What does true love feel like, fire or home?

I truly have no excuse as to why I haven't blogged for so long other than to say that life has been flaring up. The proverbial "Murphy's Law" and then some.

Nevertheless, due to the content of this post, I felt the need to share it with you all. So, first apologizing for not being around more frequently, and second ... please enjoy.

The other day, after having had a profound conversation with my best friend about love gained and love lost a question occurred to me;

“What does true love feel like, fire or home?”

At that time, she gave me a quick summary of her thoughts on the matter, which then coaxed me to want to put the question out in the ether.

Enter, Facebook.

I created a poll. I even went as far as to add come gifs just to catch the interest of the multiple Facebookers I commune with. It took me a tad bit of work to figure out how that worked so I was a tiny bit upset that people didn’t take the time to even look at the poll.

  Well … what can you do?

At any rate, the question pestered me like a thorn in my side as I really wanted to know what others thought. Mostly, because my opinions might’ve been a bit askew or bias. Being the person that I am—open to other people’s points of view—it would have been great to hear some of them. But, as you have it, only 3 people bothered to take the mini, 2 question poll; a family member, a friend and myself. How pathetic is that?

That incident, of course, led to this blog post. So, hailing my handful of faithful friends, I invited them to give their feedback on said subject.

In come Adonis Mann, Synful Desire, C. Desert Rose and Da’Kharta Rising. However, before they jump in with their thoughts, here are mine ...

Y. Correa:

“I’ve been burned by the fire,” is the term that my mind keeps whispering, culminating in, “And, it hurt.”

The scientist in me claims that love is nothing more than raging hormones—rampant, delirious and delusional—destined to be satiated by the first fool you harness a keen eye for. The proverbial, “I fancy him/her” with the next step being a huge leap off of the closet bridge.

Pain, followed by tears, followed by wallowing in self-pity and concluding in the temporary dormancy of said hormones until such time as the next fool comes around. And then you do it all over again.

Fire.

A fire that burns so deeply, one questions one’s ability to have functioned prior to the existence of one’s flame.

Red, like blood; the blood that runs through their veins which gives you life.

Orange, like the sun, whose warmth keeps you tranquil and happy.

Yellow, like a canary. One who makes you feel as though you too can fly freely through the vastness of the world and never be alone again.

If true love is like fire, it can give life but also exterminate life.

There is no wonder why Hell is described as a pit of unending fire, for it is a place where empty souls go to live all eternity in torment and solitude.

And this makes me think …

If true love is like fire, it can make the cup that is your heart overflow with felicity. But should it ever end, it can also incinerate your pneuma to the point of oblivion.

I have felt that fire before. At the time, I surmised that it was true love. Now, I realize fire is both the beginning and end—the inauguration and corruption of our hearts. Therefore, I surmise that love should be home. Fire is here today and gone tomorrow. Home is constant.

By deduction, if love in the form of fire is wavering, then love in the form of home is forever, hence it is true.

Adonis Mann:

If I have learned anything at all, ‘tis that love is indubitably fire. Of this, I can assure you as I have experienced the warmth and sting of it.

Much like fire, love rises with a spark—a barely noticeable glint. A minute volley of atoms bouncing off one another until, boom, the flame is lit. Once lit, nothing but water or the flame itself can stop it. However, who in their right mind would want to extinguish something so precious, so incomparable, so new, so powerful. No one, to be sure.

We, the lovers, stand in both awe and stupefaction wondering how something so wonderful happened to us.

There is an inexplicable warmth that coats the soul with belonging and plenitude. Due to this, the lover is lost in the whimsical flickering of coral. ‘Tis a dance that hypnotizes the lover in such a way that all he or she can feel is its calefaction and naught a person can tear him or her away from it. The only person who can snuff out the flame is the flame itself. A perplexing conundrum, for how can fire put itself out.

In my experience, easily. When the flame is done … when it no longer wants to offer its heat … by its own volition, it tempers and ends. The sorrowful part, are the embers left smoking inside the heart and mind of the other party.

However, if the flame opts to continue to burn, nothing and no one will ever douse it.

Shamefully and sadly, I’ve had to endure the chill of a dead heat. Nevertheless, love burns like fire, for good or for bad.

Synful Desire:

I am not a person who believes in settling, especially in the arena of love. Love should be as vital as breathing with the amounts and the intensity. It has to be worth living for, fighting for, and dying for. It is not a muted instrument but a symphony which stretches the test of time. Any intangible must possess fire. The person I am with must be one who makes me warm from the inside out where and when ever I see him. If he does not, then it is easy for my interest to wane. If my mate is unwilling to do what it takes to keep my fire burning, then it is up to my heart’s authenticity and salvation to go elsewhere.

C. Desert Rose:

I suppose I will approach this question with another question;

Have I ever felt the fire of love?

Of course I have.

Here is another question;

Did I enjoy it?

For a time, yes. I did.

Last question;

Did it last?

No, it did not.

Therefore, life has taught me that the answer to the proposed question is that love should feel like home. No, as a matter of fact, it MUST be home.

“Why do you say that?” you may be asking.

The answer is simple, really.

I say it because fire is an element—1 of 4, to be exact. Fire, Air, Water and Earth. While they are perpetual in existence, they act like the waves of an ocean. Unstable and unpredictable. Here today, gone tomorrow.

Like the well known old idiom, “Home is where the heart is.” Allow me to explain.

Have you ever went away from home? On a trip, perhaps? To college, maybe, or overseas? I dunno … you pick. At any rate, have you ever left the sole place you call home and upon your voyage discover that you miss home profoundly?

Homesickness, is what it is called.

You find yourself envisioning home. You can practically feel the ambiance, smell the scent of the food cooking, hear the noises you’ve become accustomed to, and suddenly you feel incomplete. Empty. Like something very important is missing. Immediately, sadness consumes you.

THAT, is what love ought to be. EXACTLY THAT.

Love should feel like home. A place like no other. The one place where you can be yourself without apologies, without presumptions, without judgements and without explanations.

The bosom of your spouse/boy or girlfriend, should feel like you’ve belonged there all along. The smell of him/her should fill you with glee. The touch of them should calm your weary soul. The sound of them should appease any angst. It is with them that you should feel like 100% yourself. And, it is in them that you should long to be.

True love is home. It is the dwelling of the heart, the habitat of the soul, the refuge of the spirit.

Why? Because, “Home is where the heart is.”

Da’Kharta Rising:

I don’t think I’m the right person to ask this question to because I am not a believer in the fairy tale, Harlequin type bullshit interpretation of love. In my opinion, too many people speak it and have no concept of what it is about or how to properly use it. The act of love itself is a promise you make: whether said to a family member, a friend, or a loved one. Promises are set up to be impossible and therefore, easy to break. How else can you explain the number of marriages which end up in divorce? What else factors into betrayals that create family and friend sagas that rival reality TV shows for attention? There’s nothing “home like” about love. It’s dangerous, just like fire. It’s erratic, especially when you encounter someone which has you throw all reason to the ground just so you can soar for a few years, months, weeks, days, hours, seconds? I don’t know if it is “true”. All I know is the aftermath: how investing love in the wrong person can alter the way another person conducts business, not just in relationships but in her day to day. It’s a gamble where you don’t want to crap out. Love is all out fire. Enough said.

With so many thoughts on what love feels like, it makes me wonder which is more accurate? Furthermore, it makes me ponder on, “Can they simultaneously exist? Can love be both fire and home?” Perhaps, for some it is. For others, maybe not.

Please, don't hesitate to give me your thoughts. I would love to see what you have to say.

Until Next Time, y'all!

Upcoming Book: "Lilith's Dominion"

As you guys know, I'm always working behind the scenes on different things.  One thing I've been working on as of late is a novelette called "Lilith's Dominion", my very first "strictly vampire" tale.

So, you're probably wondering, "Who is Lilith?"

According to midrashic literature, Adam's first wife was not Eve but a woman named Lilith, who was created in the first Genesis account. Only when Lilith rebelled against Adam did God create Eve, in the second account, as a replacement.

The idea of Lilith has always fascinated me, mostly because of the mythology. Some believe that she was the first vampire, others think she became a demon, while others still think that God just shot her down.

My story "Lilith's Dominion" explores the aspect of Lilith having become a vampire, as well as what happened after her condemnation.

For your enjoyment, here is an excerpt.

It is believed that before the Genesis of the human age, Adam had a wife ... a first wife; Lilith.

Created from the same ground from which Adam was molded, Lilith proved to be a bit more than his subordinate.

She was his equal.

Legend has it that Lilith was strong willed, independent and unyielding. All of the things that Adam did not want in a wife.

Red hair, sensual curves and red-brown eyes, Lilith was voluptuousness in the form of a woman. Passion, ardent and burning vitality. Lilith considered herself Adam’s compeer in every way—second to none and nothing.

What Adam hated to admit was that Lilith was his weakness, his burning desire, and his fierce, iniquitous poison. As much as he wanted her, he also hated her. It was her authority that continually dominated him, and her lasciviousness that seduced him. He was less of a man when he was around her, yet he also could not feel more empowered.

Adam realized that his was an obsession with Lilith was a lecherous enthrallment and nothing more, for he could not love her. Neither could he be her master. This was the problem. Adam’s job was to be in control, to be the head. The leader of Lilith and all of their descendants. For this, the Creator had made him.

Yet, around her—Lilith—he was nothing more than a groveling, dribbling, insecure excuse for a man. She had him wrapped around her little finger, and this suited her just fine.

Adam, not so much.

This was not what the Creator had mandated. Not what he intended when making them both. He needed Adam—level headed and trustworthy—to be in charge. However, with the ever present seduction of Lilith, this wouldn't be possible.

Something must be done.

So, stay tuned for the upcoming release of "Lilith's Dominion" by yours truly, coming April 1st, 2016! Woot! Less than a month away!

Things For Authors

Hey there.

It's been a couple of days since I've been on here and written a fresh blog post. That is to say, write something that isn't post dated. LOL.

I've been bad about that lately. Most of what I've posted has been post dated material. I know, I know. I'm sorry.

Anywho, here is something hot off the press.

A couple of things, actually.

Thing One ...

All Authors Magazine, Issue 15 has gone live. Give it a peek! Who knows, you might find your book or the book of someone you know on it. It's worth a look. All Authors Magazine is vastly different than  most literary magazines on the market today, and the best thing of all is THAT IT'S FREE! Come check it out HERE.

Thing Two ...

All Authors Publications and Promotions is inviting authors whom might be interested in being part of a multi-genre anthology hosted by them, to submit their short story! If you aren't a published author, this could be your opportunity to be one!

So, if you're interested in submitting your short story to All Authors Publications & Promotions, visit THIS link for more information. Participation is absolutely FREE.

Okay, that's it!

"Demoness Enchanted" Is Out! Go, Rose!

Welcome!

Today we are celebrating the official release of "Demoness Enchanted", Book Two of the Fate's Endeavor Series.

[embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9AyMMNJ0boE[/embed]

Blurb:

Normalcy, was not a word recognized by Zita. Her entire life was nothing, if not abnormal. Her family, herself, her entire existence, all of it; unnatural. Yet, to her it was nothing but the truth of her actuality. Such, was her life—making it to her normal, as she knew nothing else. Still, it was what made her whom and what she was … a hybrid!

Roman; a witty, silver tongued young man with an average life. He looked forward to finishing High School and thereafter going on a missionary trip to Brazil. He knew that something special awaited him there. What he didn’t know was exactly how special it was.

Fate’s endeavor is Fate’s design, and Fate’s design is unlike any humanity has ever known.

Demoness Enchanted, the story of two completely different beings and the scheme which destiny has preordained for them.

The Fate's Endeavor Series, surpassing the emotional fabric of angels and demons and delving into the delicate threads which infuse Fate's tapestry.

Excerpt:

I no longer saw any use in keeping track of time—it was nothing to me anymore.

Useless.

In actuality, everything was nothing to me now.

The void that consumed my heart was not an innate part of me. Melancholy was my mind. Malevolence, my spirit. Anger, my breath.

I pondered on how things changed just like that. How one moment in a being’s life could make all things different.

This was my life now.

Zita, the demon.

The children were the only exception to that rule. They were innocent; did not ask to walk the face of this miserable planet. Like me, they'd been pushed into something that was not of their own choosing. They were my only concern now. Some time back, I’d located an abandoned building and made a home for the children and I in it. No one knew we were there, and no one ever would. It was an old, haggard, battered place, but it had four walls and a roof. That was better than beaten, wet boxes. I’d taken care of making it habitable.

My secret had been well kept. I made sure of it.

I toyed with the wicked at my whim. Took the very last cent that they carried in their pockets, then made sure that the deed was completed by their own hands—a deed that I’d prompted them to commit. Their termination.

Perhaps I was wrong. Yet, the people I ended were even more reprehensible than I.

Immediately after my nightly hunt, I’d return to the makeshift home I’d created for us, and take care of them.

They need a mother. I shall be that mother.

I had heard through the grapevine that there would be a missionary group coming to town sometime soon. Little did I realize that it would be so soon. I couldn’t help but wonder what their true intentions were—these missionaries. If I so much as suspected that they had sneaky plans, I’d take care of them myself.

Early morning peeked through the horizon—golden hues of sunshine beamed over the hills and plains of Feijo. The sun made her entrance like a Queen over her people, raising her fanciful scepter, bright and majestic. Roosters announced her arrival, like nature’s heralds, crowing loudly for all of the world to hear.

The richness of the sun’s auspicious rays slowly grazed over the extent of Feijo, little by little turning the purple shades of night into the orange blush of morning.

From within the bounds of the gray, peeling walls, and enormous windows of our large room, I heard giant trucks running down uneven roads. People jargoned loudly and scrambled around to get to their morning rituals. Market owners prepared their kiosks, making them ready for the day’s business. All of the commotion could be heard from within the thin shabby walls of our provisional home, for provisional it was. At least until I had gathered together enough money to give the children something better.

The smell of freshly baked bread came wafting in through the open windows which helped fully awaken me, and in turn, the remnants of the children that still slept.

I could hear a little boy running and yelling down the road, “They’re here! They’re here!” he called euphorically.

Hmm, so they are here, I thought. This will be interesting.

“Josue, go see what’s going on.” I instructed when I saw Josue getting out of bed.

He immediately jumped out of the bed to wash his face, then quickly ran out the door.

“Children; wake up babies,” I said softly as I shook Leilani tenderly. It was a joy to see their innocent eyes opening every morning. Gratitude displayed in the joyous smiled on their faces as they awoke in an actual bed. Although tattered mattresses on the floor, this was better than a cold, damp, ransacked cardboard boxes lined up in dark alleyways.

Anything is better than that.

“Let’s go see what these missionaries are up to.” I said tenderly.

“Okay.” little Leilani grumbled.

“Alright sweetheart,”

“Do you think they will have food?” she asked.

“I hope so baby,”

“Do you think that they will share?” Leilani was so young, so naive. She lost her parents at the hands of a brutal, vicious police officer. She had no family left to care for her. It was Leilani against the world, much like me. I had to protect her. She was only five!

Furthermore, like I had once been, she too was so innocent, so guiltless. She needed someone to care for her. I had no one and I would not let that happen to her. I had to learn the hard way and I would free Leilani from that miserable grief.

“Yes Ani, if they are as nice as all the other children say they are, I think that they will share,” I replied more so for her benefit than mine. “Alright Ani, let’s get you washed up and dressed.”

“Okay.” She dragged, her sweet voice heavy with sleep.

Would you like to savor the entire story from the start? Then pick up a FREE Kindle copy of "If Death Should Love Me, Fate's Endeavor Book One", TODAY!

[embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NkIhaNifk78&feature=em-upload_owner[/embed]

Now, don't delay. Go and get your copy of "Demoness Enchanted" and "If Death Should Love Me" TODAY!

2 at the price of 1!

What's New with Y. Correa for 2016

Hello! How goes it?

So, you're probably thinking that I have a shit ton of new things going on for the new year. Truth is, I don't. LOL :D

I have a few things happening, but that's about it. Just a few.

What is one of the new things I have going on?

The Earth 8-8-2 Series now has an official website where readers can go to learn more about the series and what's happening with it. It is NOT a Blog, but an actual website with information and fun about the series. Of course, it's brand new so there isn't much in the way of information. However, as the series grows, so will the site.

The best part is that you can feel free to leave a comment or even your review of "Earth 8-8-2: The Genesis Project", as well as any of the upcoming books right on the page.

Want to visit the page? Then just click the tab above (on the menu) or click ...

So, what else is new?

Other than the diligent work on "Concordant Vibrancy 2: Vitality" I've also been plugging away at "Earth 8-8-2: Genesis' Rebellion" which is the 2nd installment of the Earth 8-8-2 series. I have a feeling that if I don't release that book this Spring, some of my fans will hunt me down. So, far be it from me to let them down. LOL

I also have a couple more things up my sleeve, but I'm taking things one day at a time so as to not overwhelm myself in the process. I do hope to have at least 3 books out by the end of this year, if all goes according to plan. Wish me luck.

Anywho ...

That's about it in regards to an update. Please, visit my new site and leave your feedback. Let me know what you think of it and what you think needs changing. If you've read "Earth 8-8-2" then leave your feedback on the book. I'd be highly appreciated.

Toodles!

:)

Book Release Party! Woot!

Today, we would like to congratulate Author C. Desert Rose on the release of ...

Blurb:

Even the moon has secrets …

Traversing the globe—from Louisiana, USA to New Zealand—on an enterprise to discover the hidden secrets of the moon, Nethanyel finds that everything may not be as it seems. Accompanied by a consequential companion named Jax, Nethanyel is taken to a place … even a time … that he would have never expected.
Set in the year 1940, is Nethanyel’s Lady Lune exploration, fate or both?

[embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dEa1PTpEaA[/embed]

Excerpt:

“Bartender …?” Nethanyel called, his voice drenched in the quintessential inflection of the Bayou—a collective accentuation of English, French and Creole. Tapping his glass twice on the counter he indicated that he wanted a refill. Nethanyel was a quiet person; always collected and controlled. Wise men were strong, calm and reticent, or so his father had taught him. Nevertheless, Nethanyel preferred to be that way, for in a multitude of words sin does not lack.

The bartender turned to Nethanyel, slipping him another drink. It was at a moment like this—when he could sit quietly to enjoy his drink—that Nethanyel thanked the heavens that he was a mere child during the Prohibition. Now, a man could enjoy a hard drink after a long day’s work.

Nethanyel could hear someone stumbling in, drunk and disorderly. This was nothing new. Things like this happened in bars all the time. What happened next was new however. The man who had barged in obnoxiously called, “Bartender, pour me a cold one, would ya?” Nethanyel considered that the man had a funny accent, but could not place it and furthermore said nothing. He didn’t so much as turn around to acknowledge the drunken bastard.

The bartender poured the stranger his drink, as the man came waltzing over to sit right next to Nethanyel. “You’re not from around here.” the bartender commented matter-of-factly.

“No, my good man. Indeed I'm not,”

“Where from?”

“Far from here, my good sir. Oceans away ...” he said as he extended his arm, waving it in one large circle towards the horizon.

“That didn't answer my question,” the bartender was an older man. I’m too damn old to play “name that accent” with this fool, thought the bartender. So he kept his conversations straight and to the point.

“Ah, well,” the odd stranger commented with a subtlety that made the words slip off his tongue, “I am from New Zealand, mate.”

“Why you callin' me 'mate'? You don't even know me.” the bartender said in an unvarnished tone then turned his back to the drunkard.

Feeling the awkwardness of the moment the man’s eye shot to the floor and then looked around the room, lifting his glass to whom ever made eye contact with him. Tilting his body’s weight into Nethanyel, he murmured, “Lively crowd we got here.” sarcasm absolute.

“Mhm.” Nethanyel hummed. Why must idiots like this insist on bugging me? Nethanyel pondered, then attempted to turn away from the man. No luck.

“Well …” the man huffed “it must be the weather then,” thinking his comeback was funny. It wasn’t. Extending his hand towards Nethanyel and offering a handshake, the inebriated man attempted to introduce himself. Nethanyel was in no mood for chit-chat, formalities, or anything of the sort. Nethanyel grabbed his drink, offering his back as a response to the drunk nitwit’s attempt.

Not catching on to the hint, the inebriated fellow maneuvered his already extended hand to Nethanyel’s shoulder and patted it, then continued with his conversation, “Jax here. Nice to meet you.” Then intentionally talked through his teeth, “Not that I actually met you, or anybody else for that matter. Wow! And I thought that Louisiana was a friendly place. You know? Considering the Mardi Gras and all.”

By now Nethaniel was very uncomfortable, so he stood up, taking his drink along with him and sat a few feet away. Attempting to find a new chatting partner Jax, the intoxicated New Zealander, turned to the bartender once more and asked cynically, “So are parties this lively all the time?”

“Just about.” the bartender replied with a nod. Noticing that Jax wasn't going to give up on trying to form conversation he asked, “What brings you to Louisiana? It's not Mardi Gras season.”

“Yes, yes. That I'm well aware of, mate. I've actually come to America to do some research. Louisiana, is merely where the boat docked. So, here I am. Tah-dah!”

“Oh.” was all the bartender replied, not once asking Jax to elaborate. Truth be told, he wasn’t even interested.

Jax continued, “You see, I'm doing some research on the moon. There is an old legend where I'm from that talks about the moon. However, I'm told that there are more resources here than there are back home. I intend on finding those resources and taking full advantage of them. The moon really is quite interesting, actually.”

Nethanyel's ears tuned into Jax's conversation. The moon? Yeah, that's what he said, Nethanyel thought. Picking up his glass he walked back over to Jax.

Want more?

Then come and get your copy of "Nethanyel's Lady Lune" by Author C. Desert Rose!

Q & A With Y. Correa

So, again I was asked something that I feel obliged to answer. However, today I'll try to take it a step further and give myself the small challenge of trying to execute what the question asks.

I was asked:

Out of all of my works which work would be the hardest to summarize in less than 100 words?

I would have to say that perhaps "MarcoAntonio & Amaryllis" is among the hardest to sum up in less than 100 words because it's a story full of layers and depth of character. But, I could be wrong and perhaps it is easily summarized in less that 100 words. Who knows?

If I were to give a full synopsis of the story it would be about 300-500 words at the least. However, in the effort to see if I can sum it up in less than 100 words, I will just have to try.

I suppose, the best method of going about this would be to provide the most pertinent highlights of the story as opposed to the entire synopsis.

So ... here we go.

During the year 1585 in the midst of the Anglo-Spanish War, England invaded Spain for crops, land and supplies. A war had started. Land against land and people against people. Hatred and intolerance were a way of life. 

MarcoAntonio is a Spanish gentleman—a knight. Amaryllis, an English lady. Prohibited from being together. A taboo romance a star-crossed love affair. Interracial love affair in the Middle Ages? Yes. That was exactly it. Though, their love was not allowed, they loved each other regardless.

In the midst of troubles the likes of which have no compare MarcoAntonio and Amaryllis find themselves having to fight the most unexpected of adversaries ... Mother Haydie.

Mother Haydie is an ancient deity, a goddess set on reincarnation and ultimate power. She will stop at nothing to fulfill her prophecy. With her sisterhood of dedicated followers, how can the world possibly stand a chance?

MarcoAntonio finds himself having to team up with his brother, Damian and a young Gypsy man named Rye.

Whilst Amaryllis is fighting for her body, MarcoAntonio is fighting for her soul. Their need for each other conquers even the worst of adversities—the combination for a great and powerful love story!

Love is indeed, the result of all things conquered.

Well, the above synopsis is 208 words. So, as I suspected, it cannot be summed up in less that 100 words. LOL. :P :D

A Deeper Look into "Alan, Fay & Demona"

Recently I had a sit down with Author Synful Desire and asked her about her upcoming work "Alan, Fay & Demona: Preludes to Prism 1". Here is what I asked her, and what she had to say.

I asked Ms. Desire:

In a world that doesn't always appreciate a prelude, as some think that it's the author's way of juicing the story for what it is worth, did you feel like in your specific situation a prelude was necessary? If so, please tell us why.

Miss Y, thanks for your wonderful inquiry. I must be perfectly honest with you—this is the first time I’ve heard that some people think of a prelude as “juicing the story for what it is worth”. Perhaps I can invite you on my blog to expand on this subject.

The first book in the Convoluted Prism collection, entitled Convoluted Prism, begins when my character is in her early twenties and is getting admitted into the Program. The Program’s purpose is to rehabilitate those who have homosexual proclivities, financially backed by religious and conservative people who are firm believers in “praying away the gay”.

Convoluted Prism is told via two people. One is by the character getting admitted. The other is by the psychologist assigned to “treat” her. With the first book being conveyed in this fashion, it doesn’t leave a whole lot of room to expand beyond what is talked about during her sessions with the doctor.

For some readers, this may result in a few questions they would like answered. The accompanying preludes, which are named “Preludes of Prism”, will serve to answer some of those questions—providing backdrop without disrupting the flow or taking away from the core conflict of each book of the Convoluted Prism collection.

No, that’s not a typo; there will be multiple preludes. However, not all of the preludes will correspond with one book.

For the very first prelude, “Alan, Fay and Demona” I thought it was important to explore the origins under which the main character of Convoluted Prism comes into being.

Is it necessary, per se? I don’t think necessary is the right word. What I do believe is that the entirety of Convoluted Prism would be served a tad of injustice if certain layers are not provided. I just have to hold my breath that others will see this too.

Thanks for having me.



Don't miss out on the "Alan, Fay & Demona" Book Teaser Trailer created by All Authors Graphic Design.

[embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vncm-AsAAjA[/embed]

In deep thought.

You ever have a moment when your mind just keeps ticking away on a single subject?

Today, I seem to be dwelling on the fine line between Writing Style and Grammar.

I've known a great many people in this journey that I've endeavored on to pursue my writing dream. A great many indeed. The sad and unfortunate truth is that in this day and time everyone wants to be a writer. What can I say? That is just the way the cookie has been crumbling since 2005 or so'ish.

Now, just because with modern technology everyone has to ability to be an author, that does not give them the right to be. Not everyone is endowed with the undeniable talent of writing. Sorry, it had to be said.

There is a reason to this ... I promise.

All of this trickles down to so many facets of the writing industry as a whole. It seeps into reading, reviewing, and of course writing and publishing. There are many more faces to this industry that meets the eyes. But I won't get into that today.

Nevertheless, today I'm going to focus on the difference between Writing Style and Grammatical Error.

Trust me when I tell you that there is a fine line there and ANY circumstance can sway that line into one area or the other. Not everyone can tell the variation between Writing Style and Grammatical Error. Others simply don't want to, whether it be for good or bad reasons. In this industry we have groups like the Grammatically Pious Editors and the Self-Righteous Writers. Either side of the fence is a bad one.

Yet, what about the ones that can see both sides?

I suppose the best approach to this post would be to tell you a story.

There was a Kingdom called Grammartopia. In that place a girl named Mindy met a girl named Helen.

Mindy and Helen met at a Writers Community Meeting in the town hall. The two girls hit it off fairly well, consequently becoming good friends. Through time that friendship blossomed. They shared thoughts as well as their views on different writers' works. Most of the time they saw things the same way, the only difference was that Mindy was more swayed towards Writing Style and Art whereas Helen was a stickler for Proper Grammar.

Many times Mindy could see Helen's points as it pertained to Grammar and Punctuation in certain peoples' work, however at times she simply didn't because she knew that certain things were done on purpose. She knew this because it was a practice she held true in her own works.

One day Helen decided that she would create a blog dedicated to teaching writers Proper Grammar. She felt that it would be her little contribution to the Kingdom of Grammartopia. Mindy was all for it and was anxious to start following the blog herself as she knew that Helen had lots of great tips to offer.

In time Helen grew arrogant. Whether it was deliberate or inadvertently Mindy wasn't sure, all she knew was that it was happening. With further passing time, Mindy realized that Helen had started labeling things that were clearly Writing Style as Grammatical Error. Mindy was sort of upset with these findings and couldn't quite figure out why Helen was seeing things that way.

Sooner or later Helen's once long and well articulated views on other peoples' works became shorter and more dogmatic. Where once she would give leeway to story line and some Writing Style, now she no longer did. She'd become so strict in her perception that Writing Style was in her mind, completely out of the question. This thought process consequently made her views shorter and shorter as well as meaner and meaner.

Shortly thereafter, Helen crowned herself the Ruler of Grammartopia and ruled the Kingdom with an iron hand, and would not succumb to what others perceived as art.

Mindy, unfortunately lost a good friend to the inner mayhem that only Iron Fist Editing could accomplish. With a sad heart and a tear flowing down her cheek, Mindy turned away from the friendship that she'd once held dear because in her heart ART was what mattered most of all.

A similar thing happened in real life. This was an unfortunate turn of events. I'll tell you why ...

When a Reader/Writer/Editor turns their high and mighty views into Iron Fist Editing then they will undoubtedly give a bad review to a great book simply because the writer might have used a "few too many" exclamation points. Who knows, maybe even a couple of instances of "weak sentence structure". It could have been things which could have very well been implemented on purpose due to an artistic view, as well as the overall effect for the reader. Yet, here we have the "Grammatically Pious" rendering that as a mistake to the rules of the English Language therefore a blatant offence.

I don't think it's fair. As a matter of fact, the well trained eye can see both Proper Grammar AND Writing Style. Just because you know proper grammar does not give you the license to belittle and/or rebuke other peoples' works because it does not fit in your little guide to the English Language.

Don't let your self-righteous opinion cloud your judgement of good art. Some things are indisputable mistakes whereas others are simply a matter of view points. What you've deemed erroneous someone else may have done on purpose. Why? Because while story telling does have to be grammatically correct, lots of it does have to reflect the reality of the human condition--imperfection.

I'm out!

Author Blindness ... Lets talk about it.

Lets talk about it.

Maybe it's just me. But it seems like today's writing society is suffering from a severe case of Author Blindness.

What is "Author Blindness" you ask?

Well ... let's do the math.

Blindness, definition:

Adjective: blinder, blindest.
Unable to see; lacking the sense of sight; sightless: "a blind man."

Author, definition:

Noun.
A person who writes a novel, poem, essay, etc.; the composer of a literary work, as distinguished from a compiler, translator, editor, or copyist.

So, Author Blindness is:

The inability for an Author to see mistakes within his/her own works.



Let's look at it this way ...

Authors of a work can sometimes suffer from a certain type of delusion when it comes to their writing. Not the "You need to be locked up and given some meds." type of delusion, but the authors' eyes playing tricks on them.

You see, when you've written a work, your mind is seeing what you WANT & THINK is written, but your eyes are not catching any mistakes simply because you're being blinded by what your mind is telling you is there—the narrative as per your desire.

Author Blindness inhibits the ability to catch any mistakes.

"So, what's the point?" you ask?

Today, The Review Board featured a piece that I wrote called "The Truth in Reviews". In that post, I talk about what it takes to make your work better. I also make mention of the following:

"In order to produce a good book you MUST take these steps:

1. Write it


2. Read it


3. Edit it


4. Read it


5. Correct it


6. Read it


7. Edit it some more


8. Read it again


9. Have someone else read it


10. Read it AGAIN!

You see, the more you read your work, the more you’ll realize that there could be potential problems with the book. There are so many things that you can discover when you read and re-read your book. Obvious things like typos/grammatical errors, and not so obvious things like plot holes and incoherence."

Some might think me cuckoo crazy for saying what I said above, but as always, there is a method to my madness. The things I say, I say for a reason.

I've been there! I've suffered the searing sting of the venom known as Author Blindness. In my very first publication I did not have the support/help I needed to edit it. Nor did I have the money to pay a professional to do so. So, I had to do it myself. In so doing, I had to suffer the ramifications of Author Blindness. There were SO MANY things that I missed, or simply didn't see. Then when it was read by an outside audience, many of them pointed out my mishaps.

Now, I'm sure you're probably wondering why I am bringing all of this up. I can promise you that there is a reason.

As a reviewer, time and time again, I have to deal with people that get mad that I've given their book a low score, or have made mention of the book's shortcomings.

Had I gotten mad at the people that told me my book was a mess, I would've never been able to learn. In listening and accepting what they said, not only did I perfect my craft, but I discovered what Author Blindness is and more importantly how to fix it.

Using the tools I provided above, plus implementing this little jewel that I'm about to share with you, you will have a great change at combating and winning the war against Author Blindness.

Here is the key ...

Put the WIP away for 3 - 4 weeks—don't look at it—then when you pull it back out, print it out (don't read it on the computer) and read it that way. I promise you that you're going to notice things that you hadn't noticed before.

Make sure to have a red pen and highlighter available. These will be your tools to mark up the document.

THE POINT IS ...

DON'T BE A VICTIM TO AUTHOR BLINDNESS!