding place and ran forward. With her cyber arm, she ripped out a section of the fence.

She heard the report of a weapon and a lump of turf near her left foot whizzed into the air. She ran toward the source of the shot.

“Hannah, No!” Karl stood up, waving at her to come back. Another shot took him down, wounding him.

Screaming like a Rebel soldier, Fiddlestix ran into the woods. She knew it was Bobby and she was taking him down. Ten yards away she saw him. He was dressed in his dirty black uniform, red sash of office across his chest like a gaping wound.

A flicker of movement to her right told her that at least one of her friends had survived Bobby’s shot. She kept her eyes locked on his, willing him to pay attention only to her.

“Stop right there, Hannah, or I’ll shoot.”

“You don’t have the balls to kill me!” She challenged.

Struggling with some inner demon, he raised his gun aiming at her head. His hand shook uncontrollably, sweat poured down his face.

“I’ll kill you, Hannah!”

She took a step toward him. “No, you won’t.”

Bobby gave a gurgling cry and fell to his knees, his chest
erupting from the back with a three pronged blade. He died face down in the dirt.

Fiddlestix – Part 26


Coming into the middle of a pitched battle, Fiddlestix and her companions must find a way to turn the tables against the Noir. Can they do it in time? Or will the Harlichs pay for her mistake?

The top of the tank was open, the interior smoking. A quick check showed bodies of three Noir soldiers. There was no sign of Stumpy.

“This way,” Loki called softly. He was following Stumpy’s tracks in the soft earth. “He must be rigged up,” he indicated one of Stumpy’s footprints. The indentation was deep. “No way that little guy weighs that much.”

They heard the battle before they saw it. Explosions rocked the ground. Automatic weapon fire rattled in the woods ahead of them, punctuated by screams of wounded men. To Fiddlestix, who had lived through more battles than many had even read about, it was as familiar as breathing. To their left they saw the lines of Harlich soldiers taking cover behind the trees.

What looked like the entire Noir army was facing them on the other side of an electrified fence that was topped with razor wire. Like a shadow, Stumpy wove between them, cutting throats and stabbing systematically. The Noir scattered in his wake, screaming and terrified as the angel of death passed.

Fiddlestix saw Karl among the Harlich men in the front line. Buzzard followed her, but Loki disappeared into the woods. The last she saw of him, he was working his way over to get behind the Noir lines.

“Karl!”

She called softly, but he heard her. Keeping his head low, he ran to meet her dragging her behind a tree, hugging her to him.

“I knew you’d come back,” he said proudly. “They’re better organized and equipped than we thought.”

“It’s Varin,” she told him sadly. “It has to be.”

“Come, Hannah, we need you on the line.”

Running low, they arrived at the front, taking cover behind a huge pine tree. Resistance was dwindling, the ranks of the Noir falling back, retreating from Stumpy’s invisible blades.

“They attacked down here a few hours ago,” Karl told her quickly. “Then they came by the river and hit the docks. Dirk went there with reinforcements. I haven’t heard from him.”

“He’s hurt but alive. I found him right after we arrived.”

“Thank God,” he whispered. “We heard an explosion at the gate, but no one reported back to me.”

“The tank came in that way but Stumpy got it,” she told him.

“Stumpy?”

“One of the men Deacon sent.”

She grinned and pointed across the field as one Noir soldier lost an ear and the throat of the next one erupted in a scarlet wave of blood. “He and Loki are working the ranks.”

A Karl’s blank expression, Fiddlestix realized that she and her team were the only ones who could see him, figuring it had something to do with the Shine issued goggles. Apparently, Loki was equipped with the same sort of device. He moved like a ghost amongst the Noir, destruction in his wake.

The Noir parted toward the rear and the Harlichs saw a military troop transport. An ominous air hung around it, making Fiddlestix shiver. The truck gained speed, running down its own, crushing them beneath the tires.

“Fall back,” Fiddlestix bellowed. “Karl, I think he’s put his cybered guys inside. Get your men out of here!”

The Harlich men withdrew in orderly fashion, moving like a wave away from the truck and its deadly cargo.

“Tully, I need you,” she spoke into her radio calmly.

“Coming!” The Aussie demo expert arrived at her side in less than ten seconds. “I was on my way down here when you called, sweetheart.”

“See what you can do.” She pointed to the oncoming truck.

He laughed, rubbing his hands gleefully. “Oi, don’t give me something hard, eh? I might stop loving you.”

He chuckled as he took something dark green and compact out of one of his many pockets. “Magnetic explosive,” he told her happily. “Little something I concocted when I was bored.”

He fiddled with it and his handgun a moment. Satisfied, he looked up at them happily.

“Has to be programmed, see, to follow the bullet.”

Taking careful aim with his right hand, he held the green object in the upturned palm of his left. He shot once at the oncoming truck. The bullet hit the canopy in the back tearing a hole the size of his fist in the fabric. A silent missile followed in the bullet’s wake hitting the canopy two seconds later.

“I’d take cover were I you,” he smiled. “In three, two, one.” He ducked down, covering his ears with his fists.

The effect of the magnetic explosive was impressive. It started as a soft poof inside the back of the truck then erupted in a gout of orange flames. Shrapnel scattered hundreds of feet in every direction. The truck groaned to a halt. Movement in the back indicated that someone had survived.

Fiddlestix – Part 8


Urging the Harlich riders ahead of them, she and her companions rode side by side once more, spreading a little destruction in their wake. They dropped a blanket of cluster bombs behind them. The mini mines were not much alone, but they were magnetic and clung to the shell of the tank. It wasn’t great, but it kept the gunners at bay, buying them a few precious moments to escape.

Dirk ordered them off road, leading them to a path through the woods Fiddlestix would never have found on her own. He took them to a deserted rest area so overgrown, not even a squatter would attempt to live there. He headed for the tumbledown building, slowing his bike to a crawl. Removing his helmet, he looked at Fiddlestix with a sly grin.

“We’ve got a decision to make. Do we continue on the road, or…?”

He held aside vines growing over the sides and roof of the dilapidated building, revealing a door. With a push, it swung smoothly open. Fiddlestix peered through the gloom several moments before deciphering what she saw.

In the dim light of the concrete room, was a contraption that seemed to be held together with toothpicks and duct tape.

“It’s a zeppelin, isn’t it?”

Dirk nodded proudly. “She doesn’t look like much, but I assure you she’s flight ready. Karl and I built her and tucked her away here for emergencies.”

“How soon can she be ready?” Blacksmith was examining the zeppelin skeptically.

“It takes about thirty minutes to finish filling the envelope. We keep her partially inflated so she’s ready faster. The roof is hinged to let her out.”

He chuckled happily, leading them to the gondola. It was quite spacious, able to hold at least ten people comfortably. Fiddlestix was amazed, this must have taken years to plan and execute.

Blacksmith came up behind her again, moving quietly despite the number of items hanging from his tool belt.

“You need something to eat.” He offered her some dehydrated combat rations. “You had very little breakfast, and it’s close to noon. Eat, it’s pretty good. Astronaut stuff, it keeps forever.”

He handed her a bottle of water and took a big bite of his dried beef. Making a face, he forced himself to swallow.

“Okay, I lied about this one being good.”He washed his mouth out with water, gargled and swallowed with great effort. ” Yours is good, but this one, Strawberry Beef Supreme, it’s disgusting. I am not a picky man, but even I find it almost inedible.”He made a face, forcing it down.

“Why are you still eating it if it’s so bad?”

“Where I grew up, even if the food was terrible, you ate. I never knew where my next meal would come from, or if I’d even eat the next day.”

“Nothing like a little starvation to make you appreciate the finer things,”she said, raising her water bottle in a toast.

Give Books for Christmas!


Books make amazing gifts. They’re the kind of thing that keeps on giving since your loved one can return to them again and again. E-books make a marvelous last minute present. Below, I’ve gathered the websites of several of my author friends for you to visit and (I hope) purchase from. Other author friends, please put your links below in the comments.

My book, “Indian Summer”, is an historical romance set in St Augustine, Florida in 1739. It’s available at http://www.secondwindpublishing.com and http://www.amazon.com The novel is available in E-book and Kindle form as well as printed form. My new sci-fi novel, “The Lone Wolf”, is coming soon form Second Wind. ~ Dellani

For William Beck’s great spy thrillers:

http://www.booksbybeck.com/

For the beautiful & moving Paradise Island, Heavenly Journey by Jon Magee

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Paradise-Island-Heavenly-Journey/133686193356313

And Jon’s other amazing book, From Barren Rocks to Living Stones

http://www.facebook.com/pages/From-Barren-Rocks-to-Living-Stones/283465875540

For books by Bethany Warner
bkwriter.blogspot.com

For the work of Olwyn Conrau

http://www.olwynconrau.com/books.html

Visit Karen Vaughn here
http://www.karenvaughan.info/ Karen Vaughn
Find her book, Dead Comic Standing at http://www.amazon.com

For the books & artwork of Mickey Hoffman

http://www.mickeyhoffman.com/

For the funny and poignant, My Bad Tequila by Rico Austin

For your copy of Activate Intuition by Jim Wawro

http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.activateintuition.com%2F&h=f0ed31wfI6BqSkTJ8l_Yv-1xBaQ

To find the work of Mark David Gerson
http://www.amazon.com/Mark-David Gerson/e/B002CQXFPM/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

“From a Child’s Perception” is available at www.authorsden.com/annalfowler Anna Fowler

Susie Schecter http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=lifetimes+ago&x=14&y=1
Susie’s website is http://www/. lifetimesago.com

Excerpt from “Reed”


This is another experiment in first person. This time, the character is a young woman. Ianna Eaton is an art student. She’s very shy, reserved, quiet. She works in a bar part time to help pay her bills. One night at work, a gorgeous man takes refuge from the rain. He needs to make a phone call because he has car trouble and his cellphone died. He chats a few minutes with Ianna and her boss, then leaves as suddenly as he arrived. She is immediately attracted to him, but is upset because she doesn’t think she’ll ever see him again. She finds out how wrong she was when she gets to class the next day.

All kinds of interesting types take art. We have everything from latter day hippies to the typical teenage Goths. I don’t really fall into either category, I just sort of blend in with the scenery in my jeans and T-shirts. The figure drawing room is usually kind of warm since the models have to sit there naked for two hours, so I dressed anticipating the heat in a pair of jeans and a tank top. The only one I had clean is bright pink with a big rhinestone halo and it says “Absolute Angel” on it. My roommate gave it to me as a joke on my twenty-first birthday.

I got into the room a little early, picked my spot where the sun wouldn’t be in my eyes and set up my easel. I was unpacking the rest of my drawing stuff when Dr. Lacey came in and clapped his hands to get our attention.

“Seems Monique is sick today, so we’ll have a different model. A friend of mine has agreed to step into the breach. He’s a little funny looking,” he winked at the class in general, “so be kind to him and give him the warm welcome you always do. Come on in, you mangy dog.” He gestured to the dressing room door. My heart fell to my shoes and sort of puddled there. It was Reed!

I must have looked like I was going to puke. My friend Marcy leaned over and whispered, “Ianna, you okay? You look like you’re gonna faint or something, girl!”

“I’m okay,” I lied. “I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep very well last night.”

I hurried from the room, bought myself a soda and came back in as Dr. Lacey was posing Reed. He had him in a languid pose, reclining on one elbow, his left leg extended beneath him, the right bent with his arm draped over it.

Maybe I should explain about figure drawing. When I say naked, I don’t mean naked with like a fig leaf or something. I mean totally, completely and stark naked! He looked even better than when I had seen him last night. His hair was freshly washed and still a little damp. He hadn’t shaved, so he had a shadow on his jaw. His eyes were not dark brown as I originally thought, but a deep, vivid blue.

He looked up when I walked in the door. I ducked my head, blushing as I went back to my seat. His eyes followed me until I sat down almost directly in front of him. Oh, my God I thought I was going to die! I was, quite literally, at crotch level. Front and center.

I’m not the most experienced girl around. I’m the first to admit I haven’t dated all that much, but I have an artist’s eye for form. He was incredible! His entire body was a gorgeous bronze color, his dark hair straight and his jaw firm and resolute. He looked as if he must have some American Indian blood in him, his features were majestic like some of the tribes in the Northeast.

His shoulders were broad, his waist and hips narrow, thighs powerful, his muscles rippled when he moved and stretched. Dr. Lacey fussed at him when he wiggled too much.

“Be still, you bum! They need consistency!”

But he was teasing. Reed grinned and made a rude gesture which set us all laughing.

“Next time don’t put me in such an uncomfortable position and I won’t move.”

After an hour, Dr. Lacey let Reed get up and take a break while we went out for snacks, get a quick smoke or just relax a little. Reed stood up and wrapped a robe around himself before he got down off the dais. I was right at hip level when he stood, all I could do was stare! I tried not to sit there with my mouth open, but I was thinking, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”

He grinned down at me and stepped down off the dais, holding out his hand to me. I took it tentatively, unsure what he was doing. I guess I kind of expected him to shake my hand, instead he leaned over and kissed it tenderly. I nearly fainted! His dark eyes flickered with amusement, it was like he knew exactly what I was thinking and thought it was funny. Sure, frumpy little artist thinks the model is dead sexy. What a chuckle. He could never want a girl like me. He could have any woman in the room, all he’d have to do was point.

“Good to see you again, Ianna. I hope you slept well.”

“No, not really,” I blurted out without thinking.

He chuckled, a half smile on his face. I wondered if he knew why I hadn’t slept well. He probably had been the subject of the fantasies of every woman he had ever met! He leaned closer, I could smell his cologne, soft and sexy like he was.

“I wondered if you’d like to go out for lunch after class? I have to be back here for the next session at two, but maybe we could get something quick?”

“Sure, um, yeah I’d like that.” I felt so stupid and inept. I could hardly think in his presence, let alone speak.

We chatted a little while during break until Dr. Lacey called Reed to his office. He came out a few minutes later and Dr. Lacey followed him. They went back up on the dais and Dr. Lacey put him back in his pose.

“Good news, ladies! Reed had agreed to stay all week!”

Cheers around the room from the women. Several girls gave each other high fives or did sexy little victory dances. The men looked slightly put out. Some of them groaned.

“It’s all right, gentlemen. I’ll get them warmed up for you and you can exploit their frustration,” Reed chuckled, settling back into his pose.

When Something You Write Makes You Cry


I just got done writing one of the saddest books I’ve ever written. Unusual for me, because most of my work is pretty upbeat. It might be intense or action packed, even hot and steamy, but not sad. I don’t mean depressing, because the story is one of hope and it has a happy ending. However, I had a lot of moments when I found myself in tears.

Crazy. I’m the one writing it, and it’s making me cry. Does that make sense? When we write something that moves us to tears, is that a fair judge of how our readers will be affected? Does it make us even crazier than we thought we were? Or is it something else?

I like to hope that what I’m writing creates an emotional response in my readers. I want my words to excite them, get their imaginations moving and energize their senses. A story is more than just words on a page. They become meaningless and dull if they don’t go somewhere. What if that somewhere is dark, murky, frightening? Or conversely, light, humorous, whimsical? Sometimes that place is sadness, remorse, resignation.

The story I wrote hasn’t really got a title yet, so let me give a brief synopsis. Kyle, a 34 year old single father, is still grieving after the death of his wife, Margo. She died from cancer five months prior to the beginning of the book. Haunted by his inability to ‘fix’ the situation and make her well, he buries himself in work and the responsibilities of raising three children alone. Seeing him heading toward an early grave himself, his boss (who is also a good friend) forces him to take a month off to get himself together.

At his boss’ insistence, Kyle books a cruise and takes his children and housekeeper/ friend, Carmelita, with him. The first night at dinner, he meets Emily. Beautiful and vivacious despite the fact that she’s recently finished chemo therapy, Emily captures his heart. His children love her, Carmelita likes her, everything is perfect – until he discovers that Emily, too, is dying. By the time he finds out, he’s already falling in love.

Kyle’s past comes back to haunt him and he makes a disastrous mistake, thus jeopardizing his relationship with Emily. Tortured by guilt and self-doubt, he falls into a very dark, emotional place. It is a story of regret, rebirth, renewed faith, resignation and remembrance. It also made me cry like crazy.

Have you ever written something that worked your emotions like the characters? Maybe you needed a huge box of tissues. Perhaps it made you laugh out loud? Did you feel the thrill of that first meeting or the joy of true love’s first kiss? Do you think this makes a fair assessment of reader reaction? Is our emotional involvement simply because we are so in tune with our characters?

Feel free to share your thoughts and opinions!

 Dellani Oakes is the author of “Indian Summer” published by Second Wind Publishing.

Beating the Block


Writer’s Block!  These ominous words send shivers down the spine of any writer. Insidious, it strikes with no warning, clogging the brain, paralyzing fingers, bringing grown writers to their knees. There are many types of writer’s block, each with its own pernicious characteristics. Below, I have listed those which plague me the most often.

1) Mid-Line Crisis: This is less destructive than its brothers, but still annoying. This is the unfinished sentence, incomplete thought or dialogue left hanging. The tortured …. of the soul. Though frustrating, it is not insurmountable. Usually a little brainstorming, trial and error and copious use of the delete button get me past this tiresome creature.

2) Ex Thesaurus: Also known as “What Word”? This usually runs with mid-line crisis and is fairly easy to circumvent. A visit to Thesaurus.com or a quick flip through the desk copy of Roget’s can pull a writer past this hurdle.

3) Post Climactic Stress: Or “Where Do I Go From Here?” The hero has saved the day, villains vanquished, lovers unite, children dance around May Poles – celebration time! All right, where does the story go now? It’s not over, but it needs to be soon. However, these pesky little loose ends suddenly electrify, screaming “Solve Me!” What to do? Falling action after the climax isn’t always easy. The one question a writer fails to answer is the one readers will point to and say, “Hey! What about this?” To avoid the lynch mob, sometimes it’s better to eliminate a secondary thread unless it’s absolutely necessary to the plot. Otherwise, it’s a trip to blockage category # 4.

4) The Never Ending Story: As much as we might want our book never to end, it must. Sometimes though, we can’t seem to find a stopping place. The book goes on forever until we get fed up and stop writing, or force an ending. I have one book that is 873 double spaced, typed pages. Not only can I not find an end point, I can’t even read all the way through it without getting lost. The problem is too many sub-plots. (Hearken back to Post Climactic Stress.) Everything needs resolution, making the book go on forever. It will require a major re-write or splitting into multiple books. None of these minor blocks are as frustrating as the fifth category. It really needs no introduction because even the most prolific writers have, at one time or another, suffered from it.

5) The Full Monty: Like its name implies, this is full blown, frontal exposure writer’s block. Insurmountable, uncompromising, frustrating, infuriating, aggravating, annoying, constipating…. There are no words at our disposal formidable enough to fully describe this condition. Any writer who has never experienced Full Monty Writer’s Block obviously hasn’t written long enough. Suddenly, out of nowhere, completely by surprise it strikes! I equate it with being hit by a Volvo station wagon at 90 mph. Hm, can a Volvo go 90? Maybe an Escalade? In any case, WHAM! In the face, hard core, heavy metal writer’s block. There’s no way to avoid it. Once in awhile the Muse takes a coffee break and so must we. As frustrating as they are, embrace these blocks. They force us to leave the security and sanctity of our homes and participate in life for awhile. Use this time to observe others or engage them in conversation. Each encounter gives us a little more grist for our imagination mill.

Research, A Writer’s Lifeline


I’ve got research on my mind because I’m writing a sequel to my historical romance, “Indian Summer”.  Although fairly conversant with the time period, new things pop up.  I needed a timeline for the battle I’m going to include in my story.  I could find a few basic facts, but it wasn’t until I came across a website that was of important dates in Georgia history, that I got what I needed.  Strange, since I’m writing something set in Florida.  However, since the attack was led by General Oglethorpe and his troops were stationed in Georgia at the time, I suppose it makes sense.
 
Another fact that presented itself (from the Georgia timeline) was the name of an obscure fort that was attacked prior to the siege of St. Augustine.  Fort Diego?  Where’s that?  Obviously, this led to more questions than I had answers for.  Initial web searches gave me a lot of information on Fort Diego in California (now San Diego), but didn’t help the Florida research at all.  I did a serach for ‘forts in Florida’ and got a list.  Eventually, with a bit of digging, I found it’s location – well, sort of.  It’s now a golf course, but at least I found it! 
 
Each little tidbit made me so proud, I had to read it all to my husband and eldest son this morning.  They were both interested, which was nice.  There’s nothing like sharing these little gems with someone who couldn’t care less.
 
The main problem I have with research is that I have a tendency to get off subject really easily.  I have to force myself to focus and it’s not always easy.  I find some juicy tidbits which are fascinating, though unrelated to my subject.  I often am tempted to follow these leads. 
 
However odious you might find research, being accurate is so very necessary.  Even something not fully related with the story, like the Fort Diego problem, can be necessary background material that I, as the writer, need.