What's in a Word? It's All About the Feel

It's been too long since I posted in my What's in a Word series. Today let's talk about feelings.

Now, I'm no editor--yet, and definitely not an expert, but I do know what I like to read and words that bring my reading to a screeching halt. While my own work is probably rife with such examples of words that I don't care for, I'm actively working to overcome them. Today's word is "feel", or any of it's derivatives.

Sometimes, as with any word, it's the best choice, but many times, it bogs the writing down or adds distance between the character and the reader.

Example: Billy felt cold.

Yeah, he's cold. Now let's move on to next sentence.

How to maximize on what Billy is experiencing: Brrr! Billy's breath fogged before his face. A shiver raced up his spine. Why had he left the house without his jacket when the weatherman predicted snow?

In the second example, I don't have to tell you Bill feels cold. Fogging breath, shivers, "Brrr" and a snow prediction does that for me.

Here's another example: Kyle felt out of place.

More interesting: Students huddled in groups of two or three, assessing gazes following Kyle's passage down the hallway. Their pleated and pressed Valkenburg Academy uniforms set them apart from Kyle, with his worn jeans and faded T-shirt, their designer backpacks a startling contrast to his frayed and oft-mended Army surplus duffle.No one spoke except to snicker and whisper behind his back. Why the hell had Mom decided to take him out of public school?

While a somewhat more wordy alternative, I don't have to tell you of Kyle's discomfort, do I?

The words feel, felt, feeling etc., may indicate a bit of telling versus showing, one of the reasons most autocritter programs flag it for excessive use.

If you're a reader, does the word "felt" make you wish the author had shown you the feelings?

Authors, is there a better word (or series of words) than felt?

How about this example: Jim got the feeling something was wrong.
Now let's try: Unease squirmed to life in Jim's belly. What was that sound? Wait! There is was again. He held his breath, listening to the night. Cold chills raced up his arms.

Do you get a better sense of connection to Jim in the first example or the second?

Food for thought, and one author's (and reader's) humble opinion.

Tune in next time when we'll be doing a little thinking.

Review for Summer Boys

I've been remiss in posting, but have been very, very busy. Tune in next time (hopefully) for details of my recent weekend at Outlantacon. Fun times had by all!

Today, however, I'd like to have a proud mama moment for my short story Summer Boys.

Ferris Stuart has two missions to accomplish while on vacation on Oahu: research for a new Hawaiian Islands themed hotel and have a little fun, something he hasn't had much of since his partner died two years ago. So far he's managed to halfheartedly accomplish the first task; however, he's failing miserably at the second. That is, until a charming islander shows him both the locale and how to start living again.

Originally writtern to raise money for the It Gets Better project, I'd been kept to an 8,000 word limit, which required a lot of trimming. The story wanted to be longer.

After the rights returned to me from the publisher, I was able to add the additional content that I longed to see, sending the word count to 13,000. Toss in a lovely Zathyn Priest at Scarlet Tie Designs cover, and Summer Boys is back again. Though I'm a bit late in posting, here's what Lucky at Mrs. Condit and Friends Read Books had to say about the story:

Eden tells a wonderful story for these two men. I was taken in by her descriptions, their passion, and coming to terms with their lives and how they fit together. Or don’t.

Find full review here:

Find Summer Boys at:
All Romance Ebooks
Amazon

Goodbye, Puppyboy

I met Rick McGranahan online while discussing his book, Visting the Ghost of Puppyboy with a very dear lady who'd given the autobiography a good review. In a few days I was leaving for vacation, and her words encouraged me to take the book along. Only, how could I get a copy quickly? The reveiwer made introductions and the author himself stepped in and saved the day--overnighting me a copy. Nothing makes you feel more special than for a stranger to go out of their way for you like that. Over the course of the next few days I fear I neglected the beauty of Oahu, for I kept my nose stuck in Rick's memoirs, absorbing each word.

One of the unique things about Visting the Ghost of Puppyboy is that is was deliberately left unedited, to give the reader the feel of the author's state of mind during all that transpired in the pages. The result is that from start to finish it reads like a letter from a friend, sharing triumphs and tragedies, instead of a commercially packaged offering. Through Rick's memories I came to know the man who wrote them down and shared them with the world. Through personal correspondance (read: rabid fangirl letters) I came to know him ever better. We became Facebook friends, and I looked forward to the hot men pics he posted, as well as his commentary on life.

Having met Rick's love Paul in the latter pages of Puppyboy, I was thrilled when Rick posted wedding pictures of the two of them. They made a beautiful, happy couple.

Then last year I met Rick McGranahan face to face at the Rainbow Book Fair in NYC. OMG! What a wonderful guy! He hammed it up on a grand piano for pictures. I'd loaned a friend my signed copy of Puppyboy and she forgot to bring it with her on that trip, so she bought me a new copy, Rick signed again (with a hilarious inscription), and posed for pics with me.

I hadn't heard from him in awhile, but folks get busy and they lose touch, only to reconnect the next week when they post again. While I was in DC a few months ago we'd planned to meet for dinner, but car trouble derailed that meeting, to my deep regret.

Yesterday I received a Facebook invitation--nothing new, I get them all the time for this book release and that chat. This one was different. For a moment the world seemed to stop, for I read the following words: You are invited to Rick's Memorial Service. 

Shock, horror, denial... all slammed into me. How could this young, vibrant, happy man be gone? I don't know the details of his passing, only that it was sudden. My thoughts and prayers are with his husband Paul and the rest of the family.

Rick, you touched my heart and will be dearly missed.

Now, I'd like to share with you my review for Rick's book, in hopes that those of you who didn't know him will have some idea of the impact of his words.

Eden's Goodreads review of Visting the Ghost of Puppyboy

** spoiler alert ** I'm being haunted by the ghost of Puppyboy. For a period of three days I was a part of his life. I danced with him on a raised platform, basking in the spotlight's glow. I cheered on his efforts to find true love, and held him close when what he thought was love poofed like smoke through a closed fist. I screamed, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" when he followed the downward spiral of drugs, alcohol, and meaningless sex. He took me many places, introduced me to countless people, some good, some bad, many unforgettable. I laughed when he laughed, cried when he cried, begged him to lay off the drugs, and prayed that his risky lifestyle wouldn't reap long-term repercussions. I was a mourner when Puppyboy was laid to rest, admiring his determination to stay alive, and I was there when he crashed and burned, Rick rising like a Phoenix from the ashes. 

Paul became my hero when he issued that ultimatum that quite possibly saved Rick's life, and I shed many happy tears when love finally came to stay. Thank you, Mr. McGranahan, for inviting me to share your adventure. The deliberate lack of editing made this tale more personal; it's a heartfelt, uncensored letter from a dear friend, not a commercial effort. What struck me most is that the author is unapologetic. Too many memoirs are filled with regrets, but Rick McGranahan understood that this was merely a journey to be taken. It's his story and he's not ashamed of it. There's a lesson there for the rest of us: accept who you are, change what needs changing, but never forget that who you were shaped who you are today. 

And the story continues. For as much as I was a part of Puppyboy's life, he's now a part of mine, and I occasionally catch myself seeing the world through his eyes. To have been so young, he imparted valuable wisdom, the greatest of which is that love is out there; it may take awhile to find it, but it's there. Visiting the Ghost of Puppyboy is a raw, uninhibited peek into someone's life, a wild ride well worth taking, and your tour guide is one of the most unforgettable characters you'll ever meet. Some review sites have distinctions above five stars, to indicate that a book is a must read and a keeper. While I don't currently have that, I will say that this is one incredible book, and I am in awe of its power. I give it five stars because that's all that's allowed on this site. It deserves so much more, and I'll be revisiting Puppyboy often in the near future. 

***

Goodbye, Rick. You won't be forgotten. 

New Release Announcement! Fire Horse by Mickie B. Ashling

Hi y'all!  Sorry I haven't posted lately--I've been quite busy, but I'll save my adventures for another day. If you've seen my posts on Early Literary Influences you know that I've always been an avid reader, and nothing sparked my young interest quite like books with horses: National Velvet, My Friend Flicka, Misty of Chincoteague. 

Today I'm very happy to be playing host to Mickie B. Ashling, who tempts me with a grown up story of of horses, but she also throws in another favorite element: two men, so different, yet with so much in common, navigating the rocky road to love. Will they fall in love and live happily ever after? (Dreamy sigh) Or are they destined to remain forever apart by fate and circumstances? And since barns usually figure into stories involving equines, are there any "hayloft" scenes, you ask? Well, you'll have to read the book and find out for yourself--I'll never tell! 

Preston Fawkes is ten the first time he meets fifteen-year-old Konrad Schnell at the San Antonio Polo Club. Captivated by the mystique surrounding the sport of kings, Pres vows to learn the game at the hands of his newly acquired friend and mentor. The hero worship soon grows into something deeper, but the friends are separated when Preston goes off to boarding school in England.

The relationship that follows is riddled with challenges―their age gap, physical distance, and parental pressure taking precedence over feelings yet to be explored. Although their bond goes deep, they deal with the reality of their situation differently: Preston is open and fearless while Konrad is reticent and all too aware of the social implications of making a public stand.

Their paths intersect and twine, binding them as tightly as a cowboy’s lasso, but fate may alter their plans. How will love overcome the divots in the turf as they gallop toward the future—one where obstacles no longer stand in their way?

Excerpt: 

I stared out the window, paying little attention to the landscape which was miles and miles of steaming hot nada. August in Texas wasn’t exactly paradise, so there were no distractions from my melancholy thoughts. It never occurred to me that Konrad might change as well, but of course it was a very real possibility. I’d had his undivided attention for three years, and it would be over by the end of next week. Once we were let loose in the world, there’s was no telling what could happen.

I got a little preview of the future as soon as we drove past the great willow tree marking the entrance of the club. A small crowd of people gathered near the clubhouse, greeting players and their retinue. I assumed these were the big shots in charge of the tournament. I recognized a few faces from pictures I’d seen in polo magazines and was impressed anew. One of the greatest Texans to play the sport, Cecil Smith, now in his late seventies, was a part of the group, along with the owner of the club, Norman Brinker. They were meeting and greeting the arrivals, and when our turn came, Konrad was acknowledged with backslapping enthusiasm.

“So you’re the young man Cecil has been jawing about,” Mr. Brinker remarked. “Welcome to Willow Bend.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m glad you could make it, son,” Cecil added, joining in the conversation.

“Thank you for the opportunity, sir,” Konrad said, removing his hat respectfully and shaking the older man’s hand with the same reverence he’d have paid God. If Konrad idolized anyone it was Cecil Smith. The legendary wrangler-turned-polo- player had been instrumental in arranging for Kon’s invitation to play in this tournament.

In his prime, Cecil Smith had been a 10 goal player for twenty-six consecutive years, the highest ranking one could attain in the sport. He’d also been credited with taking polo out of the drawing room and into the bunkhouse. His glory days had marked the zenith of American Polo, and long after he’d retired in 1967, he had continued to ride and train polo ponies on his ranch out in Boerne, not too far from our San Antonio home. He was always on the lookout for homegrown talent, and Konrad had caught his eye a while back. It was always a great source of pride for Cecil whenever a local boy could stick it to the millionaires and upper-class stiffs. He had shown the world that one needn’t be a blue blood to succeed in polo. All you needed was talent, guts, and a love for the sport and the animals that were the true players. Without a good pony you were nothing.

“Go out there and make me proud, son.”

“Yes, sir…thank you, sir,” Konrad stammered, tripping over his words in embarrassment.

“And who’s this young man?” Cecil asked, finally acknowledging my presence.

“This here is Pres, Mr. Smith. He’s an upcoming rider and acting as my groom today.”

“A good groom is harder to come by than a wishing well in the middle of Hill Country,” he drawled. “Are you any good, boy?”

“I try to be, sir.”

“Tryin’ is only good in horseshoes, Pres. Grooms are the unsung heroes of polo and I would expect you to go the extra mile for your friend and his ponies. How many do you have?” he asked, turning back to Konrad.

“Just the two for now,” Kon admitted.

“You’re goin’ to need at least three more, son.”

“I understand, sir. I can’t afford them yet.”

“You show me what’s what this weekend and I’ll see what I can do about getting you another pony.”

Konrad’s mouth dropped open in shock. “I’ll do my best to make you proud, sir.”

“See that you do, boy…see that you do.” He doffed his Stetson at the two of us and walked off toward another group.

“Holy shit,” Konrad breathed.

“No pressure,” I said, grinning up at him.

He let out a whoop and dragged me off toward the stables. Kon’s parents and Monica had long since taken off to check into the motel rooms they’d booked for our stay. The clubhouse accommodations were allotted to the royals and other more famous players. We nobodies had to fend for ourselves.

I craned my head in all directions, trying to spy a world-renowned figure, and I wasn’t disappointed. There was a group of men leading horses covered in red blankets with the letter H embroidered in gold. I assumed these were the Harriott horses belonging to the brothers from Argentina, some of the best players of our time.

“Stop gawking,” Kon scolded.

“Can’t help it,” I said. “Isn’t that Prince Charles?” I whispered, pointing out the familiar face.

“Don’t point!” Kon barked. “People will think we’re a bunch of hillbillies.”

“We are,” I reminded him.

“Shut up, Flea,” he said, prodding me forward. We were approached by a stable hand who showed us our assigned stall and encouraged us to make use of whatever we needed. There were bales of hay and bins of feed for the taking. I stopped thinking about celebrities and got down to the business of making our horses comfortable. While I pitched hay and mixed feed, Kon went to get his pair of ponies. I imagined myself in the role of player instead of helper. One day I’d be a part of this world and people would be waiting on me instead of the reverse. I hoped that my friendship with Konrad would withstand our separation. It was the only damper on the horizon but one I tried to rationalize as necessary to my growth. Mom had promised to let me return home each summer but assured me with a knowing smile that I’d stop wanting to after a while. I doubted it. Leaving Konrad was the hardest thing I’d do in my short life. There was a part of me that wanted time to stand still, but I knew that change was inevitable.

Find Fire Horse at Dreamspinner Press:

Official Bio

Mickie B. Ashling is the alter-ego of a multifaceted woman raised by a single mother who preferred reading over other forms of entertainment. She found a kindred spirit in her oldest child and encouraged her with a steady supply of dog-eared paperbacks. Romance was the preferred genre, and historical romances topped her favorites list.

By the time Mickie discovered her own talent for writing, real life had intruded, and the business of earning a living and raising four sons took priority. With the advent of e-publishing and the inevitable emptying nest, dreams were resurrected, and the storyteller was reborn.

She stumbled into the world of men who love men in 2002 and continues to draw inspiration from their ongoing struggle to find equality and happiness in this oftentimes skewed and intolerant world. Her award-winning novels have been called "gut wrenching, daring, and thought provoking." She admits to being an angst queen and making her men work damn hard for their happy endings.

Mickie loves to travel and has lived in the Philippines, Spain, and the Middle East but currently resides in a suburb outside Chicago.

You can contact her at mickie.ashling@gmail.com or leave a comment on her blog at  http://mickiebashling.blogspot.com.

***

I don't know about y'all but the blurb and cover have reeled me right in! 

Social Media Saturation Point -- I'm There

Some of you may have noticed how (uncharacteristically) quiet I've been lately, and there's a few reasons for it, starting with a cyst in my jaw that ran past the point of "Let's wait and see." I've had one procedure, with another surgery on the horizon, meaning days of not feeling very social. Then take off two weeks for a respiratory infection that totally kicked my butt and kept me out of work, for the first time in five years. Sigh.

And let's not even talk about adventures in househunting, which now stands with me being too frustrated to look at another house. Long story, I may go into later, but basically, all foreclosures are snapped up by investors for use as rentals, and any decent (doesn't need $10,000 or more in repairs to make it liveable) house gets multiple offers. Sigh. Who said it was a buyer's market? Anyway, those issues notwithstanding, after doing two blog hops, tweeting, Facebooking, participating at Goodreads and other media sites, I discovered....(drum roll please) that I.....

     ...don't have time to write. That's right, folks, after putting in 50 hour weeks on the day job, plus beta duties for authors I adore, my week is gone. Kaput. Nothing left. Or as they say here in the south, "Stick a fork in me, I'm done."

So I had to sit down and reevaluate my time, see what I could scale back on. I simply can't give up writing or beta work, so something's got to give. As much as it pains me, the answer is social media. I'll continue posting here, which feeds my Goodreads and Amazon blogs, and I keep in touch on Facebook, but sadly, I don't have time for much more.

Which leads me to my next point. I always took time to reply to reader's reviews on Goodreads, and have stopped. If asked a question, I will reply, and I definitely welcome comments here, but I've signed on to do another free story for Goodreads this year (I adore taking part!) and have ten works in progress that I hope to finish one day. No, I didn't give in to criticism that I shouldn't reply to readers, and I still glean wisdom from those who take the time to state their thoughts when I can. Readers are still as precious to me as ever, but until I learn to juggle work, home, writing, betaing, mentoring, etc., a bit better, don't look for me so much on Twitter or Facebook. If you need me, I'm here, never fear, just a little quieter. And hopefully, from the quiet, Corruption and Manipulation (of the Diversion series) will be born.

What's in a Name?

Have you ever seen a book title and thought, "I've read that!" only to read the blurb and wind up scratching your head, now unsure? If you've not read reviews beforehand all you have to go on in picking a book is title, author, cover, blurb, and word of mouth. If any of those doesn't appeal, the book gets passed by. So here's my dilemma:

For my Diversion series, each book seemed to pick its own title based on the prevailing theme (the last three titles are still tentative):

Diversion
Collusion
Corruption
Manipulation
Redemption

Because Collusion and Corruption are so similar, would you, as a reader, confuse them?

Summer Boys now available from ARe

Summer Boys is back, longer by 5,000 words, and available at All Romance Ebooks. The original version was for a submissions call, and restricted to 8,000 words. Some serious trimming snuck it in under the wire for a charity fund raiser, but now that the story has reverted to me I got the chance to flesh it out some. The result is over 13,000 words, and I think does a better job of capturing the protagonist's journey from mourning to opening his heart to the possibility of new love.

Ferris Stuart has two missions to accomplish while on vacation on Oahu: research for a new Hawaiian Islands themed hotel and have a little fun, something he hasn't had much of since his partner died two years ago. So far he's managed to halfheartedly accomplish the first task; however, he's failing miserably at the second. That is, until a charming islander shows him both the locale and how to start living again.

Summer Boys, from Rocky Ridge Press, now available at ARe.