My Book is On Sale!

When you’re an “indy writer” (the trendy way of saying self-published), you are your own marketer.  And publicist.  And everything else.  It’s a lot, I won’t lie, however, it can be fun because you can chose when to issue a sale.

No automatic alt text available.So…  Right now, I’m offering a digital copy, available only on Amazon Kindle, of my first book for only $.99!  Don’t have Kindle?  The app is free to download on almost any device (I have it on my iPhone).  Want a hard copy?  Well, that is available as a print-on-demand for $10.99 at Amazon and B&N if you wish!

Go ahead!  Snag a copy!  And let me know what you think in a review.  I’d love feedback.

Mother’s and another One-Shot

Goodness!  It’s been busy.  Between work (don’t feel too bad, I love my job) and rehearsals (don’t feel bad there either, I couldn’t imagine NOT performing), there’s been little time to write.  I have to remind myself that it’s okay… especially since I’ve had a break-through the Turned/Red‘s sequel and what the voice will sound like… and I’ve been struggling with that for some time, so that’s a big deal.

I, also, may have written Katja in my paranormal-fantasy into quite the pickle and need to figure out a good way to escape it.  Whoops.  I blame her.

But, it’s Mother’s Day, and while I never plan on being anything but a mother to my kitties, I want to celebrate mother’s out there, whether they have children, or not that are their own.  I firmly believe that we take on motherly qualities in all areas and that should be celebrated.  Plus, my mother and grandmother…  words don’t suffice.

Well… sort of…  I did write another installment of World Painted Red which is my 1000k short story collection I’m working on.  This one brings us Red’s mother, a character I love, and may, one day, get her own story.  Read over here at FictionPress or below:

World Painted Red:  The Word-Smith

The concrete counter was holding me up.  I had all my weight leaning on my hands, on that counter, as if the grey slab was the only foundation I had under me.  In the sink beside me, waiting to be tossed, or better yet, burned in the antique fireplace, were white washcloths covered in blood.  My husband’s blood.  I wished it wasn’t the usual occurrence: the bloodied rags haphazardly tossed in the sink.  I wished that I didn’t know a thing about how to patch him up, but I did, and it happened more and more.

I wasn’t sure I could fault him for it, but I couldn’t.  I wanted to be out there with him, fighting from the ground up.  My role was something else, however.

My nails tried to dig into the concrete.  Over, and over.  The tips of my fingers began to feel raw, only a few more scratches away from adding my own blood to his; it would certainly be fitting.  But I stopped, keenly aware that in the next room a man, gruff but edged in fluff, was making our young daughter giggle, minutes after having his head, hands, and body stitched back together.  Only one of us could be made of patches, and he had sacrificed himself.

A giggle erupted from the living room, tiny, but deep.  She would be a spitting image of her father when she grew up, I knew it.  My only hope was that she would be less like him, with less of his tendencies to get himself into scraps.  There were only so many stitches I could put in my family.  I couldn’t begin to contemplate putting them in her perfect, toddler skin.

With shaking hands, I gathered up the rags, and pitched them into bin set for the trash the next morning.  My husband wouldn’t be able to hide his current injuries, so I didn’t bother to start a fire to burn them.  Drowning out the childish shrieks, and the booming laughter of my husband, I ran the sink, rinsing away the traitorous deeds our family was leading.

As I stepped back, surveyed the kitchen, the dishes drying beside the sink, and the gleam of the countertops, the world seemed simple.  Clean.  Outside our safe walls, made so by my appointment in the legal offices near the heart of Faeree, the world was covered in blood, rubble, and the tears of those forgotten by the glittering towers of the White Dynasty.  My husband worked tirelessly, a fierce bear protecting his cub, to bring the tyranny down, more often by force.  No matter how many times I tried to convince him to use a more diplomatic solution, he was all fire, consuming, and headstrong.

I was the rock.

It was so hard being the rock.

I wanted to yell.  To raise my fist with him, but I knew.  I knew that I had set the path at his feet, and that it was I who had lit the fire that burned through him.  All of the stitches I put in his skin, were mine.  My words, only words, were the first to start the rebellion, the kindling so many were waiting for, and he fanned them.

One last swipe on the counter, and I wandered to the edge of the doorframe to look in on them.  She was toddling away from him, a little run that her chubby lanky legs struggled with, to circle the coffee table.  He loped after her, comically looming like a monster.  Her little voice shrieked, then giggled, and shrieked some more.  Despite the fresh stitches, the pain that must have been going through him, he obliged her.  He never once paused, or thought to turn her never-ending energy in a different direction.  She was his joy, but in that moment, I saw that she would be his destruction.  He would do anything for her.  Anything.  As would I.  And she deserved everything.  Even a world where we fought, with blood and turmoil, to bring to her so that she wouldn’t know the burden that Faeree was placing on the shoulders of its people.

They turned the corner, her face turning up to see me, leaning in the doorway.  She bolted toward me, her arms outstretched, looking for protection.  I returned her pure, innocent smile, snatching her up in my arms, swinging her legs around me.  “Roselind Red.”  I admonished.  “Rupert Red.  What is going on in here?”

“There’s no Rupert here.  There’s only,” he paused for dramatic effect, “the Troll Monster.”  His hands, freshly washed, flew up in ridiculous claw shapes.  The face he made, pinched and comical, made a giggle (such a foreign thing) bubble up in my chest.

He took a stomping step toward us, and I took a little step back.  Roselind’s little arms circled my neck.  “Mommy!”  She cried, though there was no real fear in her voice.  I prayed there would never be a reason for her to cry my name with fear behind it.

Rupert took a step toward us.  I took a step back.  “Don’t worry, Little Red.  I’ll always keep you from the big, bad monster.”  I childishly stuck a tongue out at my husband, who gave me a playful wink moments before leaping toward us.  I was a word-smith, not a fighter, and with a squirming toddler in my arms, I wasn’t quick enough.  His big arms wrapped around us.  His fingers found tickle spots.  He knew my weaknesses, and I simply could not endure tickling.  I sunk to the floor, laughter overwhelming me.  We tumbled together in a mixture of erupting giggles, and flaying lips.  When the tickling subsided, Roselind wiggled free, triumphantly taking her place atop the cushions on the couch.

Rupert sat back, pulling me up with him, and tenderly brushing a strand of hair from my face.  His hand was shaking, probably from pain.  My eyes softened.  I took his hand, kissing the top just before the stitches I had delicately sewn into his skin.  Behind us, Roselind tossed herself down, bouncing with the cushions, her little face smooshing as she turned to watch us.  “Tell me a story, Mommy.”

“A story?”

“Yes,” Rupert urged, “a story.  Ella, tell one of your lovely stories.”

“Story!”

“About a girl,” he continued, “who escaped the Ice Queen.  And found her less-than-princely Prince Charming.”

“With the fairy godmother!”

I smiled, slowly.  “Just one then bed.”

Roselind clapped, then squirmed until she was curled up in the cushions.

“There once was a girl who lived far away from Faeree, where there were rolling hills, and silly dogs who chased sticks.  She had a wonderful father, but a horrible stepmother who was always jealous of everyone.  But this girl was smart, smartest in her class.  And she had an idea…”

One-Shots and Fueling

In the early morning hours, you know them, they’re the ones were you roll over at 2am, open about ten apps and hope for sleep, I came up with an interesting idea…  One -shots.  I used to write them all the time.  I wrote fan-fic one-shots, original fic one-shots… anything.  There were a great way to get juices flowing, explore a character voice, and just simply: practice.  In fact, during that 2am desperate search for sleep, I realized I missed writing them.

I came up with an idea.  Mainly, I came up with the idea to keep my first novel’s world in my head.  I didn’t want to lose the world I had built in favor of the new one that seems to be taking over (ahem… Srebrov and my paranormal-fantasy).  I decided that one-shots, a great exercise, would really help my world-mushing problem.  Why not write one-shots in Faeree, Turned/Red‘s world?  Write from perspectives of characters never met in the novel, or explore bits of their early life?  It would be a fun way to further explore what I had created…

And why not share those experiments?  I’m all about transparency of the process… and encouraging others to do the same.  So this first one is up on Fictionpress.  Eventually, I hope to collect them into a small companion book, but for now, they’re available to read there.

I hope you enjoy!

World Painted Red: The Nanny
She was tasked with a simple job: steal the baby for the queen. But nothing with the Imperial Queen is ever that easy. A one-shot in the world of Faeree first introduced in E. Logan’s Turned/Red.

When Characters Speak Up

What happens when a character, who, when you originally wrote her, was one of the more elusive of the set, suddenly decides to speak up and demand her own story?  You try to tell her to stop, but end up giving in and allowed her to take over her own novella.  At least, this is how this reasoning goes when a little story-bug gets into your brain and won’t let go.

Not that I’m complaining.  Story-bugs are the best.  Really.  There’s passion, and imagination, and fire there.  It means that a character has a voice that demands to be heard, and usually, if you let yourself follow the story-bug, something interesting comes out of it.

Now, I’ll admit, it isn’t always a full-blown story.  I’ve had story-bugs think they are full novels but end up realizing they are just fabulous sub-plots to another tale.  They end up being important points in the over-all reach of the story in ways I didn’t expect.

The bunny looks so cute and concerned....: Then you have story-bugs that started out only as a sub-plot idea that somehow blooms into a bigger one.  That’s where I am currently.  Solene White, a character in my novel Turned/Red I wrote about earlier (here) was only ever supposed to be a sub-plot.  Having based her off of Snow White and a few well-talked about monarchs in history, I didn’t feel like I wanted to re-hash an over-told tale.  I was wrong.  Apparently.

In the original plotting of the story-arcs, she never received her own.  The “Cinderella” character would get one, the “Sleeping Beauty” character would get one, down the line even a “Dorothy” and “Tinkerbell” character would get one… but not “Snow White.”  That, however, was back when I was taking the story in a very fairy-tale re-telling route, before it turned on its head, pulled from the War of the Roses and my dystopian love and jumped the curve.  Happily.

But now Solene isn’t content to be in Red’s story.  She wants her own.  So does Mal.  So does Red’s mother.  These women have stories they want to tell.  Novellas.  Not fully grown tales, but mini-ones.  And while I spent this week trying, and failing, to focus efforts purely on my paranormal fantasy project, they were begging me to give.

So I did.  Novellas for everyone it seems.

Characters of Turned/Red: The Fire

In continuing with talking about characters, in particular, characters of my book: Turned/Red, I move on to talking about one of the more difficult (but not THE most difficult) character to write.  Why talk about them individually?  Well…  I’m a character based writer, rather than plot based.  What I mean by that is: I write from and for the character first, with the plot second (though I don’t start off plot-less).  A lot of epics are plot first, and character second.  That isn’t to say that either one is less developed or complex, it’s just a difference of approach in telling the story.  Secret:  I love both types when I read.

Anywho… I digress…

On to one of the more difficult characters: Mal.  Mal is Red’s badass BFF who wears glasses, has caramel skin (in my head she’s a badass Latina, but I don’t like to label so people can craft their own image), and is probably the character I most want to BE.  And maybe that’s where my first challenge fell: I wanted to BE her, so I became jealous and found it hard to write her.

She, also, almost falls into Hunt’s category: the beloved character that can take over the story at the drop of a hat.  However, she’s very far from Hunt.  She takes over partly because of the rampant passion and fire I instilled in the character.  Mal burns everything she touches, including a scene.  I loved that about her, and never sought to turn it down a notch, therefore, she was hard to write.  She could easily have overpowered everyone and everything.  (Which makes me think she deserves her own spin-off/novella/something).

Not only that, but Mal became a knife point; a plot point necessary in the story.  The trick with that is: I know it.  I know who she is, what she is, why she is.  I know all the dark and light spots of her.  It became a challenge to leak out bits and pieces of her without revealing it all until the right moment… and I would challenge that even then, you still don’t know even a quarter of her story.

Thinking about it now?  THAT’S why she was so hard to write: I know this wealthy of a story is living inside this character, and I couldn’t let it out.  This wasn’t Mal’s story to tell, even if she was dying to tell it.  Needed to tell it, in some respects.  That fire in her, though, was a fire I needed to help light Red, and in that, Mal became absolutely necessary.

Mal is fire… and fire… is incredibly difficult to control once you give it fuel…

I really should write her novella…

Characters of Turned/Red: The Favorite

I was once told in high school freshman English class, while studying Romeo and Juliet that the reason Shakespeare had to kill off Mercutio was because he was becoming too great, too good, too much of a favorite.  He would have commandeered the story.  I have no idea if this is actually true, and really, how could we know (unless you have a TARDIS and can go back and ask Billy Shakes himself).  As an artist, both performance based and written, that stuck with me.  Sometimes the side characters are so interesting that they can pull focus.  In acting, that can be bad, when you’re ensemble and suddenly everyone is watching you and not the main action (notice I say “can” and not “always”).  In writing, it can be just as distracting, unless, you as a writer, find a way to allow that character room to breath.  Now, Shakespeare wasn’t writing a novel, and had to make sacrifices for the good of the visual story, but as writers, we can keep going, fill it in, make room; we have pages and pages to do that, IF we do it right, and in service to the story.

That said, I knew, going into my own book, Turned/Red, that my side characters were far more lovable and interesting than Red herself.  That was on purpose.  I wanted Red to be incredibly flawed, which meant, I needed someone “good” to balance that out.  In my head, the “hero” of the story was always going to be Hunt, not the POV character.  (Note: I’m not gonna spoil it for you, trust me, I wouldn’t do that).  But “hero” is an interesting definition.  Most of us describe that as the quintessential “good guy,” of which, Hunt is, so I feel confident without ruining anything for you as describing him as that; it was the category I put him in when I began writing.

But I never expected to find him both the most difficult character to find “voice-wise” or the most rewarding to experience.  He was difficult in the sense that he never fully revealed himself to me, preferring to keep to the shadows and reveal his story bits and pieces as I went.  That’s rewarding in its own rite, that he lives in your head enough to come through without being heavy handed.  He became my “favorite” because of that.  And because of that, I knew I had to be careful.  This could turn into just Hunt’s story instead of Red’s.

But also because of that, I couldn’t just push him aside.  He needed room.  He needed to be apart of the story, and so he became that.  Whether he was one the page or not, Hunt became my own backbone, my own hero.  Does that matter in telling Red’s story?  Yes, yes it does.  These characters don’t necessarily need to be on the page to help inform the actions of the characters that are on the page at that moment.  To have such a “favorite” is a good thing.  It breaths dimensionality into the story.  I’m glad he was there.

I am also glad that my English class stuck with me.  It’s a cautionary mantra.  When you discover a favorite, as a writer, you have to suddenly tread lightly.  Keep that in mind when the character enters the scene, knowing that she/he could be a scene-stealer and be prepared.  If you’re prepared, I feel like you an maneuver, and play with your “favorite.”  Does that mean you’ll eventually have to kill off your favorite like Shakespeare, not necessarily.  But it does mean you need to be prepared to let them go.  If that’s what the story needs.

Hunt has always been the sounding board of Red’s character, whether that’s on the page in the story, or just in my head.  More often than not, it’s the later.  He’s the rudder, no matter if I broke him or not, if I tossed him aside or not, if I put him through every obstacle or not.

Some would argue that that character should be your lead/POV character.  I’d argue against that.  They are “supporting” characters for a reason: to support your lead on their journey.  When your favorite turns out to be one of those “supporting” characters, go with it.  Let it happen and don’t feel bad.  It doesn’t make your lead any less “lead.”

To read more about Hunt, snag a copy of my book either in eBook Kindle format, or as a print-on-demand copy here or here.

Tomorrow: All is All

Einstein said:
“Learn from yesterday,
live for today,
hope for tomorrow.
The important thing is to not stop questioning.”
He looked to tomorrow.
Saw the horror to come.
Took refuge in the hope of America.

Lincoln said:
“You cannot escape
the responsibility of tomorrow
by evading it today.”
He stood in the crevice
Of North and South.
A young country on his shoulders.

Maya Angelou said:
“Hold those things that tell your history
and protect them.
During slavery,
who was able to read or write or keep anything?
The ability to have somebody to tell your story to
is so important.
It says:
‘I was here.
I may be sold tomorrow.
But you know I was here.’”
She held her head high
A lyric through chains
To be Free in America

Tomorrow may be dark
The clouds rolling in
Down the plains
Threatening to consume us
We may be angry, and sad,
Never resigned.

We must plant our steel
Raise a shield of
Love, Equality, Inclusivity, Shelter
Look to the storm and say:
“You are not welcome.
You will not bend us.
You will not break us.
We are Americans.
We stand for all.
All is not some
All does not count the coin in your pocket
Or the color of your skin
Or the religion you follow
Or the gender you name
Or the person you love
All is All.”

You are not welcome, storm
You will not define us
Tomorrow,
we dig from the basement
To the light
Tomorrow,
Your storm meets
Sunlight on the horizon.