Saturday, October 31, 2015

Ancient Pictish Samhainn celebrated in Ch 4/Sc 1B of RAGING SEA by @KimHeadlee

Pictish stone graphic overlay
(c)2015 by Kim Headlee.
The anguished wail you heard the other day was me finding out that another author—a USA Today bestselling author, no less—had just released a novel titled Raging Sea.

That sent me on a panicked Amazon catalog search, which turned up several other books titled either Raging Sea or Raging Seas. I cannot speak for these other authors, but since I selected my book's title more than 15 years ago (and have the old MS Word docs to prove it :), and since it correlates to the name of the central character, I am going to stick with it.

I may end up directing my cover designer to do something that I have disliked ever since Simon & Schuster did it on the cover of their edition of Dawnflight in 1999: adding a subtitle. My first-edition Dawnflight editor selected "The Legend of Guinevere" in an effort to engender some degree of familiarity with readers, since the heroine's name is not, in fact, Guinevere.

The whole point to naming my heroine Gyanhumara was to help jettison fifteen centuries of bad press attached to Guinevere. The same is true for the hero of Raging Sea, Angusel, who is my version of Lancelot.

Whether I add the subtitle "The Legend of Lancelot" to Raging Sea remains a matter of internal debate.

Meanwhile, since Halloween this year falls on a Saturday, the day I normally post a Raging Sea excerpt, I have chosen to rerun a seasonal-themed excerpt originally posted 5/9/15. It features a Pictish celebration, bound in mythology that I invented by mining terms from Scottish Gaelic. 

Enjoy!


Raging Sea Chapter 4, Scene 1-B
©2015 by Kim Headlee
All rights reserved.

The boom of oak hitting stone captured Eileann’s attention. Dread of her future fled. The Dance of the Summer Wraiths had begun! Twoscore Samhraidhean, portrayed by veteran warriors wearing black armor and animal skulls smeared with fresh blood, and wielding blood-dipped cudgels, poured into the hall through the double doors. They leaped and lunged, sidled and spun amidst the audience, whining for Samhainn cakes. Those feasters who obliged their entreaties they left in peace . . . for a while.

When the pleas shifted to screeching demands, the feasters retaliated by throwing the cakes. Much beer-soaked laughter ensued to see apple mush spattered across a gruesome face, or a cake stuck to an antler only to be plucked off and eaten by the “wounded” Samhradh.

The low, loud notes of aurochs horns announced the arrival of Lord Annàm, the Adversary. The accursed brother of the blessed Lord Annaomh was portrayed as a hideous specter wearing an ox head with bloody teeth and eye sockets. The identity of the warrior dancing the part of Lord Annàm was a secret kept only by the High Priest lest evil befall the chosen warrior. For it was the eternal role of the Adversary to incite his Samhraidhean to inflict ever greater cruelty upon mortal kind.

Lord Annàm stalked toward the dais, swinging two bloody cudgels, which he knocked together in time to the music, creating a fearsome clatter. At each beat, the Samhraidhean lunged and jumped and swiped at their victims, growling and howling to raise the dead. With a roar, Lord Annàm leaped toward Eileann, making her squeal. She pelted him with cake after cake, but he kept roaring and surging toward her and her parents, his cudgels’ rhythm beating ever faster, like the rhythm of Eileann’s heart.

“Who shall save us?” became the constant chorus of the oppressed.

“None shall save you from Lord Annàm and his Samhraidhean!” answered the Summer Wraiths, time and again, with malicious glee.

At the height of the verbal frenzy, the High Priest thumped his staff on the slate floor and called, “Behold Lord Annaomh! He hears our cries! He sees our plight! Praise be to the Lord of Light!”

In charged Lord Annaomh, brandishing a flaming spear that glowed golden against his whitewashed armor, face, hands, boots, and helmet. The Army of the Blest, similarly armed and painted, though carrying torches rather than spears, sprinted into the hall behind him. They fanned out to engage the Samhraidhean, drawing the spirits’ attacks upon themselves and prompting heartfelt cheers of, “Praise be to our Chief Savior, Lord Annaomh! Praise be to the Blest!”

One of the Blest was Eileann’s younger sister Rionnag, who had completed her test-of-blood rite not a month past. Grinning fiercely, her new bian-sporan bouncing against her leather battle-kilt, Rionnag bounded toward the dais, swinging her torch and scattering Samhraidhean to scurry, wailing and cringing, toward the shadows.

All of this, Eileann was expecting. When Lord Annaomh raced over to assist Rionnag in sparring with Lord Annàm, Eileann gasped.

Tavyn was portraying the blessed Lord Annaomh!

Eileann’s surprise vanished with her next breath; Tavyn was indeed the logical choice for this coveted honor. His cavalry squad had been instrumental in piercing the Saxon line during the attempted invasion of Maun, and Tavyn’s own javelin had struck first blood, earning him a special legion accolade. Of course such keenness for battle came with a price, but Eileann was relieved to note that Tavyn’s healing leg wound didn’t seem to be troubling him overmuch as he and Rionnag chased off Lord Annàm and the Samhraidhean closest to the dais.

As Lord Annàm followed the last of the Summer Wraiths from the hall to the jeers of the “rescued” feasters, servants marched in with more heather beer and platters of freshly picked apples for rewarding the Blest. By tradition, peeled apples were bestowed upon the saviors.

Tavyn, as was his due as Lord Annaomh, was receiving his Samhainn reward from their parents. Eileann grabbed an apple and her knife, and chatted with a panting but happy Rionnag as the peels pattered onto the table between them.

When she was almost ready to present her offering, she noticed Rionnag’s eyes widen and dart from the apple peels to Eileann and back to the peels. An ancient belief stated that an apple peeled on Samhainn would spell the letter signifying one’s destined spouse. With so many people and so few letters with which to begin a name, Eileann had never placed stock in that method of prophecy . . . until this night.

The peels from Eileann’s apple had fallen into two piles. One pile suggested the triangular outline of a harp. The other spelled the letter A. Eileann touched the peel forming the sound board of the harp-shaped pile. The peel sprung under her fingernail to make a sideways A.

“None of your suitors has a name that starts with that letter,” whispered Rionnag, glancing at their parents. Eileann felt thankful that they were still occupied with Tavyn. Dynann was presenting him with a full, frothy flagon. “Know you another man—”

“Nay. No one.” Her heart thudding like a war drum, Eileann swept the peels to the floor lest anyone else notice.

She sucked in a breath and touched her mother’s arm. “Iomar,” she said.

“What’s that, dear?” Dynann watched Tavyn accept the ritual offering from Rionnach and take the first bite.

Eileann pressed her fingers into Dynann’s arm, over the tattoo of the wave-shaped serpent that symbolized Rionnach’s clan, Uisnathrean. Her mother regarded her with more annoyance than curiosity, and Eileann almost changed her mind. But the clan couldn’t afford for her to. She cleared her throat and swallowed her trepidation.

“At Belteine, I will marry Iomar mac Morra of Clan Rioghail.”

***

All this month, you are invited to...
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...and each action this month is good for one chance to win an e-book copy of Morning's Journey. Please enter often, and good luck!

Friday, October 30, 2015

Spotlight on Colonel Brandon's Widow and Willoughby by Marianna Green #Austensequel

colonelbrandon

BOOK INFORMATION

TITLE – Colonel Brandon's Widow and Willoughby: a Jane Austen 'Sense and Sensibility' sequel
AUTHOR – Marianna Green
GENRE – Historical
PUBLICATION DATE – August 2015
LENGTH (Pages/# Words) - 33,000
PUBLISHER – Self
COVER ARTIST – Period Images/ Nancy Design


BOOK SYNOPSIS



Mrs Brandon, the former Marianne Dashwood, is now a widow, and not yet twenty-five. Her former admirer Willoughby is as unhappily married as ever, and the thought that she is free to marry again drives him to distraction. He has continued in his dissolute lifestyle, which Marianne abhors, while his wife Sophia's life has been poisoned by jealousy of Marianne.



Marianne urges him that the only possibility of happiness for Willoughby and his wife is for him to give up his empty pursuit of pleasure - but now the Colonel is gone, Marianne finds that she can no longer push aside thoughts of Willoughby easily herself; she must find some way of occupying her own empty hours.


Willoughby retains his rascally charm, which an older and wiser Marianne is determined to resist; Elinor and Edward are as astute as ever, while Sir John and Lady Middleton are as foolish. Mrs. Jennings remains determined to marry off all her associates as before, while Sophia Willoughby is even more sour as the wife of the man she wanted, and Willoughby's friends are suitably cynical rakes.


This sequel to Jane Austen's 'Sense and Sensibility' strives to emulate some of the light ironic touch of the inimitable style of Jane Austen; it is both funny and sad, and is told as dark comedy.


Colonel Brandon - Cover 

BUY & TBR LINKS




EXCERPT
'The union of the Willoughby’s only resembled that of the Brandon’s in being childless. Unlike the latter couple, they had no common interests to compensate, unless an unfortunate tendency to over indulge in wine and other stimulants could count as a mutual source of diversion.


It is true that they did share in common a manner of relating to each other that involved raised voices behind slammed doors, angry silences and periods of cold civility; but this shared inclination brought them no closer together.


It could be further urged on their behalf , that in this conduct, they provided society with the diversion of much talk, and their staff with constant entertainment; - for Willoughby’s confidential valet knew all about his improper pursuits, while his wife’s lady’s maid could recount how Mrs Willoughby had cursed him for a fortune hunting libertine in full hearing of the servants, and of how savagely he had kicked shut her sitting room door before retorting that, ‘Devil take it, in his whole worthless life, he had only cared for Mrs Brandon, and he’d be damned if he pretended anything else to please a scolding…’ But the reader does not wish to hear any more of this.


Seemingly their staff lacked any discretion, and soon enough, the content of the Willoughby’s exchanges leaked out into polite society, which showed still less decorum in repeating them assiduously. Many a man had dined out for a month on his knowledge of episodes that ought to have been cloaked in decent silence, and Miss Steele was one of many maiden ladies agog for the latest outrage.'



AUTHOR BIO

'Marianna Green lives in Wales, UK. She has long been fascinated with the classics of English Literature, and particularly admires the trenchant wit of Jane Austen'

AUTHOR FOLLOW LINK




This Event Has Been Organized & Hosted by 33c16-mini2bbutton

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All this month, you are invited to...
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...and each action this month is good for one chance to win an e-book copy of Morning's Journey. Please enter often, and good luck!

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

The Business of Writing Workshop Update: Diving Deeper (workshop part 2) #ASMSG #MFRWOrg

Elephant Rock, Heimaey, Islas Vestman, Suðurland, Islandia,
c2014-08-17 by DD_036 via Wikimedia Commons.
Last week was a hoot and a half for me: I learned rather at the last minute that the Rising Star programming chair had scheduled my "Business of Writing" workshop for not one hour but two! That left me scrambling to assemble a second presentation.

Fortunately, having blogged about various Business of Writing topics once a week since the beginning of June, I had a wealth of material upon which to draw.

The topics I selected for part 2, which I titled "Diving Deeper":
A timely article about the essentials of public speaking by author Nikki Woods reminded me of several tips and techniques:
http://www.nikkiwoodsmedia.com/12-essential-principles-effective-public-speaking/ -- though, for the record, I didn't do a lot of practicing, as she suggests, because as I mentioned last week, my public-speaking strength lies in being extemporaneous and connecting with the audience.

I am pleased to report that both workshop sessions went quite well at Rising Star! Since I am slotted for just one hour at ChessieCon (Baltimore, MD, "Black Friday" 11/27/2015,  4:15 p.m.), I feel quite well prepared to do a good job there -- though I may give a quick run-down of both sets of topics and ask the audience which presentation they would prefer to see.

Part one's list of topics may be viewed here. If you could attend one of my Business of Writing workshops, which topics would you like to learn more about?

***
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All this month, you are invited to...
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...and each action this month is good for one chance to win an e-book copy of Morning's Journey. Please enter often, and good luck!

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

The Challenge #FREE Download Oct 27-28! #historical #fantasy @GoddessFish

It's my party, and I'll...
make my book FREE if I want to!

Okay, so my lyrics don't quite fit the earworm, but you're welcome.
On all counts. :)

The Challenge
A Dragon's Dove Chronicles Novella

Genre: Historical Fantasy Romance
Author: Kim Iverson Headlee
Publisher: Pendragon Cove Press
Release date: July 2014
Length: 6K words

Synopsis:
The gauntlet is thrown. One must die. Refusal is not an option.

Arthur the High King of Breatein has fallen captive of a longtime enemy, the Saxon warrior-princess Camilla, who lusts to avenge the death of her betrothed at Gyan’s hands and will stop at nothing, even the black arts, to achieve her goal. Because Gyan and Arthur have grown estranged, she fears that Arthur may side with Camilla and make her his new queen.

To meet Camilla’s challenge, Gyan must face all her demons—public as well as private.


Buy Links:
Kindle Unlimited (worldwide)
Print edition (Createspace or Amazon)

Excerpt:
Upon reaching Gyan’s side, Angusel thrust a scroll into her hand, his gaze softening. Her stomach knotted. It took all her strength of will to keep her hands from trembling as she broke the seal and unrolled the parchment to read its contents.

She had expected word of Arthur’s condition, couched in threats. Not this.

Camilla had issued a personal challenge to end the impasse by single combat in front of Gyan’s troops. If Gyan declined the challenge, violated the terms, or lost the fight, her crown would be declared forfeit.

Gyan crushed the parchment in her fist.


Buy Links:
Kindle Unlimited (worldwide)
Print edition (Createspace or Amazon)

Coming soon:
Full-Color Graphic Novel and Audiobook editions

Storyboard and art c2015 by Wendy Carey.
Meantime, download your FREE Kindle copy Oct. 27-28!

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All this month, you are invited to...
— Follow Kim on Twitter
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— Subscribe to Kim's YouTube channel
— Leave a comment on any page of The Maze, especially if you have done the Twitter, Pinterest, and/or YouTube follow
...and each action this month is good for one chance to win an e-book copy of Morning's Journey. Please enter often, and good luck!

Monday, October 26, 2015

The Irish Warrior - More Than Just A Hot Irish Hero by @AshleyYork1066 #newrelease

Today on The Maze I welcome back author 
Ashley York and her thoughts about the ideal hot Irish hero, with a spotlight on her latest release, 
The Irish Warrior!

In Ashley's words:

When I first envisioned Sean O'Cisoghe, I saw a dark haired Rollo. I'm a big Rollo fan. He's the hottest with his long hair and broad shoulders... although Clive Standen himself isn't bad to look at either. Trying to choose the right words to convey his personality was the challenge.

In any television series, they can easily switch up how they want the character to behave. I think in the beginning of the Viking series, they weren't sure Rollo would have many redeeming qualities. Early on they have him "use" a servant girl to ease his nerves about the upcoming voyage west. Not very redeeming. I'm sure it was the fans reaction to him that had the writers deciding they needed to make him more upstanding...and write him into most scenes :)

So I came up with these top traits and you can tell me if you agree that these are traits Rollo (and Sean) have:

  1. a drop dead gorgeous, solid body with pecs and abs you could bounce a dime off of
  2. dark eyes that could melt any unsuspecting woman's innards - even his brother's wife
  3. not very talkative and when he does say something, he doesn't elaborate
  4. an endless supply of arrogance or is that just a way to hide his insecurities?
  5. a deeply, thoroughly intense personality that could only ever love one woman
Thanks, Ashley; I really must start watching The Vikings because Rollo was one of my husband's ancestors! :)

The Irish Warrior Synopsis: 
Outcast and alone, Thomasina MacDonell is hell bent on finding her brother, the only person who can thwart their father's latest scheme to offer her as payment for his gambling debts. Disguised as a lad, she defiantly sets off on foot to locate him—never expecting to find a handsome, Irish warrior riding her beloved horse. The warrior's offer of help and unsolicited advice on how to be manlier sparks an intimate desire to reveal her more feminine side.

Rejected by the love of his life, Sean O'Cisoghe wants simply to return home and heal his broken heart. When a young "lad" steals the horse out from under him, he discerns the spirited woman may be in way over her head against her ruthless father. Finding her brother while keeping her would-be betrothed at bay, Sean must confront the fact that Thomasina has stolen his heart. Will Norman soldiers out for his blood and shifting clan alliances cut short their growing passion?

Buy The Irish Warrior on Amazon

Excerpt:
They ate in silence. The rain kept up with occasional fat drops that worked their way through the thick canopy to plop on them. It wasn’t long before she was being bitten by a variety of irritating bugs.

“Oh, damn.” Thomasina slapped the bug on her arm. Blood oozed across her soaked sleeve.

Sean sat leaning against a fallen log, oblivious, staring into the flames. His long, powerfully built legs stretched out in front of him. He’d retrieved a skin from his sack which he drank from at steady intervals without offering to share. They’d already found a nearby brook with water for drinking so she assumed it must be something stronger.

“Devil spawn.” She slapped another bug dead.

Sean turned his bright eyes on her, his brows low as if thinking through a problem. His long hair hung behind him, pulled back at the crown. Not really blond. More the color of wheat but it looked soft to the touch. He seemed to see right through her.

“Shite!” She slapped at her leg. She must be one tasty morsel according to all these bugs and he sat there totally unbothered.

At least in the cave there had been no flying things to feast on her, just a few bats that kept to their own area. It had also seemed much safer than this place, less exposed. She glanced into the darkness. She couldn’t make out anything beyond the light from the fire.

“Whoreson!” She slapped at her neck and her hand came back bloody. “What to hell!”

Sean raised his eyebrows now clearly contemplating her. As if she spoke a language he didn’t understand. As if he were just noticing her at all.

“Ye have quite a mouth on ye.” He sounded as if he were making an observation. No expression. “Let me ken when ye run out of expletives. I’ll be happy to supply yer youthful brain with words nae child should ken.”

“I’m not a child.”

Sean swept his gaze over her body and she felt the sudden urge to shield herself from his view. When he looked her in the face, he smiled. A knowing smile. A smile that said “I know yer secret”.

“I would not say ye’re a man yet. Would ye, Tommy?”

Thomasina seethed inside at her own prideful outburst.

Idiot!

Of course she was a child. Just a boy. Not a lass of ten and eight only pretending to be a boy.

Sean kept his eyes on her face. He watched but said nothing. The shadows cast from the fire played across the strong planes of his face. She shivered.

“Are ye cold, Tommy?” His voice pitched lower this time. He took a long drink, his eyes never leaving her.

She wrapped her arms across her chest, hugging herself. “Nae.”

He licked his lips as if whatever he drank were delicious.

A fluttering inside demanded… action. She held out her hand to him. “May I have some?”

“’Tis best not to indulge at such a young age.” His tone remained even but that light in his eyes intensified as if he were holding back laughter.

She kept her hand out. “Please,” she coughed again. “Please.”

Satisfied that her voice sounded more appropriate, she tipped her nose into the air. She tried for that I-will-not-back-down expression that boys get.

His white teeth gleamed and he took another swallow. “Are ye certain?”

Her hand did not waver and it suddenly seemed of the utmost importance that she taste whatever he was drinking. She was not much of a drinker. Her father imbibed too often and too much. She preferred not to be like him. This seemed different somehow. The need to win this stranger’s acquiescence pushed her.

“Yea.”

His eyes pierced hers. She felt the jolt down to her toes and she couldn’t explain it. As he moved forward to pass her the skin, his eyes never wavered. They held hers as if in a trance. His warm fingers brushed her palm. Lightning shot up her arm.

“Thank ye.” Her voice sounded breathy.

She glanced at the glistening, pink lips just visible through his heavy beard. His eyes remained on hers. She took a sip. Bitter liquid burned down her throat and she jumped to her feet. Grimacing, she spit it onto the ground.

“Now that is a waste,” he said.

“What to hell is this?”

Sean’s hearty laugh surprised her. He remained sitting but his whole body shuddered with his deep, gut-splitting laughter. She paused to watch him. His eyes were closed. His broad shoulders shook with the sound. The tension in her gut eased a bit turning everything inside pliant.

He opened his eyes, starting as if surprised to see her watching him. He cocked a brow and gave her a sly look. “I did warn ye.”

Thomasina wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled. A heartfelt smile. “Ye did.”

“Ye should have listened to me.”

“Yea.” She raised her eyebrows in expectation. “Have ye had enough fun with me now?”

Too late she realized she’d not disguised her voice. She swallowed hard. She waited.

Buy The Irish Warrior on Amazon

About the Author:
Aside from two years spent in the wilds of the Colorado mountains, Ashley York is a proud life-long New Englander and a hardcore romantic. She has an MA in History which brings with it, through many years of research, a love for primary documents and the smell of musty old libraries. With her author's imagination, she likes to write about people who could have lived alongside those well-known giants from the past.

Connect with her online at:
Website: www.ashleyyorkauthor.com
Email: ashleyyork1066 at G mail dot com
Twitter: @ashleyyork1066

***
Next week on The Maze:
The return of Medieval Monday.
Meantime...
Enter this giveaway for an autographed copy of Morning's Journey!

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***
All this month, you are invited to...
— Follow Kim on Twitter
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— Leave a comment on any page of The Maze, especially if you have done the Twitter, Pinterest, and/or YouTube follow
...and each action this month is good for one chance to win an e-book copy of Morning's Journey. Please enter often, and good luck!

Saturday, October 24, 2015

The Boar of Moray and the Pendragon face off in RAGING SEA Ch 8/Sc 1B #amwriting #Arthurverse

Graphic overlay (c)2015 by Kim Headlee.
As a writer of historically accurate fiction, especially when dealing with cultures vastly different than our own, I find it quite the tightrope act to balance that accuracy with creating characters with whom my audience can relate.

Case in point is the ancient Celtic culture, which by all reports was highly segregated along the gender divide, even to the point of living arrangements, and boys and girls being raised and trained separately. Had I portrayed the culture in those terms, I would have run the risk of depicting circumstances that today's reader might have found difficult to understand.

Instead I chose to use the "Brytoni" (British Celtic) culture as a vehicle to represent a society that in general is repressive of women, with certain notable exceptions, as a metaphor for the struggle women endure worldwide to this day.

Today's excerpt shows my two most notable exceptions in action, filtered through the perspective of Accolon, a man born and steeped in the male-centric traditions of his people and yet possessing the potential to rise above that hidebound thinking.

Previous excerpts of Raging Sea 
 Chapter 7: Sc 1 | Sc 2 | Sc 3 | Sc 4 | Sc 5a | Sc 5b |
Chapter 8: Sc 1a |

Raging Sea Chapter 8, Scene 1B
©2015 by Kim Headlee
All rights reserved.

An hour later, standing beside Urien’s immense chair on the dais of Dunadd’s hall as the Pendragon strode toward them with his mother and sister, Accolon had to force himself to keep his fists relaxed. Urien, to judge by the slow, rhythmic way his fingers were straightening and curling around the boar-headed knobs of his chair’s armrests, was fighting a similar battle—as were the Moray soldiers of Urien’s personal guard, arrayed at strategic points about the hall. The meeting with the Scotti contingent, a few minutes earlier, had progressed smoothly enough, and those men and their wives were being shown their quarters even now, but trust between former enemies was a hard prize to win in spite of what their leaders might wish.

Urien’s decision to permit the presence of his own mother, Lady Wreigdda, and the other Moray noblewomen for this meeting had to be helping to dispel some of the tension; fear-bred hostility was the last thing any man ever wanted to display in front of his woman.

Accolon hoped the women’s silent influence would prove to be enough.

“Chieftain Urien,” said Arthur’s mother with a short but graceful nod. The only reason her utterance didn’t cause all of Clan Moray fits of scandalized gasps was because everyone knew Ygraine was a chieftainess in her own right—and as such, she outranked her son, though he appeared to be burying whatever resentment he must feel regarding that vagary of his life’s circumstances. “We thank you—and your lady mother Wreigdda—for your most gracious invitation to your home.”

Wreigdda, standing foremost among the ladies clustered near the dais, her simple but elegant black gown embroidered with the Boar of Moray in gold thread but her plain widow’s headdress displaying a poignant reminder that she continued to mourn Dumarec, smiled and nodded her pleasure at Ygraine’s recognition.

Urien’s smile did not encompass his eyes. “You are ever well come to the Seat of Moray as a valued ally, Chieftainess Ygraine.” His gaze shifted and softened. “I thank you for this opportunity to strengthen our alliance through marriage to your daughter.”

Rising from the chair, Urien extended his hand, smile broadening. Morghe, her smile tinged with an emotion Accolon couldn’t quite identify and therefore didn’t trust, stepped forward to clasp it.

“And I’ll thank you to remember, Chieftain Urien,” Arthur said in a low, measured, dangerous tone, “whose protection Lady Morghe shall always enjoy, regardless of whom she marries.”

Ygraine shot Arthur a brief, annoyed glance. Morghe grinned.

Urien arched an eyebrow, giving the waist of his wife-to-be a squeeze, and she leaned into his embrace. “Ah, Lord Pendragon. A pleasure, as always.” The Chieftain of Clan Moray made a show of scanning the hall. “But it appears that you have forgotten to bring the woman you should be most concerned about protecting.” Of course Urien knew that Arthur had forgotten no one; the scouting report Accolon had read had been quite clear on that point, even though the chieftain’s orders had necessitated omission of the Scotti contingent should the report have fallen into other hands. Before anyone could react to Urien’s perceived threat, he ambled on with, “Where is Chieftainess Gyanhumara? Have you managed at last to saddle her at your hearth, where she belongs?”

Morghe’s grin widened.

“The Comitissa Britanniam,” Arthur said through clenched teeth, “is where she belongs: in the Add Valley at the base of Dunadd, setting up camp alongside her men.”

Ygraine touched Arthur’s arm, and his posture relaxed a little. “Gyanhumara appreciates your invitation too, Chieftain Urien,” she said. “But she did not wish to overburden your hospitality, what with so many . . . other guests lodged under your roof.”

Accolon didn’t miss Ygraine’s subtle emphasis; doubtless, Urien didn’t either.

“What my mother is too politic to ask, Urien, is why have you invited my former captors to be honored guests at our wedding?”

This time the hall did erupt into exclamations of scandal and shock—though Accolon couldn’t quite suppress the laugh that threatened to explode from the depths of his gut.
***

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...and each action this month is good for one chance to win an e-book copy of Morning's Journey. Please enter often, and good luck!

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

The Business of Writing: An Introduction (workshop description) #ASMSG #MFRWOrg

Der Gemeindeschreiber ("The Community Writer")
by Gemälde von Albert Anker, 1874.
Public domain (Wikimedia Commons).
Confession time! 

On 06/02/2015, I introduced The Business of Writing weekly feature on The Maze. Why?

To help fellow writers surfing the blogisphere, of course, but also as a means of collecting my thoughts because I had volunteered to present a workshop for folks wishing to dip their literary toes into the Indie Publishing pool.

This coming weekend—either Friday evening or (more likely) sometime Saturday; program details have not yet been released—I will be test-driving my Business of Writing workshop at Rising Star 2015 in Bluefield, WV.

Even more exciting is the prospect of presenting it again at Chessiecon 2015 (Baltimore, MD) at 4:15 p.m. on "Black Friday"—yep, the day after Thanksgiving! If all goes well, I may even be presenting it in 2016 at Marscon, Farpoint, and other events too.

Fans who have seen me on con panels know that my greatest strength as a public speaker is extemporizing. Even when called upon to deliver a lecture, I tend to jot down a list of topics and then speak as the spirit moves me.

Workshops (and this weekend's will be my first foray as a workshop presenter) I know operate a bit differently. Attendees tend to expect a formal presentation and handouts, at the very least, and perhaps more opportunities for interaction than a standard lecture affords. So, yes, my workshop will have a "formal" framework (and handouts!) covering the following topics:
  • To Incorporate or Not Incorporate, that is the question.
  • ISBNs – what, why, and how many???
  • Imprints Demystified
  • Book Production: DIY vs. Professional Providers for editing, layout, cover design
  • The Main Event: Createspace vs. IngramSpark
Where I plan to differ from "standard" workshop presentation style is to display this list of topics and then ask the audience which topic they would like to see first, second, and so on, being prepared to jump back and forth in my presentation slides. Since I'm only allotted an hour for this workshop at each con, I'm hoping this will allow folks to come away with the most bang for their instructional buck.

I'll let you know how it goes... and better yet, I hope to see you there! :)

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Saturday, October 17, 2015

Meet the man destined to become Morgan le Fay's lover in RAGING SEA Ch 8/Sc 1a #amwriting

Graphic overlay (c)2015 by Kim Headlee.
In Arthurian legend, Morgan le Fay is notorious for her promiscuity—in spite of the fact that she was married. That her husband King Uriens condoned her practice of keeping lovers may harken to an accepted practice of the day for noblewomen whose married life was, shall I say, somewhat less than emotionally fulfilling.

The fact that Morgan le Fay was never condemned in a formal trial for adultery, as Guinevere was, may also prove that Guinevere's story was rewritten by the descendants of her and Arthur's enemies.

We may never know, of course, which is why I prefer to be a novelist rather than an academic.

Although Morgan le Fay is reputed to have seduced many knights, including Lancelot, her favorite knight for most of her life was Sir Accolon. I have elected to preserve his name as-is in my fiction, though I gave him a more Celtic-sounding surname ("map Anwas"; i.e., son of Anwas). The relationship between Morghe and Accolon received the rockiest of starts in Morning's Journey when he came >< that close to killing her to complete a mission Urien had assigned him.

Today's excerpt shows an entirely different facet of how he feels about her.

Previous excerpts of Raging Sea 
 Chapter 7: Sc 1 | Sc 2 | Sc 3 | Sc 4 | Sc 5a | Sc 5b |

Raging Sea Chapter 8, Scene 1A
©2015 by Kim Headlee
All rights reserved.

ACCOLON map Anwas tugged at the hem of his bronze-studded battle tunic to dispel the rush of nervousness at the prospect of meeting the Pendragon garbed in anything other than a legion uniform.

It had been nigh unto a year since he had followed his longtime friend and commander to begin a new life as Urien’s chief adviser, a post which now included diplomat, the last bloody thing he’d ever expected. But it had given him ample opportunities to become accustomed to wearing the Clan Moray gold-crossed black cloak, rather than legion scarlet.

He caught himself giving his jerkin another tug, dropped his hand to his sword’s hilt, and chided his foolishness.

A pair of quick glances affirmed that the soldiers flanking him atop Dunadd’s gate tower either had not noticed the lapse or possessed wit enough not to react.

Drawing his cloak tighter to ward off the chilly April breeze that swooped in from the coast all too often at this time of year, heralding spring with a reminder that winter wasn’t quite done with the land, Accolon shifted his gaze to the farm-marbled distance and the approaching band, winding its way alongside the pale blue ribbon that was the River Add.

Neither cold nor distance could stem his reaction to the prospect of whom the Pendragon and his men were escorting to take up permanent residence here.

Tightening his jaw, he used the excuse of leaning against the platform’s rail to mask that reaction, damn her.

After everything Urien had endured because of another woman, Accolon would sooner eviscerate himself than jeopardize this relationship or the fragile peace it promised for everyone—except Accolon.

He stilled the grinding of his teeth.

As the minutes marched by and the band grew larger under his scrutiny, something seemed off. The group’s size was double what Arthur had said it would be. Accolon was about to send one of his men down to the main hall to alert Urien when a flash of white caught his eye. Squinting, he leaned farther forward.

“Sir? Is aught amiss?” asked Lucius, his second-in-command. It hadn’t been easy convincing Lucius to quit the legion, since he remained sympathetic toward the Pendragon, but it had been essential: Lucius had been privy to Urien’s deception during the cavalry games that had been staged for the Pendragon’s nuptials, and he needed to be kept close. Harder still was Accolon’s task to dissuade Urien from staging a convenient accident during the intervening months.

Accolon hated to waste otherwise good officer material.

He gazed at the man, who straightened and swallowed, as did everyone else in the guard contingent. “Were your scouts in error about the size of the Pendragon’s unit?”

“No, sir. Lady Morghe’s escort met up with another band of wedding guests yestermorn,” Lucius said, jutting his chin. “The guests that Chieftain Urien had ordered to be informed about directly.”

“Ah. Of course.” And Urien hadn’t seen fit to mention it to Accolon. No surprise there. The chieftain’s drumbeat was often a solitary one.

Thinking about those other guests revived yet more uncomfortable memories, and Accolon turned back toward the rail. The Scots’ white flag was unmistakable now, and he could see Arthur halfway back in the pack, distinguished by the brush on his helmet’s crest and the scarlet cloak billowing above the white flanks of his stallion.

That the men riding in a box formation surrounding the litters belonging to Lady Morghe, Chieftainess Ygraine, and Prioress Niniane were wearing blue cloaks rather than the standard legion scarlet, however, was a mystery that would have to wait.

“Permit them entry with only a token challenge,” he said to the guard captain, who acknowledged the command with a smart salute.

Upon ordering Lucius to accompany him, Accolon left the guard tower and prepared to welcome the woman slated on the morrow to become the wife of his best friend.

He derived a mote of comfort from the fact that Lucius had felt compelled to tug on his own battle-tunic too.

***

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Friday, October 16, 2015

Spotlight on Broken Pride by @DD_Chant #postapocalyptic romance

Broken Pride - Banner

BOOK INFORMATION

TITLE – Broken Pride
SERIES – Broken City  
AUTHOR – D.D. Chant  
GENRE – Post-Apocalyptic Romance/Adventure
PUBLICATION DATE – 09/20/2015  
LENGTH (Pages/# Words) – 115.600 words
PUBLISHER – Self Published  
COVER ARTIST – Kate Lacy

Broken Pride - Cover 

BOOK SYNOPSIS

In a future filled with warring factions, one young woman must risk everything to be reunited with the man she loves.

Despised for the name she bears, and trapped behind enemy lines, she knows her life and the lives of those she loves rests on her choosing her allies wisely.

Yet, in a world where greed is rampant and only the strong survive, how can she find the courage to trust again?

BUY & TBR LINKS

EXCERPT

Suddenly he knew exactly what the next few minutes would bring.They find the first body slumped against the wall of one of the outer buildings. The young man, little more than a boy, is propped up at an awkward angle, his face frozen into an expression filled with so much fear that it was difficult to look at him.

And then there was more.

More bodies, more blood, more horror than Ryder can take in. He feels sick to his stomach and, for a few moments, he is a teenage boy again picking through the dead carcasses that had littered the Kelly compound.

He shakes his head, trying to bring his focus back to the present.

Bodies litter the streets and hang over thresholds. He blinks the sweat running into his eyes away, trying not to dwell on the death that surrounds him. He couldn’t think about the awfulness, about the fact that most of the dead were so young.

They break into the square, yet by then Ryder had known what they would find. Val swears and when Ryder looks across at him it is to find that his sardonic, ever smug half-brother looks like he is going to be sick.

“What the… how the hell did they do this?” Val splutters, lifting his hand to his head and looking around wildly. “How did the Lewises manage to do this? We were right here for goodness sake! How did we not know this was happening?”

Ryder doesn’t answer him. He had no answers, just the sickness that rolled around his stomach. Beside him Connell turns and vomits on to the ground. Ryder isn’t surprised to see one of the hard-bitten Andak soldiers displaying such weakness. He was pretty close to joining him in heaving out the contents of his own stomach. Out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of a movement and lifts his gun warningly. Ian sits in the dust outside one of the hovels the Brownelys called homes. It takes Ryder a minute to realise that it was Ian’s house, the same one he had seen him standing in the doorway of yesterday.

He moves forward, ready to offer assistance. It wasn’t until he was much closer that he became aware of the fact that Ian clutched a lifeless body in his arms.

Author Photo - DD Chant 

AUTHOR BIO

Hi everyone,
My name is DeeDee and I live in a beautiful part of Devon, England, with my family. I’ve always loved to read, and I’ve never been picky about which genre I read in. I’m just as happy curled up with a regency romance as I am with a dystopian adventure.

When I first wrote Broken City I had no idea that it would turn in to a series, but Deeta’s story begged to be told. So the stand alone Broken City became a trilogy, and now I know there will be a forth book as well.

I also write in other genres, I have a series of contemporary comedic short stores (The Claire series). I also have a historical romance series (The Lady Quill Chronicles), and a dystopian adventure series (The Chronicles of Discord).

I really hope that you enjoy reading my stories as much as I enjoy writing them!

AUTHOR FOLLOW LINKS


OTHER BOOKS IN THE SERIES

Cover - Broken City 
Book #1 – Broken City
Broken City is #FREE During the Duration of the Tour

BOOK SYNOPSIS
A girl with no future
A man with no past
A little lost boy
And those who seek to find him....


....Welcome to Deeta's world.

Deeta Richards has never seen the outside world. Before she was born a banking crisis brought civilization to an end and now no one leaves the safety of the compounds unless they need to, but Deeta still dreams of seeing more than the building she was born in.

Tom is in the guard, this group are the only people that the tribal elders allow to leave the compound and Tom knows only too well that Deeta could never survive the harshness that exists outside. Then tragedy strikes and Deeta and her Sister Jan find themselves captured by a hostile tribe. Why does Tom know so much about these people? And why do they know so much about him? As this mystery draws to a climax, they discover that their friend Tom is not quite what he seems...

BUY LINKS


Cover - Broken Truce 

Book #2 – Broken Truce

BOOK SYNOPSIS


Life isn't turning out the way that Deeta thought it would. With the Lewises defeated and peace between the tribes, she had believed that the dark times were a thing of the past.

But troubles between the tribes continue, and the Andak council have selected Tom as their ambassador and spokesman to the other tribes.

Deeta knows that there is still much resentment against the Andak, and that Tom is in danger every time he leaves the safety of Andak City.

Struggling with her own complicated feelings against the tribe that she is now a part of, Deeta tries to ignore the changing attitudes growing within her.

But when Tom is betrayed and they are thrown into great danger, Deeta finds that reality can't be ignored forever...

BUY LINKS


This tour was organized & hosted by 33c16-mini2bbutton


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All this month, you are invited to...
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...and each action this month is good for one chance to win an e-book copy of Morning's Journey. Please enter often, and good luck!

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

The Business of Writing: The Author Newsletter #ampromoting #ASMSG

Scholar sharpening a quill pen by Gerrit Dou.
Public domain image via Wikimedia Commons.
Years and years ago, when I used to receive authors' newsletters via postal mail, I didn't adopt the tactic because I would have had trouble coming up with something new to report every month.

This was at the close of the millennium when traditional publishing was the norm, with a few small presses struggling to keep their doors open for love of the written word rather than the bottom line. As a traditional-published author, I was tied to my publisher's schedule and whims regarding whether they would reprint my novels, issue them in a different format, or exploit ancillary rights such as audiobook and foreign translations.

Sure, I could have reported news of book signings, lectures, and other personal appearances, but without the Really Big News to announce of another imminent release, I didn't really see the point of wasting all that postage.

With the advent of social media as an inexpensive tool for self promotion, of course, all of that has changed.

Beverly Bateman raises the question of "Do I or Don't I?" publish an author newsletter on Blogging With Beverly: http://beverleybateman.blogspot.com/2015/10/do-i-or-dont-i.html

Beverly's post was inspired by a podcast she had listened to for increasing email signups. The podcaster suggested the publication of weekly newsletters. You can read the comment I left on the article (along with everyone else's comments), but in a nutshell, I cannot envision myself ever sending weekly newsletters -- not due to lack of content because I have a lot more news to report these days with regard to the progress of audiobooks, graphic novels, and new releases -- but because I'd never get any new writing done!

I publish my newsletter The Dawnflier monthly, and thank you kindly for signing up!

If you still need convincing, or if you're convinced you want to start a newsletter but aren't sure where to begin, this article contains many excellent points about content and other considerations: http://www.amarketingexpert.com/how-your-newsletter-can-get-you-more-readers-visibility-and-sales/

One thing that article does not address is the email delivery service. My email server tends to get twitchy and lock me out if it sees me sending huge batches of emails. My original email server for newsletters was hosted by GoDaddy, but I've heard of this happening to Gmail accounts too.

That's why I bit the proverbial bullet a few months ago and started a list via MailChimp, the free version. If I ever get enough subscribers to necessitate paying for pro service, why that'll be a great day! But for now the free version does everything I need. There's a bit of a learning curve to figure out "campaign" (i.e., newsletter) design, but once I got over that hump and discovered the "save as template" option, subsequent newsletter designs have been a snap.

Whether you "Do or Don't" publish a periodic email newsletter is entirely up to you, but I've found that it's an excellent way to connect with members of my readership.

Happy writing--and newsletter-ing! :)

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...and each action this month is good for one chance to win an e-book copy of Morning's Journey. Please enter often, and good luck!

Saturday, October 10, 2015

Angusel settles a score in RAGING SEA Ch 7/Sc 5B #amwriting #Arthurverse

Graphic overlay (c)2015 by Kim Headlee.
As a cadet at the US Air Force Academy, many decades ago when doolie (i.e., freshman) discipline was nowhere near as lenient as it is these days, I learned firsthand the meaning of self discipline. Because if I didn't discipline myself, someone else—usually an upperclass cadet—was going to do it for me, an experience to be avoided at all costs.

It was a necessary evil to be endured, however, because rigid discipline forges soldiers who are infinitely better equipped to handle the rigors of combat.

Doolie punishments, however, do not as a rule involve deliberate bloodshed.

The US military models much of its organization and policies upon the most famous professional armed force in history, the Roman army, but I for one was very glad that corporal punishment for "everyday" infractions didn't make the list.

Another fine ancient tradition among armies the world over involves what we cadets called hazing: the practice of bullying the newcomers to test their mettle. In combat, soldiers need to know they can rely upon each other, and hazing is a way of weeding out those individuals who aren't suited for the particular demands that define the military life.

At the Air Force Academy, the hazing officially ends upon the conclusion of "Hell Week," the period (no longer a week, alas) of the most intense hazing of doolies as a rite of passage to become recognized as bona fide members of the Cadet Wing.

In today's installment of Raging Sea, Angusel uses his punishment to effect his own rite of passage for recognition.

Previous excerpts of Raging Sea 
 Chapter 7: Sc 1 | Sc 2 | Sc 3 | Sc 4 | Sc 5a |

Raging Sea Chapter 7, Scene 5b
©2015 by Kim Headlee
All rights reserved.

The grin soured as he directed his attention toward the practice field, where the rest of First Ala had gathered.

He left Stonn in his stall and, clutching the fouled tunic in his white-knuckled fist, stalked off to join his unit.

The most frustrating thing about the pranks—the humiliation and stripes aside—was that Angusel had no clue who was responsible. He would have preferred to have confronted the man or men privately; brawling was punished with ten stripes and ten days’ confinement to barracks at half pay, with no guarantee that the pranks would stop.

After what had happened to Drustanus, Angusel didn’t care what anybody thought of his actions.

“You’re late again, Optio. And this time you have forgotten your horse.” Several of the other horse-warriors snickered. Centurion Cato silenced them with his glare, though a few continued smirking. Cato dismounted and removed the whip from his belt. “That has earned you ten stripes.” He began to close the gap.

“As you will, sir.” Angusel flung the tunic at the centurion’s feet, halting the man’s advance.

“What in hell is this piece of filth?”

“When you report my punishment, you can also report that the nephew of Centurion Marcus slipped and fell in my horse’s stall because of a muck bucket that had been rigged to fall on me.”

“What!” Cato rounded on the others. The smirking men adopted serious demeanors, but not fast enough. By name he called them out of formation. They dismounted and hastened to line up before the fuming centurion. “This foolishness ends now. Ten stripes for each of you.” Cato held up a gloved fist, forestalling any protest. “I don’t give a bloody damn if you are responsible or not.” He leveled his glare on the rest of the unit. “If I hear of one more incident like this, the entire ala will get the lash. Understood?”

After a resounding chorus of, “Yes, sir!” Cato ordered the chosen men to strip to the waist and kneel. Angusel prepared to join them.

“Optio, what are you doing? This is their punishment, not yours.”

“I was late, and not mounted. I deserve ten lashes too, sir, just as you ordered.” In spite of the cost, Angusel needed the favoritism far less than he needed those damned pranks. He’d grab the whip and flay himself, if the centurion wasn’t going to wield it on him.

“Very well, then. Kneel,” said his commander, though Angusel thought he heard a note of respect as he obeyed the order.

In the moments before he shut his eyes to gird himself for the stinging blows, he saw the same sentiment glimmering on the other men’s faces.

*** The end of Chapter 7 ***

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All this month, you are invited to...
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