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.

Sequel? What Sequel?

I tell people, when they ask, and I’ve mentioned it here before, that writing Turned/Red didn’t just happen.  I didn’t just sit down one way with a story ready to pour out of me.  There was an idea, one I toyed with for months, a whim almost.  But that’s not unusual.  I’ve found that artists toy with ideas, pouring over them time and time again, molding and reshaping.

The actually writing of said ideas?  I wish that came faster.

People who know me as the girl who can sew a 1860s dress in a day (sewing, yes.  Research?  That’s months in the making, but I digress), were shocked, maybe even confused when I said that I had at least three versions of my story, all of them vastly different.  None of them making it past the third chapter.

That’s a lie.  The first one went to the sixth, I believe.

The point is, I tried writing this story enough times to think that it wasn’t going to happen, not in the way I wanted.  And I was right.  It took a late night drive after a long rehearsal for the opening words to pop into my head.  From there, everything fell into place.  That was about 1.5-2 years after the initial concept web/family tree.  Years.  Of hard character building, world crafting work.  I was just very hush-hush about it.  Tentative.  At least until I knew it would take.

So when people have begun asking for a sequel?  Well….

Sitting down to the write the sequel?  Let’s just say that it’s following in the footsteps of its predecessor.  I, naively, thought that since this world was built, the characters created, and the pivotal moments conceived, that I’d have it.  Naive.  But…  This is the first sequel I’ve ever written and I suppose I should give myself some space for that…still… when people ask about how soon that sequel is going to come out, I have to be honest and say: soon, but not this year.

I want to do it sooner, but that’s not how this one wants to work.  Now, I can say that I’m working on novellas, and I had a fun concept to do short, 1000 word one-shots of different moments, characters, etc. to keep the juices flowing.  Maybe post them on WordPress and later compile them.  It might yield the sequel.  Or not.

Granted… that paranormal fantasy I keep working on?  That’s not going away any time soon.  I’m actually excited with my own patience with letting this one un-fold.

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.

World Building: Where the Muse Strikes

Breaking away from Turned/Red to look at a new project I’m working on: my epic paranormal fantasy.  You read that right.  Paranormal.  Fantasy.  A “I see dead people” meets Tamora Pierce world.  I’m very excited; the characters are starting to come into their own, and so is the world, which is never easy.  World building is very difficult, in case you didn’t know.  This world has been particularly interesting.

Dubrovnik, Croatia. Places To Travel Before You Die:
Dubrovnik, Croatia

When I started out, I knew I didn’t want a typical European-like medieval fantasy.  Oh sure, it is pre-gunpowder, so there are a lot of swords, and knives, and staffs.  But there’s no “winter.”  There’s no wool.  It’s all silk and cotton.  There are veils, and gold coin jewelry, leather armor, and sandals.  The air is sweltering most of the time, but the nights are cool.  The food is Croatian, or Slavic.  There are droughts in the plains, trade routes being block, and border wars.  And it’s a lot to organize, but so much fun to build.

There’s always a gateway for me into world building.  Sometimes it is an image I find on Pinterest (we don’t want to know how much time I spend on Pinterest), or a recipe, or a phrase a friend of mine says.  In the case of my new project (I’ve lovingly titled Ghost Crown), it is my little known Croatian heritage.  I’ve spent so much time investing in the Irish/Scottish side, that I wanted to dive into the Croatian, and the more I did, the more the world built itself.

It started with an image of the Grand Palaiska (the royal palace) where it had this very Roman feel with stone pillars, silks draping about, the dress code is delicate, draping about them, silks and cottons, leather and studs.  Everything is open.  The moment that image solidified, the moment I knew I had a place, a time, and a story.  I knew I was taking my love of Roman architecture, and mixing it with Croatian, or sometimes Slavic words, foods, names.

Then I drew a map.  I hate maps.  Half-way through a story, I ignore them to re-write

Ivy covered arcades at Mirogoj  Zagreb, Croatia - Beautiful long outdoor corridor !
Mirogoj Zagreb, Croatia

them how I want/need them to look.  But I did it.  I drew a map with town names, and mountains, and lakes, and neighboring countries.  Oddly enough, this time?  It stuck.  So far.  I’m only 30k words into the story.  There’s still plenty of time for me to chuck it out the window.

But the world is there now.  I know my country’s name: Srebrov.  I know their neighbors.  I know there are docks that my POV character can see from her balcony.  I know there are mountains, and plain-lands where food is grown.  I know there’s a bit of land in dispute between my country and their rival/enemy.  I know the south could care less about the north.  I know these things, and once I know them (and it takes some time.  It isn’t over night), suddenly, I have a story.  The people show up and populate them.

My stories are character driven, but I have to create their world first.  And it’s fun.  Creating a world from scratch means you get to make it up.  You get to decide.  I mean, once the characters show up, I lose all the control, but at least I made their world…  I can still pretend like I did something.