JULY 2010 FINALISTS

This month I'm going to try something different--mix it up a little.  I'm going to post the 4 top finalists, then let the readers decide which one should win.  This is an experiment, so let's see how it turns out.  Depending on how it goes, I might keep it this way or switch it back or change it again, who knows.  Inevitably my only goal is to give writers a place to get their work scene. Deadline is Saturday, July 31st.

Below are the 4 finalists and there's a poll to the right with the corresponding letters to vote for.  Good luck to the finalists and thanks to all who submitted there was some terrific scenes which didn't make the final 4. 


A- Leah Petersen:

She brought her lips to his again. “I love you,” she murmured, her lips whispering against his.

He stiffened and pulled back just enough that she could see his face. His eyes were wide.

And why not, at such a shocking declaration? She was young, and beautiful, and heir to lands and titles and fortunes. And what was he?

He was dead.

His body slid to the floor with the gracefulness she’d loved in him. The life in his eyes was already gone. It had been very quick. She was accurate in everything she did.

She slid her knife from his breast and wiped it clean on her own skirt. All of the other times she had used the clothes of her victim and what did it matter to them? But this time it mattered, to her.

Matthew would make her pay for this, make her howl until she had no more voice and still he would hurt her. She hadn’t failed, she had defied him.

She could have made the boy suffer, as she’d been told. She could have made him die slowly and in terrible pain. She knew she was capable of it. So there was some victory in this. That she had killed her lover quickly and painlessly not out of weakness, but by choice.

She stood and looked down at him.

One tear escaped and she brushed it away, not realizing that she’d replaced the tear track with a smear of his blood.

B- Lindy Rahn

They picked up her things and began along the pier towards the Sydney Aquarium, holding hands. Luke’s grasp made her feel safe and comfortable. It was the one thing that had been missing and now she had it back.


‘How did you find me?’ she asked, curious. After James, Flora had made very sure that she would only be found be those she wanted to find her. A very small list of people had access to her whereabouts.

‘As soon as Juli cancelled the wedding, I ditched my job and went back to Perth only to discover that you’d taken leave and were off travelling. I’ve been following you ever since with the help of PJ and Louise. They forwarded me the emails you sent to them.’ He held up his Blackberry waggling it in the air. The wonders of modern technology. Then he regarded her sternly, ‘you know, if you were a regular twenty something it would have been easy to find you… I could have just checked your Facebook status or sent you a text. But not you. Tell me again why you don’t have a mobile phone?’

Flora was silent. They both knew she didn’t trust mobiles anymore. Still, she smiled, ‘Well, it’s lucky I’m not a regular girl. Then you’d never have loved me.’

‘What do you mean ‘loved?’ I love you more than I ever did, even though I never said it… and Flora?’

‘Yes?’

Luke fell to his knees. There, in the middle of the queue to see the seals, he gazed up into her aqua eyes as the crowd around them began to clap and cheer. ‘I don’t ever want to be apart from you again. I want to marry you.’

Flora could feel the tears welling. ‘Is this the part where I say ‘yes’?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm. Well, alright, but on one condition.’

‘Oh God.’ He hoped she wasn’t going to make him dress in some stupid top hat and tails or something. ‘What?’

‘We need to go back to Enrico’s before the wedding so you can learn to waltz. Your timing really sucks.’


C- Cyndi Tefft

A hazy sheen of smoke was visible in the moonlit room, wispy tendrils silently jostling one another for space on the ceiling. “Oh shit!” I cried, my mind finally coming up to speed. I leapt out of bed and raced down the stairs. The acrid stench of smoke filled my lungs and burned my eyes as I grabbed the fire extinguisher from behind the refrigerator. I batted at the smoke with my free hand and it taunted me, moving away and then quickly circling back. I pulled the pin on the extinguisher and squeezed the handle, praying that it would work. A spray of white foam poured from the container and I swept it back and forth over the base of the flames.


My eyes were watering uncontrollably and I squeezed them shut, focusing all my energies on putting out the fire. My arms and legs began to shake as the extinguisher spit out its final droplets of foam. I scrambled over the floor toward the door, tripping on the footstool and knocking my forehead against the hardwood floor. Crawling on my hands and knees, I strained to make it to the door to the outside deck. The suffocating pressure in my chest held me in place and I reached out in desperation before my arm fell limp and all strength was gone.

Aiden…

I called to him in my mind with my last conscious thought, then surrendered to the dense grey fog that consumed me.



D- Ali Koomen


“Is it you? Is it really you?”

The girl nodded. “My name is Mallory, and you are my mother.”

Geneva’s hand went to her mouth. It was impossible to take her eyes from her daughter’s face. Eventually, she recalled Scott’s presence and turned to him. “Scott, I don’t—”

“Please, don’t be angry with him,” Mallory said. “I knew I was adopted--when I was twelve, I found the adoption papers. I have always known something was missing. I’ve always wanted to find my birth parents, and now you have found me.” She paused, her voice heavy with tears. “Scott told me about how young you were, and how he wanted you to get an abortion. But you were so brave, travelling to a country halfway across the world. I’ve had a wonderful life, almost a fairytale existence, something I would not have known had you not been so courageous. Thank you, for loving me so much, for being so selfless.”

Geneva looked at Scott. “Thank you,” she whispered. He nodded his head in acknowledgement.

Mallory looked from one to the other. “I think that you two need to continue to find your way back to each other. If nothing else, could you do that for me?”

Scott looked at Geneva, and she could see the old daring-do in his eyes. She turned to her firstborn, and said what parents have said since the beginning of time, when they’re not completely certain of the outcome:

“We’ll see, dear. We’ll see.”

WAITING (Guest Post by Luke Romyn)

Here's what you need to know about Luke Romyn:  He lives in Cairns, Australia, between the Great Barrier Reef and the Daintree Rainforest. He's an extremely talented writer (I read The Dark Path and slept with the lights on for two weeks).  He spent 15 years in the security business only to jump into the most insecure business available--publishing.  Below are his thoughts on the subject of WAITING: 


Waiting….


Every writer who has tried to get their work published in any way, shape or form knows what I’m talking about.

Waiting….

Aspiring authors, prepare yourself for the wondrous world of limbo which exists between completing your work, polishing it to perfection, submitting it to whatever or whoever you have chosen will be honored with receiving such a wondrous gift of imagination and skill and –

Waiting….

Waiting….

Waiting….

Sometimes you’ll get that letter. You know the one. It’s the stamped, self addressed envelope you sent away with your submission, which you yearn to open and yet dread to see what it’ll say. We always open it, hoping it’ll say our dreams are about to come true.

Wrong!

Your world crashes down around you and you never, ever want to write another thing ever again, but being the eternal optimist you are you send off another submission the next day… and the next time… and every time you get that rejection. Because you’re a writer.

Writers are not only people born with perfect diction, nor are they always fantastical wordsmiths who can create vistas beyond the imaginings of mere mortals by threading their multi-syllable words together in such ways to break through new barriers in the art of articulation.

No.

A writer is something else entirely. A writer wakes each day yearning to express themselves through words, their mind and imagination screaming for release through the power of strikes on a keyboard or the scribbling of pen on paper. Other skills which they may require can be learned, but the heart of a writer remains the same, regardless of their background, ethnicity, education or religion.

Because they are the ones who will fight through those rejections, battling self doubt and endure the endless –

Waiting….

– forever with the hope that one day, just one time, that letter will contain the one word which will have made all the pain and stress worthwhile. Three letters each and every writer universally yearn to hear:

Y-E-S.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SHORT STORY AND A NOVEL

Over the years I've seen discussions in magazines and on blogs about the intrinsic difference between a short story and a novel.  This might seem trite but the answer is more than just length.  A short story is usually one or two scenes.  That's it.  And don't waste your time telling us he had green eyes and brown hair and a cute mole on the tip of her earlobe.  The clock is ticking.  You need to begin with a conflict.  The protagonist has to overcome a challenge and we'd better discover that pretty soon.  Normally short stories are around 2500-3500 words, so don't dilly-dally.  I'm not saying you can't set the scene with a full moon or a distant howl from a coyote.  That's okay, as long as it's taking us somewhere. 

I've been fortunate enough to have published quite a few short stories (many are available in full on my website) and everyone of them starts with dilemma.  A clairvoyant patient visits a psychiatrist because she hears aliens discussing the destruction of the planet.  A man gets arrested because he can't handle the stress of his job and that's the only place he can find respite.  These are just two of the ideas I turned into stories. 

The novel, however, requires an entirely different pace.  Now just because you have more time to develop your characters please resist the temptation to describe your protagonist through a glance at a mirror, or someone commenting on their green eyes, brown hair, or cute mole on the tip of her earlobe.  You'd better start with some form of conflict pretty quick and keep that tension going throughout the novel.  The difference is the conflict probably won't get resolved for a few hundred pages instead of fifteen.  Does anyone know what Jack Reacher really looks like?  We know he's big, and that's about it.  Lee Child doesn't waste time with such insignificant details.  We know the shape of the road he's travelling because it will become useful at some point forward.

Now all of this pertains to most genre fiction, so don't get all tangled up trying to make sense when it comes to romance novels, because that is a completely different animal all together.  Let's face it, the details of someone's anatomy are usually the most important part of the story.

Of course the best advice is to study the short story before churning one out.  There's plenty of great fiction in today's literary magazines and journal's.  Just remember, start strong and finish strong.  What did you think I was going to say on a blog named Strong Scenes.  

JUNE 2010 WINNER--KENT OSTBY

Congratulations to Kent Ostby for winning the Strong Scene Contest for June 2010.  Check out Kent's scene below, his was scene # 1.  Literary Agent Cari Foulk was the honorary judge and she really enjoyed all four finalists.  In the end she felt Kent's scene had a simple, yet realistic feel to it.  Also she found the ending very impressive.  It was a hard choice for her as she asked for extra time to really give these scenes a good look.  Congrats to Kent and a big thanks to Literary Agent Cari Foulk with Tribe Literary Agency.  

JUNE 2010 FINALISTS

June's contest asked for action scenes.  The response was terrific and I want to thank everyone who participated.  I also want to thank our judge, Literary Agent Cari Foulk.  There's an abundance of talent out there and I enjoy showing it off.  Congrats to the finalists.  Feel free to vote for your favorite scene-->

1: Kent Ostby


Fear like an ugly, black bile, rose in Duke’s throat as he ran. The
bear gave chase on its three good paws, dragging the other like a
useless set of razor blades.

Duke drew his knife from the scabbard at his side, wondering if he
could make a miracle throw that would save his life.

The bear was on him in an instant and Duke had just enough time to
slam the stick into the bear’s jaws before it bowled him over.

Time slowed.

Like a deadly cartoon, man and bear rolled round and round. Duke
thrust his knife over and over while the bear racked his body with
teeth and claws. The black bear rolled onto Duke’s leg, snapping it
loudly. Duke screamed as the bear reared up on his hind legs and
started to come down on Duke again. Duke shoved with all his might
pushing the knife deep into the bear’s chest.

The bear pulled back, tearing the knife out of Duke’s hand.

As the bear rolled onto its side, fighting for breath, Duke saw frothy
blood on its muzzle. 

Duke began to crawl, fighting pain that emanated from every part of
his body. The river’s voice beckoned Duke and he turned toward it.

Behind him, Duke heard movement and saw the bear dragging itself
forward. Whatever damage Duke might have done to the bear, it still
had a massive set of working jaws. Duke saw another stick and grabbed
for it, pushing his weight off of his injured leg as another scream
tore from his lips. The snow was coming down in torrents as Duke
limped toward the river and dark eyes drew closer to him.

Duke wasn’t sure if he could stay conscious for much longer. The water
swirled near the top of the bank, flowing hard and heavy as the snow
disappeared into it. Duke turned and the bear was only ten feet from
him.

Suddenly, the black bear rushed, looking surreal with the haft of
Duke’s knife sticking from its chest.

With a last look, Duke stepped forward and was swept into the current.


2: Sandra Cormier


A man lounged against the rough wall, smoking a cigarette. A spray of climbing roses almost obscured his features, yet he looked familiar. My mind's eye caught a wisp of a memory, of a scarred face stretched across high cheekbones. He was the guy I'd bumped into last night.

Cradled in his arm was a gun. A big one.

I let out a startled squeak and clapped a hand over my mouth. Before I could move, the man's gaze rose and locked with mine.

He shouted and raised his weapon. At the same time, the pale man in the window opposite followed the gun's line and stared at me across the short distance.

With a shriek, I slammed the window and dropped to the floor. I pressed my hands over my ears as an explosion bounced around the courtyard and shards of glass blew into my room.

I curled my body tight, heart pounding as I crouched on the floor. The shots ceased and shouts rang from the courtyard mixed with the frightened cries of the tourists.

What do I do? They saw me. I have to get out of here. I stooped low and scurried across the room in my bare feet, avoiding bits of glass.

More voices, this time in the hallway. Shit. I expected the door to burst open with splintering wood, but all I heard was a polite knock.

What the Hell? What kind of terrorist knocks? Maybe it's the police. I crept to the door and reached with a shaking hand toward the lock. I hesitated, thought better of it and shrank against the wall beside the door. I held my breath, praying that they would go away.

The knob turned and rattled, then the door exploded inward. Fuck. Not the police.



3: Diana Alkema


Tonight I waited for him to return from his secret rendezvous with my best friend. What he thought was secret anyway. I waited for his lies, then for his excuses. Waited for him to tell me I was wrong, to tell me I got it all wrong. That it was not what I thought it was. That he loved me, that he had never loved anyone like this, that we should have never had that abortion.

Now I am waiting for the ambulance. I sit next to him on the floor, he lost consciousness at the first sight of blood. I waited a whole minute before I called the ambulance. It was a wonderful minute in which time stood still. I just looked at him, absorbed every detail. He looked so peaceful.

The blood slowly spreads on the on my birch wood floor. Deep red and glistering in the moonlight that comes in through the high windows. It feels warm to the tip of my finger. I draw eights in the pool of blood and then I write Orion, over and over again.

I do hear the voices and the noise, I just don’t react to them. Not when they kick down the door to my apartment. Not when someone grabs me under my arms and pulls me up. “The jacket is on backwards,” I want to say but what does it matter. My arms are pulled around my body as if to hug myself and are secured behind my back.

“Wait here!” the voice says.

I hate waiting.


4: Cyndi Tefft


The radio crackles with the voice of the dispatcher. “Suspect heading southbound on I-5…” I flip on the lights and head for the on-ramp as Jake calls in our location. Cars part like the red sea as we weave our way through rush hour traffic to the freeway, siren blaring. We emerge from the tunnel and the target speeds past along the shoulder, sparks flying where the car’s side door scrapes against the metal railing. I hit the gas and follow him, the thrill of the chase building in my blood.

Damn, I love this part. C’mon sucker, let’s go.

The patrol car jerks as we ricochet off the railing in hot pursuit but I don’t notice. The perp is in my sights, the tantalizing nectar of victory sweet on my tongue. The lanes narrow as he crests the bridge, the gap too small for him to wedge past. A Mini Cooper is his unfortunate victim, the little car flung into the next lane with the impact. The sound of wrenching metal pierces the air, punctuated by the wailing siren as the suspect’s vehicle grinds to a stop.

He bails, fleeing on foot, but I can tell he’s injured. I’m a hair’s breadth in front of Jake as we follow, focused intensity sparking within me like a Tesla coil.

You’re mine.

“Stop!” I shout and draw my weapon. The suspect freezes and I slow my approach, my senses on high alert. “You’re under…” I begin, but he spins around and I catch the glint off his gun a split second before the bullet tears through my shoulder. The force knocks me backward and pain explodes in my head as my skull cracks against the railing.

I expect to hear Jake’s answering gunfire but instead there’s a scuffle: heavy footsteps, fists connecting with flesh, grunts and the sound of crunching bones. The sharp tang of blood burns my nostrils, the perp’s body odor mingling with the taste of copper in my mouth, and I fight the urge to retch. Then I’m being lifted and my synapses begin firing again. He’s throwing me over the bridge! Snarling, I claw at him to try and get purchase but he slips through my fingers and I’m falling. Fear eats me alive, the sound of the traffic below calling my doom.

I’m going to die.

Jake snakes out a hand and my descent jerks to a halt. Hope flares in my chest. “Pull!” I scream and Jake’s eyes meet mine, steely with determination.

“Had to make it look good, partner,” he says with a smug curl of his lip.

He lets go.

5 QUESTIONS FOR AUTHOR MIKE LAWSON

Author Mike Lawson might not be the first engineer to switch careers, but when it comes to writing thrillers he might be one of the best.  He was kind enough to spend a few minutes with me while in the middle of a current book tour for his latest novel, "House Justice."

1- Your plot lines are very realistic, do you ever swipe actual scenes from your years as a nuclear engineer for the Navy?

Only one of my books, The Second Perimeter, contains material from my old job as a nuc engineer for the navy. The actual idea for the book, however, came from a real life incident at the Los Alamos National Laboratory where some computer discs containing classified data were supposedly stolen by the Chinese. Scenes in The Second Perimeter that discuss the naval shipyard in the book were based on my experience at that shipyard - but nothing in the book is classified, of course. I do draw heavily in my books from my experience working for the government and time spent in D.C. All my books pretty much begin with something I read in the paper. My fifth book, House Justice, was inspired by the real life Valerie Plame case. My third book, House Rules, started with an article I read about the no-fly zone around D.C. The reason my books are set in D.C. is that it's a "target rich" environment - there's always some god-awful thing happening back there in real life that's fodder for political thriller writers.


2. Your protagonist, DeMarco, was so developed right from the first novel, The Inside Ring, is he a more daring version of yourself?

DeMarco is - sorta - me. That is DeMarco's thought process about a lot of things and the way he reacts to situations is a lot like I would probably react - and, like me, DeMarco's not exactly the hero type. And we both enjoy a vodka martini. Also, and this is a different story, DeMarco's father had mob connections. Believe it or not, my grandfather, an old fedora-wearing Scilian also had few connections to some shady mob people.

3- DeMarco's sidekick, Emma, is such an insider--did you mold her after anyone in particular?

I didn't mold Emma after anyone person. Emma in a sense is a "device". I wanted the books to have a strong female character - but I didn't want the character to be a love interest for DeMarco. I didn't want to deal with the boyfriend-girlfriend thing which, I think, can get rather tiresome after several novels. But the main thing about Emma - and this is the device part - I wanted a character that would be a true D.C. insider in terms of having access to places like the CIA, the Pentagon, and the FBI - and with Emma's past as an operative for the DIA, she provides that access. Lastly, I wanted Emma as a counter-balance to DeMarco - she's more moral, more straight-laced, more inclined to make DeMarco play by at least a few rules

4- Is writing work for you, or would you do it even if there were no readers out there?

Particularly after my old job - working on reactor plants for navy nuc ships - writing definitely doesn't seem like work. I love to write - I feel like I'm getting paid to have the best hobby in the world. And to answer you question, if my current publisher dropped me - although I don't think that's going to happen - I'd keep writing. I'd be trying to find another publisher, of course, but I think I'm so used to getting up every morning and writing that I'd keep doing that whether I had a publisher or not. It's fun making up stories.

5- How are you adapting to the digital age of publishing--are you going fighting and clinging, or are you more accepting of the changes?

I have no control over a lot of the things that impact the writing business - the demise of newspapers, good independent bookstores disappearing, the advent of e-books, etc. That's the world we live in. I just keep writing and hope my publisher and others on the business-side of the books will keep me in the game whether the reader is reading my books on paper, his I-pod, his I-pad, or his Kindle. The only thing I really regret is seeing the small, neighborhood indepdent stores disappearing because they can't compete with the big box stores and folks like Amazon. But that's the way things are - we all just have to keep adapting - like you're doing with your blog.

WE DON'T WANT INFORMATION--WE WANT EMOTION

I began this blog a couple of months ago with the thought that I'd start a writing contest and give new and emerging writers a place to get exposure.  I'm blessed to have a literary agent and have contacts with one or two others who were willing to help my project.  It was a good idea and will probably continue in one form or another.  If someone received attention from this blog which netted them an agent or a publishing deal I would be over-the-moon excited.

Then I thought I'd give some content as well.  Bring the reader some interviews with well-known authors like Tess Gerritsen and Catherine Coulter.  They were both gracious enough to allow me to interview them with my 5 questions segment.

Which one of these would bring more interest? Well, I'm surprised to say Tess Gerritsen and Catherine Coulter don't hold a candle to our own little online writing community.  Both NY Times bestselling authors barely registered a blip on the comments while awards and blogs about "The Cure for Writers Block" drew serious interest.  Maybe I shouldn't be surprised, look at what American Idol has done to us.  Not that I've watched ten minutes of the program.  I'm too much of a music fan. 

So my conclusion is that people don't want simple information, we want emotion.  I should know, I'm a writer who excels at the concept of showing, not telling.  I barely describe my protagonist, but his gyrating adams apple speaks volumes.  I will continue the contest and interviewing authors big and small, but I'll also be focussing on other more emotional issues.  Like maybe why I turned down a print book deal to publish my novel as an E-Book first.  Now there's a post waiting to happen.

5 QUESTIONS FOR AUTHOR CATHERINE COULTER

It's hard to believe Catherine Coulter has written 65 novels and virtually every one of them has been a NY Times Bestseller.  It's been over a decade since she began her FBI Suspense Thriller series and her latest, "Whiplash," is due out June 15th. This will be the fourteenth novel in the series.  She's driven, goal-oriented and an avid football fan.  She's also a terrific sport to take time out of her busy schedule to play 5 questions with a loon like me.  Thanks Catherine.

1- After 59 NY Times bestsellers, do you still get jittery the night before a book is released?

No, I never get jittery before the book comes out, but on the Wednesday two weeks after the book is released -- half my brain is always focused on the call that will come that afternoon from the publisher to tell me if I hit #1 on the New York Times Bestseller List.

2- Are you competitive with your sales, trying to attain certain goals with each book?

Yes, my goal for a long time was to make #1 on the New York Times Bestseller List -- I've done that. My goal now is to stay at #1 on the list longer. You've always got to look up, always, because your publisher does.

3- Are you ever surprised at a reaction from fans about a particular scene or book you've written? Could you give an example?

I find myself both pleasantly surprised and Whoa! surprised, but it's never been about a single scene that I can recall, rather it's how the book has affected them personally, e.g., helped distract them through a bad time or really set them off because they hate a character, such as Blessed Backman, who, I swear, has a very polarized fan club -- those who really get off on his talent and how way-out there he is and those who think him a monster and scold me for creating him. It is fiction, I write. This is not about your next door neighbor.

4- You obviously love to write, but would you still write novels if you were the only one left on the planet and there were no readers?

If I were the only person left on the planet, I wouldn't be writing, I'd be trying to find a taco.

5- How did you become such a football fan?

I was raised on football, was a huge Cowboy fan (my folks were friends with Tom Landry) until I moved to San Francisco and learned the first requirement of a 49er fan was to hate the Cowboys. Not a problem.

5 QUESTIONS FOR AUTHOR IRA BERKOWITZ

After a 30 year career in the advertising business, Ira Berkowitz decided to try his hand at writing fiction.  Boy was that a good decision.  His novel, Family Matters, the first in the Jackson Steeg mystery series, was published in 2006 and won the Washington Irving Award for literary merit.  Since then, he's published two more in the series, the latest one is Sinners' Ball.  He was kind enough to spend a few minutes to play 5 questions with me.

1- Were you a big reader of crime fiction before you began the Jackson Steeg series of novels, and if so who were some of your favorite authors?


The first crime novel I remember reading was Mickey Spillane’s, I, The Jury. Pretty racy stuff for a young kid. And I was hooked. From then on, it was a process of discovery. Chandler, Hammett, Lawrence Block, Ross and John D. MacDonald. Martin Cruz Smith, Robert Parker, and James Lee Burke. And each brought a special delight. I love Block for his innate sense of justice, Parker for his dialogue, and Burke for his poetry. But the writer that made a lasting impression on me was Hubert Selby, jr. His Last Exit to Brooklyn is a masterpiece.

2- Your protagonist, Jackson Steeg, is an ex-NYPD cop and a no-nonsense kind of guy. Did you find it easy to relate to his sense of making things right, no matter the consequence?

My wife often says that when I die, the cause listed on the death certificate will be The New York Times. In a world of asymmetrical justice, making things right – something Jackson Steeg does very well in a damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead kind of way - is extremely gratifying, and the only thing that keeps me sane.

3- Do you ever imagine a time when you decide to end the series--or have you even thought that far ahead?

No doubt I will write other books dealing with characters and themes that interest me, but life without Jackson Steeg is unimaginable. My first book, Family Matters, was written as a stand-alone. But very quickly, Steeg disabused me of that notion. He took over my life, and refuses to let go.

4- How did you come to be published after getting such a late start on the world of crime novels?

Two reasons: Luck, and a valuable lesson I learned during my career in advertising - never take no for an answer. Fifty agents rejected my first attempt at writing a crime fiction novel. But a few were encouraging. They were enough to keep me going. Then one night while watching television I heard the name Steeg during a commercial break. And the Universe kicked in. The first book in the series was all there in my head. A little over three months later the book was finished. Two agents offered to represent it.

5- What are your thoughts on e-readers and their future in the literary world?

E-books have radically changed the publishing business model. And I’m not sure the industry knows how to deal with this new environment. But they’re here to stay, and will only get better as the technology improves. But I expect there will always be people like me who love the smell of a book, the feel of the pages, and the sense of intimacy it brings.

A TOUCH OF DECEIT-- REVIEW

Click the link below to see the latest review of A Touch of Deceit.  Tiffany Harkleroad runs a terrific blog which reviews books.  Thanks, Tiffany for the wonderful words. 


http://twitthis.com/vxbeff

MAY 2010 WINNER- KATE MAYFIELD

I'm very excited to announce Kate Mayfield as the winner of May's Strong Scene Contest.  Literary Agent Robert Brown chose her submission as the strongest scene, although he said he had a difficult time choosing because the writing was so strong.  Daryl Sedore's piece was a close runner-up.  Congratulations to Kate.  You can read her submission in the post below this.  It's submission #2.  I have more to reveal about this piece soon, but I need confirmation first.
Congrats to all who entered, it was a pleasure to read your work.

MAY'S FINALISTS 2010

Here are the finalists for the May 2010 Strong Scene Contest.  The theme was opening scenes.  I know I always say I'll post the 3 finalists, yet somehow I can't resist adding more.  There's such great talent out there who deserve recognition.  So these are the 4 finalists.  A big thank you to Robert Brown, literary agent with Wylie-Merrick Literary Agency.  I'll be announcing the winner within the next couple of days. Congrats to all the participants. 


1- Daryl Sedore:


Sarah Roberts wondered if today would be the day someone would die. Would she be able to save whoever it is she’s supposed to save? She looked at her watch again.

10:15am.

It was almost time for the premonition to come true.

This was the fifth premonition she had acted on. She’d had seven in the last six months. The first two were neglected because she wasn’t aware of what was happening to her. But now, she was reassured with the knowledge that if she followed her notebook details, everything had the best chance to work out.

She reached back and found a few stray hairs above the nape of her neck. She massaged them until they were firmly in the grip of her fingers. Then she tugged them out. She closed her eyes and leaned back on the dirty cement. The slight pain that oozed over her skin soothed her, calmed the nerves.

Vehicles crossing the bridge above came to her. She made a mental note that the next time she had to hover under a bridge waiting for whatever was supposed to happen she would bring a pillow to sit on. The ground she inhabited angled toward a small river at forty-five degrees. It was hard cement. The grass on either side looked more comfortable, but the message was specific. If there was anything Sarah knew, it was to follow the messages with absolute precision.

Thinking of the message, she recited it in her head; Sit directly in the middle, under the St. Elizabeth Bridge, at 10:18am. Bring hammer.

Bring hammer. She had no idea why, but she’d brought it. The hammer sat beside her on the cement. She lifted her wrist and checked the time.

10:17am.

She felt her senses go on alert. This is it, something’s about to happen. She lowered her right hand and picked up the hammer.

The anticipation of the unknown got her heart going. It pounded in her chest as if it wanted out. She looked down at her feet where a pile of cigarette butts were scattered. Her focus was on her breathing. Keep it regular.

Wait and see.

A dead fish smell wafted up from the river. A soft curling, whooshing sound came to her from the water. Any other time it would have been soothing.

Cars cruised by above her. Something louder came and went. Must be a truck of some kind, she thought.

10:18am.

A tire screeched overhead. A horn blared. The sound of metal hitting metal was surreal. It made her jump. Tires squealed again.

A vehicle came into view at an impossible angle. It fell towards the river, along with pieces of the guardrail. The cars’ roof took the impact in the water, crashing down hard on the passenger side.



2- Kate Mayfield:

One of the opening shots of my family’s 8-millimeter home movies was that of massive funerary flower arrangements. Flowers so plentiful and so perfectly arranged that they did not look real. The camera slowly panned a casket in which a young woman laid in perfect stillness. I’ll never forget what she looked like. Her coal black hair lay on a white satin pillow; her lips, painted a bright cherry red, contrasted brazenly against her gypsum-like skin. The thick black glasses she wore revealed the era of her death to be the 1950’s. The glasses looked out of place - why would she need them now? The first time I saw her projected onto our screen she looked so alive and vibrant that I asked, ”Is she really dead, or were you all just fooling around?”

I have tried to remember the first time I saw a dead body. There have been many firsts in my life, like the first time I touched a dead person. I was too short to reach into the casket, so my father picked me up and I leaned in for that first empty, cold touch. It was thrilling because it was an unthinkable act. But there was no first viewing that I recall, because from the time I first entered the world there were dead bodies.

When I was old enough to understand what they meant, people told me they felt decidedly creepy about funeral homes. I knew a woman who always ran to the other side of the street whenever she happened upon ours. She gave a little shudder when she saw me seated in the swing on the veranda. I faithfully nodded to her and remained silent; there was no need to defend my position, and anyway, sooner or later she too… well, I won’t hover. But I could understand how one would think that it might be a bit unnatural to spend day after day, year after year, entertaining the grieving and caring for their dead.

I suppose it could have been a gloomy existence if it were not for my father. Whenever I mentioned “undertaker” or “mortician” to people who’d never met him, I saw in their eyes what they thought. They pictured a dour man. Their undertaker was a Uriah Heap who wore black scratchy suits with dull white shirts that would soon turn yellow. Nowadays, people raise their brows when they think of the modern undertaker who burrows down in courses such as General Psychology and Dynamics of Grief, Mortuary Law, and Death and Human Development. These men are thought of as squeezers, nothing more than ruthless businessmen. My father would squirm at the idea of being compared to them. He never had to work too hard at being different, he just was.

I wondered why he chose to dress up like Beau Brummel every day and take care of dead people. I never asked, for as the years passed, I could imagine him doing nothing else.





3- Michael McShane:

GQ offered no rebuttal. Rather, he fell in behind me as I started up the cracked and buckled walkway toward my porch. I stopped abruptly and turned to him.

“Entrance is by invitation only,” I said. “Get behind the gate.”

“I can’t, dude,” GQ said. “My friend is inside your house. I was supposed to warn him when you were coming.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“You must be blind, dude. Didn’t you see that blond across the street? She was so hot she was smoking. I must have got distracted.”

“You’re a freaking idiot.”

“Whoa, dude, what’s with all the hostility?”

Having absorbed one too many “dudes,” I grabbed GQ by the collar of his two hundred-dollar shirt.

“This,” I said through clenched teeth, “is hostility—dude.”

I jerked my hands apart popping his shirt buttons all the way down to his waist.

“You’re assaulting me!” he cried as he stared wide-eyed at his chest laid bare by the ripping.

I gazed agog at his silky smooth torso.

“Do you shave your chest?” I asked in amazement. “You do,” I said. “You shave your damn chest. I bet you shave your balls, too. You do, don’t you? You shave your balls. Say it!” I screamed. “Say you shave your balls!”

“I do, I do!” QQ said, shaking. “Now please, let me go.”

“Say it out loud!” I shouted from an angry place I seldom visit. “Say the words! Say I shave my balls. Say it or I’ll beat you to a bloody stump, you little poser!”

“I shave my balls!” GQ screamed. His energy quickly faded, and he whimpered, “I do, I shave my balls. I shave my—”

“Did you hear that?” I shouted to the hottie blond across the street. “This pervert shaves his sack.”

Blondie lowered her head and paced briskly down the sidewalk.

“Let the kid go,” said a voice from a distance behind me. “He was only doing what I asked.”

With my hands still gripping GQ’s shirt, I spun him in a half-circle positioning him between me and whoever had been my house.

“Your buddy is standing behind you,” I said to GQ as I looked over his shoulder at the mountain of a man framed between the stone pillars of my tidy front porch, “and he’s aiming that gun you said he didn’t have. Go ahead,” I said to the giant standing on my porch, “Fire!”

GQ’s eyes rolled in his head like he was going to pass out.

“No! “Don’t shoot!” he cried into my face, addressing his buddy behind him. “I wasn’t doing anything. I was just . . . Please . . .”

I turned him around so he could face the giant in the baggy brown suit, who carried no gun at all.

“Get the hell off my porch!” I yelled at the giant.

“You’re mighty volatile,” replied the giant in a voice as soft as mine was loud. At the same time he floated down my porch steps with the agility of a tap dancer.

GQ screamed, “That’s what I told him, Moog! He’s flipped. He’s totally mental.”

I let go of GQ and he dashed away his shirt flapping like a cape.

“The dude has no filter, Moog!” GQ cried upon reaching the man at the base of my porch steps. “What did you get me into?”

“Yeah, Mooooooog,” I said. “What did you get this waste of skin in to? More importantly, what were you doing in my house?”

Moog said, “Settle down, Balls. Maybe you should have a drink. Let’s talk about this.”

There it was again, somebody I didn’t know calling me “Balls.”

“I don’t drink,” I said, knowing full well there were several bottles of Molson Ale chilling in my refrigerator approximately 30 feet behind Moog and slightly to his left.

“Maybe you should start,” GQ said his bare-chested heaving as he stood engulfed by Moog’s shadow. “You have some real issues, dude.”

I said, “Did it ever occur to you that you were aiding a break-in, maybe even a burglary? If you’re really a lawyer you had to know you were committing a felony.”

GQ looked blank-faced at Moog. “You mean you don’t know this guy?”

Moog shook his head.

GQ said, “I swear, Balls, he told me—”

“Don’t call me Balls!” I screamed. “I’ll snap your neck for fun, you little prick!”





4- Gabrielle Taylor:

Jordan Finegold cut through the dark alley, trying to lose whoever was trailing him. Even in early June, the heat hung in the Phoenix air long after midnight. His hair clung to the sheen of sweat covering his neck. Out of breath, he stopped, pressing his back against a concrete wall. Only his eyes moved from side to side, searching for any movement in the shadows. Nothing stirred except a piece of trash rolling along the ground, carried by the warm breeze. Normal city sounds seemed to be on temporary mute, the night much too quiet.

He knew it was happening again.

“Stop running.” An unfamiliar male voice broke through the silence.

Jordan’s pulse pounded in his veins, the swish of each beat racing in his ears. He pushed his body closer to the wall and attempted to force strength into his voice. “Why are you following me?”

“Let me help you.” The voice came closer, the stranger had moved without making a sound. “I mean you no harm.”

“Ya,” Jordan laughed under his breath, “that’s what they all say.” Nervous, he reached into his pocket, searching for the knife he carried for protection.

“Ah…you wish to test your limited knife skills on me?”

The voice was right next to his ear now, but Jordan couldn’t see the man. He felt trapped by an invisible force and desperate to regain his footing. “Try me,” he said, pulling the knife and flipping it open.

A second later, a painful blow to the head knocked Jordan flat on his back. His hands instinctively covered his head as his body curled into the fetal position. The soft rousing of amused laughter circled him. There had been no warning, no sound of a coming strike. Nothing.

“Would you like to contemplate your next request with a bit more forethought?” The man’s voice seemed to come from everywhere…and nowhere. “Here, let’s fix that headache.”

Gentle pressure surrounded Jordan’s head. He tried to see who was touching him, but no one was there. Moments later, the pain vanished leaving a pleasant tingling sensation behind. He had no idea what was happening and wished he hadn’t run from home. “How’d you do that? Who are you?” He pushed himself to his knees, then to standing.

“Those are questions, not requests. Such mundane questions, too. You can do so much better.” There was a long pause. “Let’s try another approach, perhaps this will help.”

A glowing sphere about the size of a large marble emerged from the shadows, rolling along the ground. The silver ball stopped a few feet in front of Jordan. It pulsed with light, almost as if it had its own heartbeat.

He couldn’t take his eyes off it. It reminded him of the mercury he had studied in Chemistry. Nervous about the danger, he backed away from the object. “Is it mercury?”

“Your fear is controlling you. You must learn to trust yourself.” The man’s voice sounded with authority.

“I trust no one.”

Honorable Mention for May's Contest

May was just second month of the Strong Scene contest and as with April I found an enormous amount of talent out there  As a writer I always try to see the good qualities in a piece of work, especially when I'm only reading a small excerpt.  So it's with this in mind I decided to post some of the highlights of this months contest.  The scenes below didn't make the finalists list for May, but these are some fine writers whose work deserves to be seen:

Daniel Simpson:

June got up, switched the television off. She walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. Yates was lying on the floor, eyes open and crinkled at the edges. His grin was lopsided like a six year old with a bag of lollies.

The dishes were very clean.

Bob Moats:

The paint hadn't even dried yet on the door lettering, when she opened the door and stood admiring the name, "Jim Richards, Private Investigations". She looked to me and gave me a million dollar smile and slinked to the chair at my desk, seating herself, slowly crossing a pair of legs that screamed, lick me. She flipped back a shock of blonde hair from her gorgeous face and looked at me with eyes so deep, I was lost in them, then she called my name.

"Mr. Richards," she said in a sultry voice, then paused. Then said again, "Mr. Richards. I want my husband killed."

I suddenly came out of my daydream, staring at a frumpily dressed, middle-aged, mousy, brown-haired woman, staring at me through glasses thick as bottle bottoms. I said, "Excuse me, you want your husband killed?"

"What? Oh, my goodness, no! I said I want him tailed, or followed, whatever you P.I.'s call it," she exclaimed.

"Ah, I'm sorry, I'm a bit jet lagged from a flight back from Las Vegas," I lied.

John Tinnes:

"You here for the IT job?", Ed asked as he slid on to the chair.

"Yeah, you?", the man responded quickly, keeping his eyes straight ahead, focused on the receptionist.

"Yup. Sounds like a tough job though. My friend works here. He says they make the IT folks do Navy Seal combat training first just to get them ready for the harsh demands of the job.", Ed said nonchalantly, as he brushed a piece of lint off his old grey sweater.

"What?" The young man turned suddenly and looked at him. "Really?"

"Yeah, didn't you know? This company has a big deal with the government. So, in good faith they agree to send out employees once in a while to help with special OP missions. Its all top secret. In fact, my friend is over in Zanzadeababway right now. He should have been back about a month ago but his Mobile IT unit hit some land mines and he's still in bad shape. Its a damn shame ..."

"James Goodwin?", the receptionist called out.

The man next to Ed stood up and left out the exit.

"Pffft ... what a rookie", Ed muttered, "I guess that puts me next."

Devin O’Branagan:

My dad was dying and I didn’t know what to do.

As I stood at the kitchen sink, filling a pan with cold water, I looked out the window at the flurries of white fluff dancing in the wind. Cottonwood trees were shedding seeds of new life on our farm, while seeds of death swirled around the planet taking root and growing in every human host they could claim. And now the black seeds of the pandemic-plague had found fertile ground in Dad.

Donna J.P. Riley:

There wasn’t enough pain in the world for men like this. I wasn’t worried about how long this would take, I had all night, and there’d be plenty of time for cleanup when he was dead. “Have you ever heard about the butterfly effect? At least that’s what they used to call it. Now they call it the chaos effect, but both work don’t they? They say that a tiny little butterfly on one side of the world, beating their wings, can, under the right circumstances cause catastrophic weather conditions on the other side of the world? It’s true, I didn’t believe it at first either, but I guess stranger things could happen.” He was looking at me and I smiled and flashed my trademark wink. Right eye. A weakness yes, but so worth it.

“Call this the butterfly effect, there are always consequences, and I’m yours.”

Phil van Wulven:

The front edge of the wing looked wrong. I squinted against the reflected tropical sunlight and focused on the area where I’d seen something move. I hoped it wasn’t real. Maybe a hallucination, a flashback, like they said happened sometimes when you’d dropped acid. I looked away, squeezed my eyes tight shut, and then looked again. No such luck. One of the aluminium plates vibrated up and down. Another rivet popped out, and a bigger section of the wing worked itself loose. If I hadn’t seen that rivet fly, it wouldn’t have been worth a second glance. The wings always flapped and bent around, and nothing ever happened, on these journeys from home in Zambia to school in England and back.

Dawn Hullender:

She quickly dropped her backpack and began sifting through it for the bottle of muriatic acid. She’d packed her chemical kit just in case and now she was glad to have had the foresight. With steady hands and trembling knees she carefully squirted minute streams along the top of the smooth stone. Once the solution began to boil and disperse the buildup of mossy growth, she took a sharp breath when two sets of words began to glow beneath the steam.

Geoff Nelder:

He muttered to himself. “Come on, man, what was in today’s newspaper?” Damn, he was losing his memory… or his mind.

Then he caught a whiff of gardenia. His grandma used to reek of it. Something was messing with his brain.
Through wet eyes he noticed Greta looking back down the aisle at him. “Jack, your stop, buddy.”
He hadn’t noticed the usual lurched halt. He staggered up and patted Greta’s arm. Then he looked back at her as she rubbed her head. Other passengers rubbed theirs.
As he dismounted, he spotted a newspaper billboard announcing ‘Wednesday lottery results’. Hey, he thought it was Tuesday. Did he have amnesia?
The sidewalk baked his shoes as the bus grumbled away. He thought of the bus driver.
Greta’s face had looked sallow, green. Had he infected her? Nah. Who’d ever heard of infectious amnesia? If she’d caught it, then maybe all her passengers, and new passengers and their kinfolk. That’s one hell of a messed up world.

Mellisa Webb:

I walk alone. My feet padding silently along the floor of the empty hallway as it stretches out in front of me. I am once again in my mother's dream.

I slip through as softly as a cloud caught in a peaceful breeze. I am here to help her but she will never know that. No one ever remembers when I'm in their dreams.
I guide people through their nocturnal escapades. I show them the way when their problems become too much for even their dreams to handle. This is what I was born to do.
I am Cassie O'Bryan and I am a Dream Walker.

5 QUESTIONS FOR AUTHOR TESS GERRITSEN

Tess Gerritsen really requires no introduction.  Her novels have been loitering on the N.Y. Times bestseller list for over a decade now.  This summer TNT is producing a new drama based on Gerritsen's Jane Rizzoli and Maura Isles medical thrillers.  She was kind enough to spend a few moments to participate in our 5 questions segment.  She has always been supportive of the writing community and this is just another example of that support. Thanks Tess.

1 - How do you feel when a character you’ve created in your mind becomes a visual entity as with Angie Harmon becoming Jane Rizzoli in the upcoming TNT series Rizzoli and Isles?

--It's a little bit disorienting, because all these years I've carried specific images of Jane and Maura in my head. Even though both Angie Harmon and Sasha Alexander do great jobs embodying the characters, I still have some mental readjustments to make because they don't look like the Jane and Maura I've imagined. But I completely understand why they were cast in the parts.

2 - Will the story lines in the show come from any of Rizzoli-Isles novels you’ve written, or will they all be new material?

-- The pilot episode is based on my novel THE APPRENTICE. The other episodes will be created by the "Rizzoli & Isles" team of writers, but they've been drawing quite a few details from the books, such as Jane's relationship with her mom.

3 - Your upcoming novel, “Ice Cold,” is being released over the summer. How do you feel about going on the road to promote your work?

-- I always enjoy book tours, because it gives me a chance to meet my readers. I love talking about the story, about where ideas come from, and hearing what my readers think of the characters.

4 - Virtually all of your novels become New York Times bestsellers. Are you competitive with any of your famous author friends (in a playful way) about the success of a particular novel?

-- My author friends and I celebrate each others' successes, and I'm always delighted when someone I know and like hits high on the list. We all know how hard it is just to write a book, much less have it sell well enough to make the list, and for most of us, the real competition is with our own past work, not with each other.

5 - How do you see digital e-readers changing the landscape of publishing in the years to come?

-- It's going to force a huge change. In the future, an author won't necessarily have to go through a publisher to have his books available. He can e-publish his work, sell it directly to the reader, and take a larger percentage of the profits. The author who already has a following may actually earn more money this way, than through traditional publishing. However, the unknown author will still find it advantageous to build his name recognition the old-fashioned way. The real challenge for all of us is cultivating new readers, in any format.

The Cure for Writers Block---Music

If you're like me the juices don't always flow at the precise moment you need them. No we're not talking Viagra. (I saw you going there) I'm speaking of course about the mental juices we bring to the keyboard to create the greatest novel ever written.  Which by the way we're all trying to accomplish. Let's face it, no one's missing an episode of "30 Rock," to write a mediocre book.  So I'm here to tell you that music is the answer.  Whenever I get in that rut, I slip on the iPod and go for a run and listen to the words of the artist flowing over me. I can receive the same benefit while driving alone in the car. 

A great example of this was when I was searching for the ending to a touching scene in my novel, "A Touch of Deceit," where FBI agent Nick Bracco's wife has been shot by a terrorist and is recovering in her hospital bed. Bracco knows she'll never be the same again, especially if the assassin isn't found and arrested. Her eyes glisten as she implores her husband to track down the terrorist and put him away.  It sounds silly, but I struggled with his response.  "Bet on it," he sneered.  "It's done, Sweetie," he said with tight lips. You get the idea.  Everything sounded so canned.  Then, later that day, I'm listening to Coldplay in my car, the song, "Shiver," and I hear the lyrics, "Just you try and stop me."  Bingo. No it's not Walt Whitman, but it was precisely the emotion I was looking for--confident and cocky, giving his wife peace of mind.  Yes, I swiped an innocuous and common phrase from Chris Martin, but it served its purpose.

Believe it or not this can even work for instrumentals.  It's the rhythm and the emotion of the piece which can jump start that right side of your brain. Try it the next time you're juices need lubricating.

PS- There's an old Jules Shear song about a bitter breakup with the lyrics, "I've never seen the weapon, but I know the prints are mine."  Is that great or what? Feeling anything yet?            

5 QUESTIONS FOR AUTHOR SUSAN WINGATE

Susan Wingate was a finalist for the 2009 National Best Books Award and the 2009 Next Generation Indie Book Award.  She's a talented writer who's written novels, plays, screenplays and poetry.  She lives in the state of Washington with her husband, two dogs and many other animals.  There's plenty of info on her web page: http://www.susanwingate.com/  She was kind enough to spend a few moments with me to answer some questions just before her latest book tour.

Question # 1--Tell us about your current book?


It’s as if a younger version Miss Marple investigated the crime of Capote's "In Cold Blood." EASY AS PIE is the continuing story about Georgette Carlisle and her diner called Bobby’s Diner. It’s best described as follows: Running a diner isn’t always a piece of cake. Georgette Carlisle, nearing fifty, after losing her first husband five years before is about to lose her next, Hawthorne Biggs. Now running the business with Roberta, old friend, Helen, comes back to Sunnydale and, once again, she is attracted to Georgette’s man. When the two women part company, Helen goes missing. After battling the most egregious sins of men, Georgette and Roberta brave separation, torture and near death. Through the story they discover strengths that empower them separately but more importantly strengths that empower them together. EASY AS PIE is the number two book in the four-part “Bobby’s Diner” series. In keeping with the original novel, the tale, EASY AS PIE, is women's fiction that involves a love triangle, a suspense and, now, a story that slips eerily into romance.

Question# 2-- Where will your book tour take you?

All over the place, from coast to coast. I start in Phoenix as the kick-off city because much of the story takes place there. Then I go to New York and will be attending the BookExpoAmerica conference. It’s the biggest book event in the world. After that I travel to Washington State, my hometown, Oregon, California, Texas and Nevada. My book tour is listed two places—on my website, of course but also at BookTour.com, www.booktour.com/author/susan_wingate. The tour will include many readings and signings but also a few writing workshops along the way. It will be a blast!

Question # 3--Where do you see the book industry in 5 years?


This may be the biggest question of this new century. The book industry has always led other industries in breaking open new and exciting technologies and we’re seeing that in action at this very second. It’s funny because I hear people say that print books will be a thing of the past. Maybe so, but I don’t think in our lifetimes. What the industry has witnessed is a bloom in eBook sales but also, repurchases of the same books sold after the eBook is purchased. It’s like people can get a story cheap (much like dime novels in the early 1900s) and then if they enjoy the read, they turn around and buy it in print because they want to keep it on a bookshelf or by the bed or something. Anyway, that’s what’s happening currently. I think we’ll see a surge of ebooksellers and peripherals that will allow more businesses to do business in the next five years but I don’t see print books going away any time soon.

Question # 4--What's the most challenging aspect to getting published? Writing the book or the marketing?

I wonder what other authors would say here. Hmm. Some might say, “Getting published!” But, for me, it’s the time invested in a search for a publisher that’s most challenging. The search consumes a load of time to find either an agent or a publisher to pick up a story. Of course, this isn’t so with the couple of hundred authors like James Patterson or Stephen King. They don’t have the same problems that other working writers do. But, believe me, they have problems. It’s a gritty industry and you have to have thick skin to stick with it. What bothers me most is the time away from writing. I hate it. I’d rather be writing. The publishing is like a bi-product of writing. A writer starts out writing, maybe with an eye looking to get published but I think we mostly start out just writing and loving that part. Then it morphs into the business of writing which is completely abstract in terms of writing but also in terms of business. I’ve been involved in many different businesses in my life and the publishing industry is forever changing rules, whether that’s how writers approach a publisher or whether the technology is leading the change. But, it’s a business that would be very difficult to leave, for me anyway.

Question # 5--Why are Italian writers from Phoenix so sexy? (Just kidding) Tell us about your next project?

Italian writers from Phoenix are so sexy because they are so cute and sweet and funny and can make you laugh when you’re trying to do something serious like answer interview questions! J

My next project is three projects. First, is the third book in the Bobby’s Diner series with a title we haven’t quite figured out yet. Second, is a children’s story. And, third, is a quirky weird urban romance.

APRIL 2010 WINNER-- AMY SORRELLS

I'm happy to declare Amy Sorrells the winner of the inaugural Strong Scene Contest. If you haven't read her scene it's on the previous post with the rest of the finalists. She was scene number three. Monique High was the Honorary Judge and she did a stellar job. Thanks to everyone who participated. We're already off to a fast start for May. Stay tuned for more changes to this blog in the next couple of days.

APRIL'S FINALISTS 2010

Okay, finally we have the finalists set for the inaugural Strong Scene Contest. Let me start by saying what a terrific bunch of submissions I received. So much so that I completely wimped out and couldn't reduce the finalists down to 3, I had to include 5. Out of over 30 submissions I had the gut-renching duty to tell 25 really good writers they didn't make the finals. That was terrible. And although I've been at this game a while now, I'm still a writer. And writers really don't enjoy the R-word unless it ends with oyalties.
So below are the 5 finalists which I've already sent to our Honorary Judge, author Monique High. She will have the arduous task of choosing a winner. Feel free to comment on these scenes, I'm sure the authors would appreciate any critiques (as long as they're constructive) or support of their work. Thanks to all who submitted and keep them coming.



Scene # 1
Shannon Zweig:


Her anger blew before her like a dark wind as she headed down the hall towards the still struggling redhead and the bored looking Ryder. Raine didn’t even spare him a glance. “Go help Cheveyo get Gavin out of here.”
As Ryder let go of Eden’s wrist, Raine snatched a handful of unraveling red hair, yanking hard enough to bring a short scream of pain from the struggling woman. Using Eden’s hair as a handle, Raine dragged her down the cold hallway towards the glass enclosed exam room. The doctor’s fancy French manicure ripped and broke as she clawed at the hand fisted in her hair. She lost a heel as her nylon clad feet scrambled frantically against the smooth floor. None of it fazed Raine who continued to drag her cursing and sobbing down the hall.
Eden made a desperate attempt to stop Raine’s progress in to the examination room by desperately grabbing the doorframe. Raine put a stop to that futile action with a sharp jerk which not only broke more nails but created a high pitch scream of pain. Wrenching her hand out of Eden’s hair, Raine’s hand snaked out and whipped across Eden’s face. Shocked silence filled the room and held Eden momentarily still. Long enough for Raine to shackle her arms and bodily slam her onto the frigid metal table with casual strength. The silver restraints brought a stinging pain to Raine’s hands, but she ignored it.
Eden’s breath was knocked out of her from the force of her back meeting the table. Raine was able to lock one wrist and one ankle restraint before the doctor began fighting in earnest.
Raine’s long fingered hand reached out and snagged Eden’s chin, forcing green eyes to meet the glacial steel matched by the voice dripping ice. “Give me a reason, just one.”
Raine could smell the metallic stink of fear rising from Eden. She reveled in the dark joy that killing this human would bring her. The whimpers escaping from Eden’s bloodless lips added a savage spark of satisfaction to Raine’s grey eyes. She made quick work of the remaining two restraints.
With Eden strapped to the table, Raine looked around the room. Spotting a number of syringes loaded with some clear liquid lying in the cooling unit brought a small vicious smile to her face. She walked around the table while its occupant’s frightened eyes followed her, and took one of the syringes out of the unit. Raine’s eyes were glowing with predatory delight as Eden’s breath hitched audibly.
“Now what could this little syringe hold that scares you so much, Dr. Lawson?” Raine’s voice was a purr of malice as she dragged a small backless chair over to Eden’s left side.



Scene #2
Ali Koomen:


Andi came awake in a heart-stopping thump. Usually she swam up to consciousness through layers of sleep and took several minutes to become fully awake. This time she was instantly awake and alert.
Someone touched my cheek
She kept her eyes closed as she tuned into the sounds around her. Ticking alarm clock, occasional drip from the bathroom faucet, a car revving somewhere nearby.
Maybe it was the car that woke me
She had almost convinced herself of that when she heard a sound from the kitchen. It was a very faint noise, a soft click. So soft, so stealthy. It wasn’t meant to be heard. She opened one eye halfway. The apartment was completely still.
What did I hear?
When the light came on, she sucked in a great gasp of air.
That’s the refrigerator light ohmygod someone is in the kitchen
She leapt from the bed and was across the room in one fluid movement, turning the lock as she closed the door. She put her ear to it. The apartment was silent.
Maybe that wasn’t the refrigerator light after all maybe it was someone’s headlights reflecting into the room
Her ear pressed into the door so hard it hurt. No noise came from the other side.
Yeah and since when can you see headlights in a third floor apartment
A whispery, slithery sound came from the other side. Andi held her breath, straining to hear. With mounting terror, she heard breathing.
He’s listening to me the same way I’m listening to him
She backed away, hand to her mouth to hold back the scream in her throat.
This can’t be happening
The back of her knees tingled as all doubt was driven away by a low, dark, deep hate-filled chuckle coming from the hall outside.
“Go away. Please go away,” she whimpered.
“All I want to do is talk to you. If you talk to me, I won’t bother you again.” His voice was low, almost pleasant, sing-songy.
“Stop it!” she screamed.
Call the police! 911!
She cast her eyes about wildly for the phone, then let out a groan as she realized it was where it should be, on the battery charger in the kitchen.
“Open this door right now. It’s time for us to TALK!” He spat out the last word with such venom that her bladder weakened. She tightened her muscles so she wouldn’t wet herself.
“I’m giving you to the count of three and you’d better have this door opened. If I have to break it down, you’ll be sorry.”
I need a weapon oh yes the gun
With a sob, she dove to the floor, rolling over to the bed. For a frantic moment she scrambled about, fishing her hand underneath the bed and feeling only air.
“One. Come on, now, let’s play nice,” he said in a wheedling voice.
Her hands closed upon the metal box.




Scene #3
Amy Sorrells:


Twenty-one hundred pennies.
That’s how much my son Charlie needed to buy the baby guinea pig at the pet store.
So Charlie scoured his room and pilfered from his brothers and culled through junk drawers, presenting me with a couple of bulging, gallon-sized bags full of copper.
At the bank, and the teller said she was too busy to count it all, so she set us up at a table in the lobby, where we sat for a good while stuffing paper rolls full of coins and hope.
When we finished, my son had twenty-one hundred pennies.
If that wasn’t a sign from God that I had to buy that darn tennis-ball-sized mound of fur, I don’t know what was.
So we crossed the street to the pet store and brought Pogo home.
Charlie named him Pogo.
Pogo purred when we picked him up. He squealed with glee when we came in the room. He sat on our tummies when we watched TV. And his chocolate chip black eyes blinked at us with adoration.
For four years, we loved Pogo.
And he loved us.
So when Pogo died last Saturday, I cried all morning. We all did. I placed his soft, limp body in a shoebox, on top of fresh bedding. Charlie found a homemade, matching hemp bracelet and necklace, tucked the necklace next to Pogo, and tied the bracelet around his ankle.
As I dug a hole, Charlie brought his guitar outside and sat on the picnic table. “I’ll play Ode to Joy while you read, Mama,” he said.
The whole family stood around the grave site as Charlie plucked a somber rendition of the tune, and I read from the Psalms.
Before we buried Pogo, Charlie wrote and tucked a page-long letter in the box beside him, which I wasn’t allowed to read, but I imagine said something about how Pogo was his best buddy in the whole wide world, and how they will be friends forever, and how much he’ll miss him, but he’ll see him again someday in Heaven.
Friends are hard to lose.
No matter how small.
And sometimes the smallest friends are the most faithful.
Feeling the fur between our fingers and holding our hands to his tiny, rapidly beating chest unveil the flutter of our own hearts, and the flutter of our Maker’s as He reassures us, “I am here. I made this creature. I care for him. And I care for you.”
Because like the Bible says, faith starts as a mustard seed.
If it grows as big as a guinea pig, you’re doing pretty good.
And if you have enough to fill a bag full of pennies, you’re doing great.
No wonder psalmists sang so often of all of God’s creatures.
No wonder God made them every size, shape and color.
In lieu of the betrayal of human hearts, God blinks at us, adoringly, through the eyes of even His smallest, furriest creations.




Scene #4
Colleen Collins:

I headed across Civic Center Park, marveling at the number of hippie-chic types congregating there. The park had always been a favorite spot for transients, their look crossing cultures, ethnicities, and genders. This crowd, on the other hand, looked like groupies following a Grateful Dead tour.
Walking down Court Place a few blocks away, I merged with pedestrians dressed in suits and dresses, the eight-to-fivers of Denver’s business district. It surprised me how many men were wearing their hair longer, and since when had bell-bottoms come back into vogue? But then, I hadn’t been downtown once since returning to Denver. Looked like the business types were adopting their own brand of hippie-chic.
I looked for a Starbucks as I hurried along, saw none. Seemed they were every few blocks when you weren’t looking, but as soon as you needed a caffeine fix, nada. I passed a print shop with the godawfulest, stringiest curtains I’d ever seen before realizing it was actually a large macramé hanging, decorated with beads and feathers.
A Volkswagen buzzed down the street, the Staple Singers classic “I’ll Take You There” blasting out the driver’s open window.
I stopped and stared at the traffic, suddenly aware of how many VW Beetles there were. Which stood out in the stream of larger, gas-guzzling cars.
I felt queasy, as though I were going to get sick again. Rather than give in to it, I continued walking. At the intersection of 16th and Court Place, I stopped at the curb and stared across the street at the building, which should have been the Adam’s Mark but wasn’t. I looked up at the street signs, thinking I’d taken a wrong turn. No, I was definitely at 16th and Court.
The queasiness turned cold, like a chunk of ice in my gut, as I stared at the words on the building.
May D & F.
I turned to an older gentleman who stood next to me, waiting for the light to change.
“Where’s the Adam’s Mark?” My voice sounded distant, faraway.
He blinked faded blue eyes at me. “Excuse me?”
“The Adam’s Mark hotel?” I gestured numbly across the street. “It used to be there.”
He looked across the street, back to me. His eyes had the same confused look as I’d seen in the bus driver’s. Only, this old guy wasn’t stoned to the gills.
“It’s been May D&F since the fifties,” he said slowly. “Been shopping there for years.”
The light turned green and, with a slight nod, he headed across the street.
I stood there, staring at the building, oblivious to the flow of people crossing the intersection.
It’s been May D&F since the fifties.
I knew that to be true because my mom used to talk about shopping there when she was a kid. I remembered she and my grandmother talking about May Company, then Foley’s, buying the chain several decades later.
I felt sluggish, cold. My mind reeled with snapshots and sounds—-the Staple Singers, macramé curtains, that girl in the Indian print dress dancing in her seat—-until it all congealed into a surreal picture that shook me right down to my very soul.
I fished my cell phone out of my pocket with shaky fingers and flipped it open. Nothing. Dead screen. Just as in the mountains. Except here, in downtown Denver, I should have easily connected to a network. I looked around.
Not a single soul had their ear glued to a cell phone.
My legs felt as though their very bones had dissolved, yet I managed to shuffle my way to a nearby newsstand where I read the headlines.
Dean meets with Gray regarding FBl's Watergate investigation
Henry Kissinger's meeting with Chou En-lai
Dick Lamm against Denver hosting 1976 Winter Olympics
I squeezed the newspaper still in my hand, the paper crinkling as I read the date of the paper in the newsstand.
June 21, 1972.
I don’t know how long I stared at it. Minutes I suppose. The shock of it stunned, then horrified me as I’d never been before. Never. With great effort, I shifted my gaze to the paper I held in my hand and stared at the date on the yellowed edge of newsprint. June 21, 1972.
The truth slammed into me, like an invisible sucker-punch, leaving me breathless. What I was experiencing had nothing to do with my meds or my mind. The truth was much simpler and far more real.
I was dead.



Scene #5
Shawna Stewart:

I can see his shoes. I want to look up at him and apologize for moving in such a way that I had broken his rules.
"If he could just look into my blue eyes and see the pain he is causing me, maybe he will let go," a little voice inside me insists.
"No he won't!" another voice in my head yells, "He loves to see you in pain. He will never release you if you show him your pain! You know that. Your twenty-nine years old, now quit acting like a baby and do what you know you have to do."
Coming to terms with myself and what needs to be done, I sit and wait, praying that he will release my wrist soon.
A loud growl comes from beside me. Suddenly, with great power, he releases me from within his grasp and throws my hand onto the hard floor. I can hear my knuckles fracture instantly, and once again a pain shoots through my hand and up my arm. Afraid to move my newly broken hand, I let it lay on the floor. I am in excruciating pain and want to scream, but I know if I do I will suffer painful consequences. I have no other choice but to keep my head pointed towards the ground. I can never show him the pain I am enduring.
Without warning, I find my head being ripped towards him. Suddenly, I am staring at the darkness that keeps me here,. He is wearing a mask that hugs his face like a second skin, his true identity never to be seen. I continue to stare, studying his physique as if I am studying a piece of art. Although I have no way of knowing what he truly looks like, something about him I find hypnotizing. I try to look away, but I can’t. His eyes look like empty, bottomless holes, the blackness pulling me in further and further until I find myself in a trance.
With a fistful of my dirty, blond hair, he smiles as he wipes the tears from my cheeks.
"Is something wrong?" He asks in a devilish tone.
I was afraid to say anything, but at the same time I was afraid not to answer him. Without thinking about what I am about to say, my answer slips out of my mouth.
"Nothing wrong here, just another day in paradise," I smirk as he continues to whip my head in every direction.
The entire time those dreadful words are coming out of my mouth I know what I am saying is wrong. I can't help it. I am in pain and out of patience. I take in a deep breath, roll my eyes, and shake my head in disbelief. What have I done? How could I have let myself slip that way?
I close my eyes in fear, and await the punishment I know is coming next.

REJECTION IN THE MODERN WORLD

There was a time when a writer could simply focus on writing the best book they could write and know that the cream would rise to the top. Keep editing, keep revising, it'll all pay off in the end. Those days are gone. Now you could write the perfect novel, with perfect characters and perfect pace and that probably isn't enough. I won't use the P-word here, but let's just say that you need to get exposure. That's where sites like this and others come in. I've already received commitments from several agents and a couple of publishers who agreed to keep tabs on the blog and even judge the finalists. I want to offer writers a place for people to read their work and comment on what they've seen. 500 words may not seem like much, but trust me in the publishing world that's an eternity. Any agent worth his or her salt could smell a prospect within the first paragraph. So please work at your craft and keep posting your work wherever you can. Because, you just never know who's watching.

WELCOME TO THE STRONG SCENE CONTEST

So you're in a bookstore (remember them?) and you open a book to read a passage. Maybe it's the first page, maybe the middle, it doesn't matter. What's important is you probably made a decision about that book within the first or second paragraph. Something struck you--a phrase, or a comedic situation, maybe a conversation which sounded so real. Well, that's what this site is all about, bringing authors together to share their passages. Every month we'll ask for a particular scene from your novel or short story. It doesn't matter whether its published or not, or even if it's a finished piece of work. The type of scene will probably change from month to month. Opening scenes, action scenes, sharp dialog, no more than 500 words. We're going to offer a $50.00 Amazon Gift Card for the winner and we're going to attempt to do this without charging a fee. Along the way editors and literary agents will be checking in on the work posted. Some of them will even be honorary judges. The idea is to offer a new place to expose more people to your fiction. So bring us your best work and good luck.