Monday, August 21, 2006
Busy
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Conference Fun!
Note to any writer who wants to be published:YOU MUST GO TO THE WRITERS CONFERENCES!!!
(Pictured to the right is Marlene Bagnull, the Director of the conference, with me.)
I'll get back to that statement in a bit, but first let me tell you about it from the beginning...
I drove from Morganton, NC to Philadelphia, PA in order to attend the Greater Philadelphia Christian Writers Conference. Even though it was supposed to be a 9 1/2 hour drive...I got there in 13 hours. Leaving at 2:30 AM seemed smart. How was I to know that I would somehow find myself in Trenton, NJ? What's really funny is that the only other person that I heard of getting lost and landing in Trenton was also from NC. Must be a Southern blonde thing. (Even if I am Californian by birth. LOL) But you know what? It was worth it. Every mile.
So, I got to the Radisson, finally, and went up to my room to meet Bonnie face to face for the very first time. PRAISE GOD! She was there! She also had a bit of trouble finding the hotel. Philly is not user friendly.I had waited to eat lunch, not expecting to get lost for three hours. Bonnie and I were planning on getting a Philly Cheesesteak sandwich...so, I didn't want to spoil my appetite. Unfortunately, I was so late that we had to rush off to a Welcome meeting. Then there was a practice
your pitch meeting with Kathy Mackel (author of some great Christian Fiction, including THE HIDDEN). So, here we are in a room full of nervous first timers, waiting to speak in front of everyone...and it is around 6:00PM. I'm hypoglycemic. Me and food do not go well without each other. My sugar drops, I start to shake and sweat...real cute in front of a crowd. But Kathy was great. She understood my ordeal and let me go 2nd...Bonnie 3rd...and we rushed down to the hotel restaurant to eat our fill. Many other conferees met us down there. We were all hungry!We went to sleep quickly and woke up early the next morning, eating breakfast in our room (remember the cheese muffins, Bonnie? YUM!) and headed off to the car to drive to the Philly Biblical University. Ha ha ha. Remember what I said about Philly? Yeah. We got lost, along with our new NC blonde friend who had gotten lost the night before too. We ended up asking some police officers where the college was. We were NOT the only ones. EVERYONE I spoke to had gotten lost going to PBU from the hotel. Maybe I'm not as blonde as I think?
We had a great chapel service and then went to our first class. Bonnie and I took 'Story Structure for Novelists' given by Kathy Mackel. (This was an ongoing session which lasted the whole three days.) Man, she is good! I'll have to do a post about just that class alone! Whew!
Well, just before I had a meeting with an agent,
Kathy went over our LOG Lines. What's a LOG Line? It is like a short advertisement about your book. Anyway, while practicing, Kathy said that I needed to say what my title, F.A.I.R.I.E.S.: Be Careful What You Wish For meant when telling about my book. She loved the acronym.
So, off I went to meet with Bill Jensen, Literary Agent. He was great. I felt so at ease talking with him. Turns out that he is from Oregon and understands the setting of my book really well. Those who know Santa Cruz, California can say that anything and everything crazy can happen there. He enjoyed my tongue and cheek title too. I felt like I was speaking to an old friend. We laughed and told each other stories about fairies. I've sent him my manuscript, so...we'll see what happens. God's timing. Not mine.Bill also taught two of the classes I attended, 'It Takes More than a Good Book' and 'The Role of Agents'. The agents class was the most informative. If I had only been able to attend two classes, it would have been the agents class and Kathy's. I'll probably do a post for the agents class too. Way too much info to give out on this post!
Later that day I met one-on-one with Bryan Davis, author of the Dragons in Our Midst YA Fantasy series. He liked my writing but had a problem with my protag being too bratty. He was right and it was an easy fix. I'm thankful for his honesty...even if I resented it at first. I was able to get him to sign his forth book for my sons...they were really excited when I got home. I also took 'Writing Out of this World Fantasy' by Bryan Davis. He taught it well, using LOTR as a guide.
Okay, I promised to explain why authors need to attend conferences...well, there was a panel of editors and agents and they explained the acquisition of new authors. Publishers look at agented authors FIRST. Then they consider authors who attend conferences that they were at SECOND. Only when they have time...which is hardly ever...they will consider unsolicited proposals AKA the SLUSH PILE. Really. If I had know this, I would have been going to conferences long ago.
I met so many great people...Here is a photo of author, Lisa Sampson, Bonnie, and Me.
Then there was Terry Whalin, Fiction Acquisitions Editor for Howard Books. He has a great blog. And an wonderful book: Book Proposals that Sell.
Angela Hunt was great. She gave me some awesome advice.
Next was Jennifer Peterson, Sr. Review Editor of Peterson Ink. She is a romance editor...and even though my book is NOT romance, I met with her to seek her opinion on the brattiness factor of my protag. Wow. She is amazing. She helped get me a great new first line of the book. With Bryan, Kathy, and Jennifer...I have made my protag just right. I am so thankful for their honesty and brainstorming!
On my way back to NC, I was able to meet another blogging buddy, Jaime! She and her employer graciously let me stay overnight. She took me out to Applebee's for dinner and dessert (Chocolate cake with raspberry sauce! MY FAVORITE!) We stayed up late chatting and going over what I learned at the conference. Like Bonnie, Jaime has really helped me out with rewriting my book by giving great advice and honest critiquing. THANK YOU JAIME!!!
I'll post more about what I learned later. Have a great day/night! I'll also be visiting all my blogging friends this week. I have not forgotten you! God bless you ALL!
Sunday, August 06, 2006
OFF TO PHILLY
It starts on Wednesday and goes until Sunday morning. I'll be driving there...about a 9 hour drive. So, pray for me!Also, pray that Bonnie and I learn a lot, talk to the right people, and things happen for our books!
I'm so excited about meeting authors too.
There will be published and unpublished authors there...as well as agents and publishers.
Most important, it will be a time of growth, learning, and praise.
I'll be visiting everyone's blogs when I get back. I PROMISE!!!
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
FIRST Day blog tour: Full Tilt by Creston Mapes
It is August 1st, time for the FIRST Day Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and their latest book's FIRST chapter!
I read Dark Star in October of 2005. It was awesome. Click here for my review.
Full Tilt, the second book in the Rock Star Chronicles, is racking up a number of fine reviews, many stating that its story/writing has surpassed the quality of that in Dark Star. His third novel, a psychological thriller based in Las Vegas, is due out in 2007.
As he has for 20 years, Creston resides in the Atlanta metropolitan area with his hometown sweetheart and four marvelous children. He loves reading, painting, morning walks with his dog, family outings, watching hockey, going on dates with his wife, meeting friends for coffee, and spending time in God's Word. Read Creston's Complete Bio
Rock Star Chronicles, Book 2
Full Tilt
a novel
by Creston Mapes
1
Black night. Familiar backstreets. Windows down. Cold air. Cruisin’ free.
Top of the world.
This was what it was about, baby. Lit on meth and movin’ at what seemed like the speed of light.
Lords of the night.
Over to Fender’s Body Shop on autopilot. Hands drumming on the dash and seats to the beat of the night and the pulse of the blood pounding through their veins.
Down the slope.
Whoa.
Past the dimly lit customer entrance and around back of the shop the Yukon swung and jerked to a stop. One, two, three of them exited the SUV and glided through the gate that was cracked open.
Wesley Lester was last to pass through the high chain-link fence. He slowed to peer at the snow-covered wreckage way out back of the shop, much of which had sat unchanged, like an eerie sculpture, for months beneath a haze of dim yellow lights. Dozens of mangled cars and pickups, SUVs, a hearse, vans, and an old school bus sat like jagged headstones in a haunted cemetery, some piled one on top of the other.
Several hundred yards away, in the vicinity of the far lamppost, David Lester’s black Camaro lay still and sinister. Wesley’s little brother and two teenage friends had perished in that car with David at the wheel. Seventeen years old. Too dang young to die.
After having rushed to the surreal scene of the wreck in nearby White Plains a year ago, Wesley had never ventured back to reexamine the remnants of his little brother’s car—or the totaled Chrysler that carried an elderly couple from Scarsdale, also pronounced dead at the scene.
On the way toward the huge body shop, Wesley shivered at the chill of the New York winter—a feeling his little brother would never experience again. Grinding his teeth, Wesley ran several yards, bashing the already dented door of a white Beamer. Spinning away, he welcomed the sense of release, thrust his dead brother out of his jumpy mind, and followed the others.
Brubaker led the way through the employee entrance, slamming open the heavy steel door against the outside of the fabricated beige metal building. "Ah, smell that?" he said, not looking back. "Good ol’ Bondo. Be high all day if you worked in here."
Wesley cruised in last, leaving the door wide open and purposefully taking a giant whiff of the pungent air that reeked of metal and plastic dust.
Like mice, the three figures zigzagged through a maze of half-repaired vehicles toward an area that glowed white, back in the far corner of the building.
As they drew closer to the dancing light and long shadows, hard-driving music mixed with the static sound of a welder. A dark blue ’65 Mustang sat up on a hydraulic lift, and beneath it—behind a welding hood—stood Tony Badino.
Brubaker and Wesley came to a standstill, fascinated by the sparks that rained down on Tony’s dirty, charcoal coveralls and scuffed brown work boots; the kid stopped between them, equally entranced.
Tony must have seen them but went on welding like a macho man, his brawny legs braced apart, tool belt hanging low around his lean waist, broad shoulders and triceps locked in place as he hoisted the blazing welder.
Brubaker was like a four-year-old. Constant motion. Bobbing his head, singing unintelligibly, rubbing his face and arms, and repeatedly peering back toward the door and out the dirty windows. His paranoia was enough to make anybody start seeing things. The kid in the middle watched spellbound as Tony melded metal to metal.
In the scalding flame, Wesley remembered his brother, curly haired and anxious, slapping a twenty-dollar bill into his hand for a teener—one-sixteenth of an ounce of some of the best crank Wesley had ever come across. Then he flashed back to David’s demolished Camaro hours later—what was left of the engine, parts of the car scattered along Post Road, still smoking.
Once again Wesley was slapped in the face by the fact that he was the one who had poisoned his brother’s bloodstream the day he drove to his death.
No. No. No!
It wasn’t the meth that killed his brother. It was the years of Everett Lester’s tainted music that had contaminated David’s mind. It was Everett’s empty promises and repeated letdowns that had sent David longing for the grave and a so-called better life on the Other Side. And Everett would burn for it; uncle or no uncle, he would pay. Because Wesley was hearing the voice again.
Wesley actually jerked when Tony snapped back the flame, lowered the welder in his right hand, and flipped the dark visor up with the other.
"Boys." He eyed the dazed kid in the middle.
"This is the dude we told you about, from Yonkers," Brubaker yelled proudly above the music, rubbing at the insides of his elbows with his wrists. "Needs an ounce."
Tony extinguished the pilot on the welder, lowered it to the concrete floor by its cord, then walked over to the stereo and turned it off.
"Slow down, Brubaker." Tony shook off his big, stiff gloves and removed the hood to reveal a tough face with small, pronounced features and a glistening scalp covered only by what looked like about two weeks’ worth of brown hair.
Reaching inside the front waist pocket of his coveralls, Tony pulled out a silver Zippo and a pack of Marlboros. Tapping one out, he stuffed it in the side of his little mouth and lit it with a grimy hand. As he took a long drag and snatched the cigarette away with his left hand, Wesley noticed a small tattoo of an upside-down cross on the inside of his wrist.
Tony was one creepy dude. Knew what he wanted. Had kind of a fiendish aura about him. People were naturally scared of the guy. Maybe that’s why Wesley liked running with Tony, because it was risky and unpredictable. That gave him a rush. And it didn’t hurt that Tony always had the best jenny crank on the street.
Grabbing a hanger light from the frame of the Mustang, Tony walked beneath his work, inspecting the length of the exhaust system.
"How do you know Lester and Brubaker?" He tapped the muffler, cig in hand.
"Uh…a friend introduced me to Wesley at a party," the middle kid said.
"When?"
"Last week."
"And Brubaker?"
"Met him a couple nights later."
"Been tweekin’?"
"Uh…when do you mean?" The kid’s eyes darted to Bru then Wesley.
"Tonight." Tony stopped and stared at him.
"Earlier today," Wesley interrupted. "Couple teeners."
Tony went back to inspecting his work. "That same stuff from the other day?"
"Yeah. Finished it off." Wesley coughed, feeling somewhat like a raw recruit reporting for duty before some high-ranking officer.
"This new cristy blows that stuff away." Tony glanced at the three visitors, his right eye twitching. "Just in from Pennsylvania. Keep you amped for days. I’ve been workin’ nonstop since yesterday—goin’ on, what? Thirty-five hours?"
Brubaker and the stranger nodded, swayed, and laughed. Wesley simply stared, promising himself he wouldn’t bow down to the grease monkey like everybody else.
"So you need an ounce." Tony held the light up close to the tailpipe.
"Yep," piped up the kid in the middle.
"Good old Wesley Lester. I can always count on him to bring me the finest clientele." Tony nodded toward Wesley. "Do you know who this guy is? Who brought you here tonight?"
The kid stared at Tony with hollowed eyes and shrugged.
"This is the great Everett Lester’s nephew. Bet you didn’t know that."
What the heck?
The kid turned to Wesley. "No way."
"Straight," said Tony. "You’re in the presence of the bloodline of one of rock ’n’ roll’s greatest legends."
"Dude," the kid exclaimed, "I saw one of their very last shows—at The Meadowlands. They played three and a half hours, at least."
"With Aerosmith," Tony chimed in. "I was there. Wesley was supposed to be there backstage, but Uncle Everett stood him up."
"That’s cold," Brubaker mumbled.
Silently, expressionlessly, Wesley agreed.
Tony smirked at Bru, but it went right over the head of the kid in the middle.
"I lived and breathed DeathStroke," the kid said. "Lester was so stoned out of his mind that last show, he could barely stand by the end. But they jammed their hearts out."
"And now he’s a Jesus freak." Tony’s eyes shifted to meet Wesley’s, but his head didn’t move.
Wesley met his glance without flinching. His nostrils flared and his temper cranked up like the flame on the welder. He searched Tony’s face for the reason he would be trying to push Wesley’s buttons.
The kid in the middle picked up on the friction.
Tony smirked, knelt down, and began banging his tools into the drawers of a tall red metal toolbox on wheels.
"What’s he like, anyway?" the kid barged ahead. "Everett Lester, I mean…"
Brubaker looked uneasy, twisting and bouncing slightly on his toes.
"He’s a loser, okay?" Wesley snapped, walking over to a workbench cluttered with jars of nuts and bolts and old tools. "Dude’s a lyin’ hypocrite. Dang waste of breath!"
"Where does he live?" the kid asked. "Does he still have a place in Manhattan?"
Wesley’s back was to the others. He fingered the tools without a word. I wonder if he’d shut up if I heaved this jar of bolts at his head.
Brubaker ran interference. "He has a farm near Bedford and a place in Kansas—where his wife’s from."
"Oh yeah, that chick who converted him," the kid said.
Tony slammed the middle drawer closed.
"That was some story. I heard she wrote to him ever since she was like a teenager—Jesus this and Jesus that. And finally it stuck…can you believe that? The guy went off the deep end!"
Tony stood, banging another drawer shut. "Some people hit you over the head again and again with that Jesus hype till you’re brainwashed. Seen it happen."
"Well, look at the guy," the kid said. "I mean…he’s changed! I saw him and his wife on Larry King Live and he, I mean, it’s like he’s a different person—"
"Let’s do this deal!" With three long strides and a commanding kick, Wesley booted a large piece of scrap metal twenty feet across the dusty white floor.
The corners of Tony’s mouth curved up into a quick smile as he raised an eyebrow at the kid in the middle, stomped out his cigarette, and walked over to an old white sink. Pushing up his sleeves, he rinsed his hands and squeezed a glob of gray goop into his palm from a bright orange bottle.
"You got the cash?" he asked the kid above the running water.
"Yeah, yeah." The kid dug almost frantically into his front pocket and pulled out a clump of folded bills.
"Count it, Wes," Tony ordered, still washing.
Wesley hesitated before snatching the wad and rifling quickly through the bills. "Fifteen hundred. It’s here."
Tony dried his hands with a dirty towel, wiped his face with it, and looked at himself in the smudged mirror above the sink. Then he found the kid’s reflection in the mirror. "You don’t know where this devil dust came from."
"Oh…d-definitely n-not." He smiled anxiously. "I don’t even know you. We never met, as far as I’m concerned. Nope. Never met."
Tony dropped the towel on the edge of the sink and walked to the tool chest. Lifting the top, he pulled out a Tech .22 assault pistol with his right hand and a good-sized bag of off-white, crystal-like powder with the other. Turning, he tossed the bag to the kid, who fumbled it awkwardly but mangled it at the last second before it escaped his hands. Embarrassing.
"You hear about the body that turned up in Canarsie other day? In the scrap yard?" Tony approached the kid, whose forehead was glistening with sweat.
Here we go. Wesley wished Tony hadn’t picked up the gun but, at the same time, found it strangely exciting.
"Uh…no." The kid eyed the piece. "No, I missed that."
"Well, don’t miss what I’m telling you." Tony’s voice grew vicious as he neared the kid’s face. "That guy had it comin’, okay? I know that for a fact."
The kid’s mouth was wide open, big eyes flashing, cheeks red as radishes.
"He was blabbin’ about where he got his rocket fuel."
"Listen, I…"
But before the kid could eke out another word, Tony lifted the modified Tech .22 sideways, shoulder-high, squinted, and blasted six rounds across the base of the metal wall beneath the workbench with one squeeze of the trigger.
Brubaker floundered back four feet as the smell of gunpowder hung in the air and the rattle of gunfire echoed in their ears.
The kid’s red face went ash white, and he looked as if he might lose his dinner.
Wesley kept a stone face, not wanting to show a trace of the fear that was making his hands shake.
"You know how many twenty-twos this mag carries?" Tony grabbed the fat magazine with his free hand.
The kid jerked his head in one rapid no.
"Twenty. And I got it rigged so I pull the trigger once and the thing can unload. You understand?"
The kid opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
"Word on the street is, the dude in Canarsie was a rat-squealing tell-all." Tony lightly tossed the Tech .22 in his right hand. "He got himself whacked for blabbing."
"Oh…don’t worry—"
"And the same will happen to you if you tell one soul where you got that cristy, you read?"
"Oh, hey, I read, I read. I’m not about to—"
"Now beat it!" Tony hoisted the weapon up to his shoulder and the kid scrambled an about-face, practically sprinting for the door with a blubbering Brubaker right on his heels.
Badino’s dark eyes locked in on Wesley, followed by the cock of his head and a smirk. "He ain’t gonna do no talkin’, now is he, Wes?"
Wesley watched the two figures scurry into the darkness. "No, I don’t believe so."
As Tony banged the Tech .22 back into the toolbox, two things occurred to Wesley: 1) He would love to see the bullets from that weapon rip through Everett Lester’s sickening, superspiritual flesh, and 2) if you ever wanted to commit a murder, Tony Badino was probably a very good person to know.
************************************
Excerpted from Full Tilt © 2006 by Creston Mapes, Inc. Used by permission of Multnomah Publishers, Inc. Excerpt may not be reproduced without the prior written consent of Multnomah Publishers, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
FULL TILT
published by Multnomah Publishers, Inc.
Published in association with the literary agency of Mark Sweeney & Associates, 28540 Altessa Way, Bonita Springs, Florida 34135
© 2006 by Creston Mapes, Inc.
International Standard Book Number: 1-59052-506-X
Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from:
New American Standard BibleÒ Ó 1960, 1977, 1995 by the Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
Other Scripture quotations are from:
The Living Bible (tlb)Ó 1971. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.All rights reserved.
Multnomah is a trademark of Multnomah Publishers, Inc., and is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. The colophon is a trademark of Multnomah Publishers, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.
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