D. Hart St. Martin

I make female heroes badass AND believable

Writing

Cue the Muse

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Today, I have a guest blogger who needs no introduction on my part.  She’s perfectly capable of introducing herself.

Call me Grace.  I am a muse.  Specifically, I am Hart’s muse.  We bonded when she was ten.  Her fourth grade class’ tarantula died a few days before open house.  Heartbroken, she wrote her first poem which her teacher posted above the abandoned cage.  And that’s how we met.  Though she didn’t actually know me yet.

In seventh grade, she decided to write a book about her adventures at a private girls school from the point of view of a bug.  Don’t mess with me here; I came up with the idea, and it was a good one.  Unfortunately she never got very far with it.  She still hopes to write a memoir about her experiences at the school, but I think the bug didn’t make the cut.

In high school, she and her best friend began writing a screenplay based on a historical incident.  She also fell in love with the Beatles.  I couldn’t compete with the Beatles, and her friend served as her muse for some years.  I retreated, remaining idle for a long time.

This is the way of it for us muses.  Unless the creative one opens her soul up to us, we wither a bit, but we never die.  Some artists—and I’m using the term in its general sense here—believe their muse has deserted them when in reality their fertile field needs to lie fallow for a little while.  Or for those of a more technical bent, their computer needs to reboot.

I reentered Hart’s life when her high-school-and-after friend had moved on, and she opened the door to me once again.  I handed her the third book in a series she’d begun reading many years earlier, and after she reached its end disappointed, I offered my best to her—a story in need of telling, a story she’d ache to tell.

Poor Hart.  It took her years to fully realize what I had given her, but when she finally surrendered to my magical gifts of whimsy and myth, the story took off.  She has now published book 1, Fractured, with book 2, Tainted, to follow within the next couple of weeks.

I have to admit, though, that I can’t wait to dig into the final book, Blooded, as this book hasn’t been written over and over.  Save for the characters, everything about it is new.  Nothing more enticing to a muse such as myself.  I plan on participating fully throughout the entirety of the process of creation on this one.  All I can say is it’s gonna be fun.  And there’s nothing more exciting to a muse as the potential for fun.

Judging a Book by its Cover

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A year ago, I published Fractured, the first book in the Lisen of Solsta trilogy.  At that time, I couldn’t afford to hire anybody to do anything for me, so I edited, proofread and formatted the book for both print and e-book myself (see the 2-part “Beware of Falling Rocks along the Learning Curve” below).  I also designed the cover, using CreateSpace’s template and inserting Waterhouse’s “The Lady of Shalott” for the picture because the subject of the painting appears appropriately “fractured.”  It was a decent cover, considering my good eye for layout but my nonexistent abilities as an artist.

cover4blog

Here’s the problem, however.  It’s a great cover for a historical novel.  Adults, in the main, tend to appreciate the clean, unflashy lines of a pre-formatted book cover.  On the other hand, YA (young adult) books require something much flashier to grab the attention of teenagers.  You have to dazzle them with color and seduce them with something a little sexier than a painting in the Pre-Raphaelite style, even if that painting is a classic.  In other words, the cover was boring.  Beautifully executed…but boring.

Enter the idea of hiring a cover artist.  I began my search for a cover artist back in March.  My quest began with a woman who designed from stock photos.  She created excellent covers, great for romance novels and the like, but Lisen required a specialized touch because she’s not quite human.  I moved on.  My second potential cover artist used photographs, but what she did with them was incredible.  I loved her work and made an appointment to start working with her a couple of months after our first contact (her first free moment).  I couldn’t wait.  I was all worked up and excited.  The time came, I e-mailed her and asked if she was ready, and she begged off—too busy and my concepts were too complicated.

Sigh.

I tweeted and posted to Facebook the details of the horns of my dilemma.  Aidana WillowRaven tweeted me back and offered her services.  I knew I was about to come into a little extra money, so after we chatted online for nearly an hour, we struck an agreement for all three books.

It took time, more time than I’d anticipated.  But I began to recognize the difference between someone who Photo-shopped stock photos and an actual cover artist and designer.  It was a collaborative effort.  I described Lisen to her, and she created a first draft of what she saw based on my description.  I critiqued that initial effort and requested changes, and in the second draft, Lisen took form.  It’s amazing how I felt looking at her in that draft.  She looked nothing like what I’d pictured for years during the writing, and yet she was Lisen.  My Lisen.

The drafts moved on through clothing, the pouch (eventually eliminated from the first cover completed, the cover for Tainted, the second book in the trilogy), and finally the setting.  This last Sunday morning, Aidana and I both signed off on the picture, and on Monday I had the remainder of the cover for the print version.

I am thrilled.  I’d say thrilled beyond words, but I seem to be having no  difficulty finding them at the moment.  We will start work on book 1 very soon, and I hope to reissue Fractured before the end of the year.  In the meantime, I have begun writing book 3, Blooded, and plan to publish it sometime in 2015.  Have hope, fans.  I’d set a 2014 publication date for Tainted, and I’ve come in early on that one.  Maybe Blooded will write itself and be ready for publication by the end of 2014, but I don’t want to make any promises I may not be able to keep.

So, here it is—the reveal.  Ladies and gents, meet the gorgeous, seductive cover of Tainted, available in both print and electronic editions and due to hit a retailer’s web site near you in early November.

front cover shot - low rez (2)

No Mall Balls Blues

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I went to the mall on Saturday. This may seem like a small adventure to those who frequent these places of commerce, but for me, I might as well have sat at the top of a rocket and felt the breath compressed from my lungs as the thousands of tons of fuel fired up and propelled me out of the atmosphere and on towards the moon. What a rush, and not the fun kind.

Let me explain. I am an introvert. I do not do well in crowds. I have stepped into this mall’s Barnes and Noble on several occasions over the last several years. I have entered Sears, rushed in, found what I needed and rushed back out. But I have not, in a decade or more, come anywhere near actually walking through either of those stores and out into the bustling byway that makes up the heart of any mall.

I made my way first through JCPenney, looking for purses. They had nothing I wanted. I stepped into what seemed like a separate store for Sephora—no actual walls cutting it off from the surrounding Penney’s, but with corners and supporting columns defining the space. Loud music blared from unseen speakers. Clearly a place for young people, I thought. I’m not a young person. What am I doing here? They did, however, carry multiple brands of perfume. Just not my perfume, which has probably slipped into extinction, as all old things do. It likely went quietly, unlike myself. I plan on raging against the night, á la Dylan Thomas.

But not yet. I still stood there transfixed, knowing that there used to be a See’s Candies just across the way from Penney’s. I wanted mint truffles, and theirs are the best. I limped towards the door (my gout was acting up) and out into the Saturday-afternoon-busy court, and the people moving and sitting and walking and talking accosted this poor simple introvert like a tsunami. Mall shopping has not for a long time nor is it now my idea of fun.

But See’s awaited—still present if I could navigate the cross currents of this particular hub of activity. I paused in my pursuit of mint truffles at a cart of cell phone accessories. The woman there asked what kind of cell phone I owned, and before I could protest that I was “only looking,” she’d pulled every cover she had for my brand from the hanger and spread them out to show me. I smiled sweetly, overwhelmed by her generosity and embarrassed that she’d now have to re-place all those covers when I’d had no actual desire to make a purchase.

Finally I made it to See’s. It was half the size I’d remembered it to be. No doubt cutting down on the rent by making room for new lessees for the old mall. And the place was jammed. No mint truffles for me.

I turned to retrace my steps back to Penney’s, stepped through the door, past the Sephora “tent,” and on towards the men’s shop at the end of which stood my goal—the door to sunshine and air. My foot hurt, my back ached, and my soul desired nothing more than freedom from the mass of humanity that frequents all malls on a Saturday.

I doubt I’ll go back any time soon. I may never step into a mall for the remainder of my telescoping-down life. Target is about the limit of my patience with crowds. Won’t even try Wal-Mart. The parking’s impossible. Think I’ll just stick to my blogs and my books, making the occasional foray out into the world to visit with friends. Just not too much, please. We introverts need time alone to re-energize.

Sunset Boulevard (not quite)

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I’ve taken a journey.  Haven’t quite returned yet, but I thought I’d drop by with a postcard to explain my extended absence from my blog.

This journey began 50 years ago.  I was 14 at the time. My mother had decided to find the family a new, larger house, something we could still afford on my father’s salary. She figured $20K would be about right. So she perused the ads in the paper and found a realtor to help her, and that realtor found a beautiful Spanish style house up in the hills above our little town to the east of L.A. It was a bit out of our price range–$40K to be precise. But my mother fell in love with it, had to have it, and my father could never say no to my mother, mostly for fear of getting his balls ripped out of their sockets. So…we  bought it, talking the sellers down to $38K.

She was amazing, this house.  I’ve described her previously. Here’s a picture of a painting my father did of her in her heyday.

Painting of Norma

In need of some work, but filled with little amenities you’d never find anyplace else. At the height of my romantic teens I ended up with a balcony Juliet would have envied. All the way to the right of the painting, over the windows to the kitchen and breakfast nook below my bedroom. I was happy there, for a time, but eventually at 20 I moved out to my own life (a story for another time).

Fifty years on, parents both gone for more than three years, and my sister and I finally put the poor rundown lady on the market. We couldn’t take care of her, and she was devolving into the Norma Desmond of residences, just waiting for her close-up, Mr. DeMille.

Selling real estate is a bitch. I suspect purchasing is as well, but I’ve never been there. We ended up with an agent who, thank the fates who brought her to us, guarded our interests like a bulldog. She posted the listing fairly late into a Friday night, and within 15 or 20 minutes, we already had an offer $15K above asking.  It was an as-is, cash-only listing.  We knew no bank would take a chance on Norma’s plumbing or roof, much less everything else that was wrong with her.

By Saturday morning two agents insisted on seeing her that very day. By Saturday afternoon, an impromptu open house had ensued, and my sister (I had to work) was escorting dozens of people through the place, filled with animals and trash and heaven knows what else, and many of them expressed an aching to own her, restore her, love her like we do.

Sunday brought the news that offers had risen to $50K over asking.  Unbelievable. Monday we’d reached $120K over.  Wow.

A series of small complications arose on Monday and the highest offer was rescinded, leaving us with another $105K in excess of asking price, and that’s the one that we chose.  That’s when the rollercoaster of offer, addendum and counter offer ensued, after which we entered escrow.

I’ve decided every time a house goes into escrow, another tree must die.  The paperwork is unending, with faxes heating up telephone wires. Not to mention the amount of gasoline consumed by the real estate agent as she dashes between office and client home to get “just this one last document” signed. Does it really have to be all this tough?

In the meantime, since this was all part of a trust and since I was no longer speaking to the lawyer who’d drawn it up, we had to get an EIN for tax purposes and open a trust account at the bank, then provide a deposit slip (non-existent, hence a letter on letterhead had to make do) for wiring of funds into the account when escrow closed.

But escrow didn’t close. Not when it was supposed to. Took an additional four days to get there.  We even had to put the buyer on notice, a buyer whose wife had apparently wanted the house for some time.  (They had submitted the original offer.)

So my life for the last month or so has been filled with: call the IRS, call the accountant, sign papers for hours and hours, and a plethora of other seemingly meaningless busy work all designed, I believe, to keep me from concentrating on the thing I’ve just retired from my equally meaningless job to work at full-time—writing.

I’m nearly back now. Distributing the funds remains, and I dread working out all that math, but I will.

And in the meantime, our agelessly beautiful, aged Norma Desmond awaits her resurrection. Knowing she will shine for the neighborhood to see and to marvel at was worth everything.  Oh, and the cash helped, a little.

Farewell to Early Moments

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I threw my childhood away today.  I packed it up in a plastic bag and out it went.  I’d been considering doing it for a long time, but today turned out to be the day.  Nearly 60 years gone, and finally the remnants have been returned to the earth from which they came.

Manfred the Wonder Dog was the hardest.  He was a red and white stuffed dog intended for use by a child as a sit-on and/or lie-upon.  I used Manfred for watching TV.  His name came from a cartoon on Captain Kangaroo, but damned if I can remember the name of the cartoon—which I think was the name of the main character.  I think it was a kid with a funnel for a hat, and the kid was really smart.  No, wait, I just Googled it.  Tom Terrific, that was the kid’s name.

tom-terrific

Then there was the poodle-ish animal with the “diamond” choker my grandmother made for me.  Gram made me lots of stuffed toys over the years, and they were among my favorites.  I still have the Raggedy Ann and Andy.  I’ll never give those up even though the sizing in the material has made their poor faces look like they suffer from vitiligo, and Ann’s right eye has ripped out and now hangs by little more than a thread.

A small, flower-print, vaguely human-shaped doll and a little blue dog with a zippered pouch that was never big enough for pajamas rounded out today’s haul.

They had to go, you see, because they lay on the floor, collecting dust, hidden away, unseen by anyone save myself, under a table, where one of the cats, potentially flea-ridden, used Manfred for a pillow.  Yeah, I could have washed them and hoped I’d gotten the eggs, but there comes a point in a life when you have to stop thinking of yourself in terms of your stuff and accept that you are who you are with or without all that stuff.

Other stuff will eventually follow.  You can’t hold on to everything, and, as they say, you certainly can’t take it with you.

Fatal Retribution by Diana Graves, A Review

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I love finding a new female hero who steps onto the stage at the beginning of the book already strong and willing to grow stronger. Raina Kirkland is just such a hero. Raina lives in a world no one I know has ever visited even though Fatal Retribution is set in the Pacific Northwest. Her world is our world turned on its head, where elfs and vampires and witches and many more paranormal entities reside, existing within a society which knows them and for the most part accepts them as part of the landscape. To me, a novice to this particular subset of urban paranormal novels, the only word I could use to describe it is steampunk.
Raina’s tale begins with her joining her siblings for a camping trip which turns into the camp-out from hell as they are attacked by a raging newly “born” vampire. Two of her brothers are bitten and must undergo dying and being reborn in a VCC (Vampire Care Center–see what I mean about an alternate reality?) before being allowed back out into the world. For some reason, Raina, part elf, part witch and part human, survives her bite and must learn what it means to be a “living” vampire. It all has to do with genetics, and I must say that Graves does an admirable job of explaining the physiology behind vampirism as she takes us through Raina’s experiences and the experiences of her relatives and friends, old and new.
Raina, like any only slightly post-adolescent young woman, suffers from self-esteem issues and endures a meddling mother who means well but refuses to admit that her little girl is a grownup. (Living at home doesn’t help.) And yet, she is feisty and forever questioning what she doesn’t yet understand. No waiting for some guy to come along and save her; this gal has spunk and she uses it as she becomes involved in the mystery of who is illegally offering humans the opportunity to become immortal by shooting up altered vampire blood.
My only quibble with Fatal Retribution is the grammar and word usage issue. Graves is an excellent storyteller, but too often one gets caught up in the lack of punctuation that could have helped a sentence make sense and the use of the wrong word, usually a homonym of the correct word. I would have given a 5-star review had the quality of the text come up to the delight of the storytelling. Regardless, I do recommend it and look forward to more from Graves’ prolific imagination.