Shield of Fire by Boone Brux

I'm so excited about my new book release, Shield of Fire. It's been a long time in the making, but we finally birthed this baby and it's on sale now at most online retailers. Here's a peek inside.

Blurb:

Protecting humans is the Bringers’ duty. Sending demons to the Shadow World is their pleasure.

In one night, Ravyn’s life plunges from barely tolerable to deadly. Forced to flee the only home she’s known, she stumbles headlong into the clutches of Icarus, a powerful demon intent on stealing her powers. Unfortunately for him, she has no intention of cooperating.

When Rhys realizes the woman he’s rescued from the Bane Demon is no mere human, his obligation as a Bringer dictates he protect and train her in the ways of his people. But he’s unprepared for the intense desire he feels for the fiery Ravyn. To surrender to his need may mean her death.
As the Demon King’s desire for ultimate power escalates, fathers are slated against sons, and foes are made allies. The Bane threat upon them, Rhys and Ravyn must quest to unite the last of the Bringers—and explore a passion too powerful to ignore.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Menda Abbey, Itta Territory, Inness
One Thousand Years after the Bane War

The demon’s gaze narrowed. “Let me see her.”

Beautiful and horrifying, Icarus moved toward Brother Powell with frightening grace. Sinewy muscles rippled under taut, black skin as he prowled toward the crumbled wall of the abbey. His leathery wings scraped the tree branches overhead and waves of ebony hair, banded with rings of gold, cradled two spiraling horns that jutted upward.
Powell glanced away, refusing to gaze into the mesmerizing, reptilian eyes.

The demon’s deep purr poured over him. “What troubles you, Brother? Are you not happy to see me?”

The monk ignored the question and swiped the cold rain from his eyes. He held the hissing torch higher to reveal a young woman. She stood unnaturally still, compelled by the monk’s hypnosis—a spell taught to him by the demon. Her thin shift clung to her bony frame, and her dull eyes stared ahead. Angela had been lovely once, but like so many, she hadn’t been woman enough to withstand the honor of his attentions. They never were, always crying and pleading to be left alone. Lucky for them, the Demon Bane preferred their sacrifices pure.

“This is not what I asked for.” The deadly calm of Icarus’s voice belied the danger of his statement. “Where is the other woman—the gifted one?”

“In her cell. She doesn’t trust me.” Powell stroked Angela’s limp, blonde hair. “But she’ll not be able to resist the cries of her closest friend.”

“For your sake, monk, I hope you are right.” Icarus held out his hand. “Come to me.”
The compulsion whispered past Powell, sweeping across his skin with the promise of pleasure. He slipped his hand under his robe and adjusted his erection.

The demon’s call slithered toward Angela and wrapped around her like a sensual net. Before the force could ensnare him as well, Powell released his hold and backed away. She glided forward.

He watched, immobilized with morbid fascination. Her progress faltered when she reached the holy ground’s boundaries. He leaned toward Angela, willing her to cross the invisible barrier.
“Come to me,” Icarus repeated.

Weak of mind and body, she lumbered forward through the opening in the wall and away from the protection of the abbey’s sanctified ground.

The demon stood before her and grasped her frail arm. With the smooth curve of his talon, he caressed Angela’s cheek.
She didn’t move.

Powell cringed, excited and repulsed at the same time. He ached for a taste of the power Icarus would give him one day.
“So pure,” Icarus crooned. He trailed his talon down her neck. “So sweet.”

Powell squeezed his holy medallion, its ornate embellishments biting deep into his skin. The pain kept him present and protected against the call of the Bane, a call he wanted to answer. Riveted, he held the torch higher, trying to shed more light on the black demon.

Icarus slid his claw lower, coming to rest between Angela’s breasts. His energy pulsed and reached for its prey. The compulsion grazed Powell’s mind. The medallion slipped from his grasp, the chain catching on his fingers to hang loose. Forgotten.

“Awaken, little bird, and let me see your fear,” Icarus whispered.

Like a parting veil, Angela’s deadened expression cleared. She gasped, frozen by the sight of the towering demon before her. She twisted and fought for her freedom. Bare heels dug into the soggy earth, but the slick grass provided no traction. Icarus jerked her hard, his hold unbreakable.

“No!” Her scream shattered the silence of the night, its echoes hanging in the air like a heavy mist.
He pressed his fingers against her heart and pricked her delicate skin.

She convulsed, her strangled cry dying in her throat. With whispers as soft as the lightest breeze, the silvery essence of her soul sighed and bled from her body. Gossamer threads slithered around Icarus’s hand like small, white snakes, encircling his arm and swirling along the planes of his rounded biceps in an achingly slow, erotically sublime dance. The demon tilted his head and closed his eyes. Angela’s shimmering purity crept up his neck and hovered at his lips. He inhaled and drew her in, stiffening as if in the throes of passion, absorbing every delicate wisp.

The intimate union between predator and prey mesmerized Powell. He crept forward, forgetting the danger. The seductive and deadly act held a perverse beauty. Powell stroked himself, dragging the rough material of his robe over his erection, losing himself in The Taking. Time had no place; the tap, tap of rain on the leaves the only disruption brave enough to break through the reticence of the night.

When the sparkling vapor faded around her heart, Icarus retracted his talons and released his hold. Angela’s body slumped to the ground, dead. He stretched and smiled, his fangs glimmering in the torchlight. “That’s better.”
Powell’s heavy breathing punctuated the quiet. His body quivered from the demon’s feral presence. As the pleasurable effect began to fade, he opened his senses and scrambled to ingest the lingering scraps of Bane essence. Its pure power raced through his body and filled his veins with an intoxicating fire.

Icarus bent and scooped up Angela’s body. Four powerful strides brought him to the abbey’s border. He heaved his burden at Powell. The monk shrieked and jumped back, his euphoric haze evaporating. Bones snapped as the body landed in a crumpled heap at his feet. Bile rose in his throat. For a fraction of a second, remorse pawed at him, but, just as quickly, the sentiment disappeared.

“Bring me the other—now.” Icarus’s wings unfurled and stretched behind him. “Do not fail me, monk.” He crouched and pinned Powell with a yellow stare. “Or I won’t be as kind to you as I was to the girl.”

Powell glanced at the broken body at his feet and swallowed hard. Meeting the demon’s stare, he nodded.
With a powerful leap, Icarus launched into the sky and was instantly swallowed by the darkness.

B & N    Amazon     Website   Blog 

Thanks for stopping by!  Boone 

…

Romantic Science Fiction

by Tam Linsey

Genres have been on my mind lately. Not just genres, but subgenres. Do I write "science fantasy" or "science fiction"? "apocalyptic" or "dystopic"? "science fiction romance" (SFR) or "romantic science fiction" (RSF)?

This last pair is what I want to talk about today, because I didn't know there was a difference until recently. Why do I care? Because I've had several agents who represent science fiction request my manuscript, only to pass on representation because there was "too much science" in my story.

Too much science?

How can science fiction readers not want the science explained? In my opinion, just setting characters onto another world and throwing in a space ship or two doesn't make something science fiction. There must be verisimilitude – credibility that such a world could exist. That is where the science part of science fiction becomes important.

I was baffled by the rejections.

So I did what any good scientist would do; I researched and developed a theory about why these agents didn't like the science.

Why are readers these days okay with novels not explaining how things work? This is where the distinction between SFR and RSF becomes important. Although these agents claim to represent science fiction, they are big names in the romance industry. As romance readers, they want the story – be it paranormal, contemporary, historical, or science fiction – to be about a relationship first and foremost. Any speculative, otherworldly, or scientific elements of the story must be less important to the plot than the romance. In fact, the story they want could not exist without the romance. The science is taken for granted. Science Fiction has become part of our culture. Other writers have already done all the speculation for us. Who hasn't seen an episode of Star Trek, or a movie with aliens or space ships? The proof is already out there. Why prove it again?

Most romance readers don't care about the science. They just want a really good story about a relationship.

They want Science Fiction Romance.

I like romance. Love is what binds characters together, and binds readers to my characters. But love doesn't dominate the story in science fiction. My manuscript, Botanicaust, has a love interest relationship, but the plot could proceed without the romance. In fact, it wouldn't be too hard to rewrite the novel and remove the romance altogether.

But take out the science, and Botanicaust falls apart.

I write Romantic Science Fiction.

See the difference? It is all a matter of where the emphasis lies. The rejections are because I've been targeting the wrong readers.

Do you like to know how the world works in the book you are reading? Or do you prefer to take for granted that things are the way the author says they are?

Reposted from Romancing the Genres.

© Tam Linsey, 2011. All rights reserved.

Book Reviews - Bookin' It Reviews: A Day in the Life of Rachel Dahlrumple

Book Reviews - Bookin' It Reviews: A Day in the Life of Rachel Dahlrumple: Bookin' It Reviews is proud to welcome AKRWA author Shea McMaster here today! She's here today with Rachel Dahlrumple, the heroine from her romantic suspense...

Story Logic and the Kitchen Sink

I woke up this morning and got hit in the head by a kitchen sink.
Er, let me explain that.
I used to write stories for The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Edward Ferman – the editor and one of the truest gentlemen ever to grace the offices of publishing – once told me that my stories contained everything but the kitchen sink. Understandably worried – I was feeding a family of four by writing stories – I asked him if that was bad. He said, “No, it just may be your best asset.” (Which could be avoiding the question, if you think about it.)
So I began taking his advice to heart.
I began throwing in the kitchen sink.
*

To explain that, abide me while I switch hats to that of a professor, which is my “regular job.”
Begin with a pop quiz.
Answer the following. Neither is a trick question.
1. What is the image on the right?
2. Which item of the following does not fit with the others? hammer, saw, house, screwdriver.
◊
The answers:
In the 1930s, when working with illiterate peasants in Uzbekistan, a great Russian educational theorist, Alexander Luria, made a startling discovery: People who cannot read cannot think abstractly.
This is not to imply, which Western culture unwittingly does with its typical ethnocentrism, that oral folk – nonliterates in Western tradition – somehow are sick, being ill-literate. Rather, oral folk think in concrete, real-world ways. Technically, their thinking is called “situational logic.”
The Uzbekistani peasants could not recognize the circle as a circle. They would say, “It’s the top of a water jar” or “It’s the end of a log.” And there was only a 25 percent chance that they would decide that house does not fit. They lacked the ability to group items by traits. Rather than realizing that three of the items are tools, they might say that saw does not fit. When asked why, they would answer, “I left it outside the house.”
Many literate people see such thinking as silly, superficial, or sophomoric. They do not realize that Western thinking is the result of the written word – a new change of human consciousness and thus not the result of basal intelligence – and that it has limited usefulness.
Probably as a byproduct of the Greeks’ greatest invention, the only true alphabet ever created, the human mind changed during the first millennium B.C. This new type of thinking so infused the Western mind, especially after Greek thinking and Christianity became linked through the Gospels, that even how we think of cognition reflects our love affair with the written word. We talk about context and being literal.
That mind change makes it difficult for Western peoples to think holistically, to see all the variables that a situation involves. Until the computer began to change everything (and if you think that your kids don’t think like you, then you’re probably more right than you realize), Western peoples thought lineally, sequentially, akin to chapters in a book.
But how we think was not the only byproduct of the alphabet. The other was a change in what form of logic is elevated as being important. This change is so pervasive that most Western peoples do not even realize that there is another form of logic.

The logic the Greeks’ love of abstraction produced was the syllogism, the most famous is the one Plato published: All men are mortal, Socrates is a man, therefore Socrates is mortal.
◊
So what does this all have to do with a kitchen sink?
Aristotle was Plato’s star pupil. Aristotle disliked the direction in which Greek intellectual culture was going. He pointed out that syllogisms do not work in the real world. If Plato were right, Aristotle said, then the following is true: Women who are pregnant are pale. This woman is pale. Therefore this woman is pregnant.
By contrast, Aristotle advocated what is technically called “enthymematic logic.” It combines situational logical and syllogistic logic. Also known as evidentiary logic, it combines Western thinking and non-Western thinking. Expressed as a triad, Aristotle said, it analyzes a situation and then expresses it in a syllogistic-like form: Some women who are pregnant are pale. This woman is pale. Therefore this woman is pregnant.
However, the Greeks so worshipped the syllogism that Theophrastus, who inherited Aristotle’s school, threw out the enthymeme – which Aristotle had called “the heart of communication” – and steered the school back to the syllogism. Ever since, the syllogism has been what most Western people think of as “being logical,” even though it is a school-learned, artificial construct, rather than a natural way of thinking.
To make matters worse, in tenth century Byzantium, Greek monks copying over Aristotle’s manuscripts were so imbued with love of the syllogism that they assumed Aristotle was wrong. So they changed the master’s manuscript. Today, if you look up enthymeme, the dictionary will tell you that it’s “a truncated syllogism” or “a syllogism missing a premise.” Neither definition is correct, and what was perhaps the most powerful tool ever invented for communications fell by the wayside.
Skip ahead 2,300 years. About a decade ago, Walter Fisher – one of the finest minds working today in communications theory – announced that narrative, rather than the syllogism, is the basis of human logic. Narrative is so fundamental to human understanding, he says, that he calls us Homo narrans.
But narrative is not story. Narrative is usually just a retold incident. There is a basic difference between narrative and story. That’s why most people cannot write story even if they have an excellent ability to string words together. They confuse the two concepts.
◊
In the Western tradition, story consists of a logical attempt to solve or resolve an emotional problem. The “logic” is not syllogistic. It is diachronic.
Diachronic logic is telescopic. It unfolds like an old-fashioned spyglass or, for us Alaskans, like a cup used in camping. Unless it’s experimental fiction, then it consists of a series of (false) solutions the protagonist attempts until at last she arrives at a final possibility.
The reader can look back and see that everything was planned, that nothing was extraneous, that everything led irrevocably to that final, satisfying conclusion. In terms of communication theory, such diachronic logic is narrative expressed as enthymematic logic. In romance fiction, that becomes Girl falls in love with boy, boy loses girl because he’s a dunderhead, girl must resolve the situation and bring them back together.
◊
Except I push the envelope. I stretch the logic. I am constantly upset with myself for doing this, because it adds a thick layer of difficulty to my writing life, but I seem unable to think otherwise. Or maybe I just can’t say no, even though I am professionally trained in enthymematic logic and thus should know better.
It happened again this morning.
I am writing what started as a simple book in which an American physician right out of med school goes to Madagascar as a volunteer with Doctors Without Borders and falls in love with a Malagasy primatologist. He is dedicated to saving the aye-aye, an ugly but highly affectionate lemur that is being slaughtered because of the superstition that if it points at you, then you or a family member will die soon. The two run into difficulties, but through her efforts they resolve the difficulties, and they live happily ever after among the lemurs.
All fine, I think – except that other entities, all of which are real people and/or events, have demanded to be let into the mix:
A Hungarian Count who escaped from Siberia by seducing the warden’s daughter and stealing two Russian ships, a queen who was so truly evil that she came back fifty years after she died and people danced in the streets until they died of exhaustion, a member of the Madagascar Mafia, and the fact that Madagascar is the world’s worst ecological disaster.
All the writing advice I have read has said to avoid side streams and alleys where research can take you. But every time I have done so, my stories have gone unnoticed. And those times when I have finaled for or won major awards have been when I opened the doors and embraced everything except the kitchen sink, working and reworking the plot until all the pieces that caught my interest are there and yet all (hopefully) contributed to pushing the plot to its climax.
But once in a while, the kitchen sink has come flying through the door as well, demanding to be included.
It happened again this morning.
According to advice I have gotten from essays, blogs, and friends, heroines in romance should not be severely flawed. Their hearts can be broken, but the pieces are all there. It just takes Mr. Right and the heroine’s gumption and often all the king’s horses and all the kings’ men to put her heart back together again.
This morning, though, my heroine told me that at age thirteen she saw her mother drown and now, at twenty-six, the young woman can engage in professional relationships – but personal ones allude her. She functions well in the office but is dysfunctional when she’s alone. Unknown to others in the clinic where she works, her smile is always outward, rarely inward. She is physically beautiful but psychologically misshaped.
So is the story still within the environs of romantic fiction?
I don’t know.
And it scares me.

©2011 by George Guthridge

Heaving Bosoms

Most historical writers could probably write a Thesis Paper on the corset. They look pretty sexy, but in reality they were seriously constricting to the point of creating health problems. The reason women fainted so often or swooned was because the corset restricted their breathing. With only the top part of your lungs able to fill with air, the constricted lower parts of the lungs filled with phlegm. It also created other catastrophic health problems due to the pressure exerted on the internal organs.

These days we are lucky girls, our corsets are made with plastic boning, instead of things like steel and Baleen from the throats of Whales. Most of us don’t have to wear a corset day in and day out either, however many of us wear Bras. The Brassiere is one of the sleek and beautiful Granddaughters of the corset, the girdle another.

We have a plethora in the types of Bras available; the rocket bra, the push up bra, the water bra, the padded bra, the seamless bra, the U plunge bra, the sports bra and so on. They come in fabulous colors, materials and beautiful designs. Even underwire bras have little spring loads at the ends of the wire for easier movement in the design. I think that people that design bras must be structural engineers.

There are a lot of us running around in the wrong sized bra. Your breast shape changes not just over the years, but over the monthly cycle as well. Also weight gain and weight loss can render a bra that once fit – not so fitting. I hear pregnancy can totally change the landscape. An ill fitted bra can give you bad posture and or dig into your skin. Not to mention sometimes it just doesn’t look right. Many department stores have ladies in lingerie that can measure you and give you a pretty good assessment of what bra size is best. If you haven’t done this before, I say give it a whirl, make a day of it with your girls.
If you can, only wear your bra for 12 hours a day. I even hold this rule for tight clothing like jeans or socks. If something is pressing into your flesh hard enough to leave an imprint don’t wear it all day. Your body has to have the space to pump all the precious fluids you are filled with. If it is uncomfortable for you to let the girls be free, try wearing a spandex/cotton tee shirt a size smaller.
Another thing I also encourage readers to do is a breast exam. You can Google Breast exam and find great information, even Youtube instructional videos, there is a good one by a gorgeous, beauty name Olivia. I know the ideal is once a month, I have not been so diligent, I am going to have to pencil it in my calendar -like a date with my girls from now on. Someone might discourage it later but I like to use my favorite lotion. Make the exam a beauty treatment too. Concubines for Chinese Emperors used rollers made of Jade to massage their breasts for optimum beauty. I imagine this was also really good for moving fluids in the lymph tissues well.

One more thing while we’re on the subject - don’t forget to get your mammogram if you are of that age or certain risk factor. I know, I know, I just had one last week and it wasn’t comfortable. But I gotta say it can’t be as bad for me, as it is for the men who have to have that done on their testicles. I give it up to them, big applause for the strength to get through that. I look forward to the day, when some blessed genius designs a comfortable, highly accurate mammogram screening.
So while some of you are donning your saucy pirate wench corset this Halloween, be glad it’s not made of steel and choking your innards. I’m sure you’ll look very sexy!
October is Breast cancer awareness month. Be aware and share with your friends- Love your girls and take good care of them. Aye Mateys, have a rousin’ All Hallows Eve!


Carmen Williams

The Theme is Travel

In the near future, I've got plane trips and blog tours. It's enough to send me into a tizzy. What has to be done before I leave for Mexico next week? Two weeks in Puerto Vallarta, lounging about breathing in the sea air, storing up Vit D the natural way, and doing my best to just hang loose.

And yes, I'll be taking my laptop. The mini one. I'm torn between hoping there's readily available internet or praying there isn't. After all, what better excuse to totally goof off? Sorry, but I just can't get to the internet easily.

Part of my goal is to get a really good handle on the next book in a series I'm writing. Maybe even start another one. But even more pressing, the day after I return I have a new release!

November 7 is the debut of my long awaited Romantic Suspense novel, Rachel Dahlrumple, by Shea McMaster. (That would be Morgan's sweeter side. The good twin, as it were.)

November 7 also is the launch date of a two week blog tour, celebrating the release of Rachel Dahlrumple. Or Rachel as the book is affectionately known.

So here's the schedule. There will be a quiz later, and I'll be asking for people to drop by.

• Nov 7: Romance with an Attitude Blog: Breaking Writer's Block
• Nov 8: Megan Johns Invites Interview
• Nov 9: Carrie Ann Ryan Blog: Getting Over Betrayal. Fiction vs Real Life. Is there a difference?
• Nov 10: Romance in the Backseat Blog: How does being a writer affect you as a reader?
• Nov 11: Laurie's Thoughts & Reviews Interview
• Nov 14: Good Family Reads Blog: How to find Good Critique Partners and Be One in Return
• Nov 16: Words of Wisdom from the Scarf Princess Blog: I'm working on a topic now.
• Nov 17: Bookin' It Reviews Blog: A day in the life of Rachel Dahlrumple
• Nov 18: My Odd Little World Interview

As of this time, I'm only about half done writing the blogs. The interviews are done and I've only just begun to gather things to pack for my trip.

With all this traveling in the near future, both live and digitally, I'm feeling a bit frazzled and have started a check list.

• Snow tires on car. Check. (It will snow any day now. Any day. There were ice crystals falling from the sky yesterday.)
• Swimsuit, cover-up and hat - because I'm a red head who has been hiding from the sun for the past 6 years - Check.
• Launch tour dates set. Check.
• Sunscreen. Still need to buy.
• Books for trip, both paperback and ebook. Almost check. Have the first four books of the Game of Thrones to read, in addition to several other selections.
• Interviews written. Check.
• Sandals and flip flops ready. Check.
• Shorts and tops. Check.
• Sundresses. Check.
• Blogs written. Well, two down... not even close to check.

Ah, the list, it never ever ends. How do you cope with traveling? I do it so rarely, it's all one big adventure until I get to the airport. Lines. Pat downs. Worrying about what will be stolen from my suitcase once it leaves my hand. Long, long, long hours of sitting. Twenty hours from start to destination, if there are no delays.

Here's hoping the destination is worth the journey!

Morgan O'Reilly / Shea McMaster

Web Page

"Oh, I don't read."

A few days ago, I was chatting with a young woman who expressed an interest in being an author. We had talked about all the typical stuff: you have to write in order to be a writer; make sure you finish your project; have a lot of patience and a thick skin. She’d seemed to be solid and on track, until I asked her what the best book was that she’d read in the last year was. As an answer, she shrugged, waved her hand, and said “Oh, I don’t read.”
…
…
…
*crickets*

For a moment, all I could do was blink at her. Speechless. Completely speechless. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why she would want to be a writer if she didn’t even like to read.
See, any of us who love to write, loved to read first. Every author I know fell in love with the words, and the stories, and the story tellers. We each have the author(s) who captured our fancy and made us think I want to do this (Andrew Greeley and Nora Roberts, in case you’re wondering). We love to read as much – and sometimes more – than we love to write.
Is writing a cool profession? Oh, yeah. Not even going to try to lie. The other day, I was sitting outside, enjoying some late-season sun, reading a book, when a neighbor stopped by. With a smile, she called over “I thought you were working today!” I laughed along with her and decided to let it go, but truth of the matter is I was working. Reading other authors’ works is indeed part of my job. My first editor sent me several of Lucy Monroe’s books in order for me to notice how she developed her characters and resolved conflicts. My first agent had me reading category romances, to get a feel for how concise a story must be to be told in 50,000 words.
In spite of that, writing is hard work. It’s a skill, something that can be learned and honed. Starting with natural talent is hugely helpful, of course, but it doesn’t stop there. Instead, we work on how to develop characters, write fight scenes, build tension. We spend hours agonizing over our critique partners’ notes. We read dialogue out loud and study reactions in front of mirrors to literally see what we’re trying to describe. We pace, we bitch, we grind our teeth, and figuratively beat our heads against our desks trying to come up with the perfect turn of phrase. Our friends, significant others, and colleagues have learned “five more minutes…” actually means “go ahead without me, because we’re looking at hours before I can walk away from this scene.” When we’re writing, we stress over the words. When we aren’t writing, we stress over the lack of words. In between those two extremes are a plethora of other reasons to stress. Most of the authors I know have to squeeze writing time in and around a scheduled day job. It can be a heart-wrenching and all-consuming profession, and that’s before we put the finished product out there for Monday morning quarterbacking from total strangers. Why anyone would choose it when they don’t love the end result is beyond me. Except…
On this day in particular, I happened to be sitting on a deck overlooking the truly magnificent Priest Lake, in Coolin, Idaho. I have written all over the state of Alaska, from Kenai to Prudhoe Bay. I started a book in Mexico and finished it in Connecticut. Once people find out I’m a writer, they answer questions and tell me stories that they wouldn’t otherwise dream of telling a stranger. And let’s be honest; you cannot beat the writer’s commute.
Now, I still don’t understand why someone would choose to be a writer if they don’t love to read. I figure that would be akin to becoming an elementary school teacher when you don’t like kids. The idea of being an author is very different from the reality of being an author. But I will admit, I have been reminded of the allure, and that was good for me. There is nothing easy about this job. At the same time, if you love it – love reading the words, love writing the words, love it all – writing can indeed be worth it. Worth all of it.

--Pauline Trent