Indie Author E. A. Copen

One of the independent authors I really like is E. A. Copen. Her main series is an Urban Fantasy  look at a world where Supernatural Beings are herded onto a reservation in West Texas. The Judah Black novels are a lot of fun. Ann Shannon had a great interview with Copen on her blog. Rather than trying to recreate the interview, I’m going to share a little bit of the beginning and then send you over to Ann’s blog. Get to know E. A. and look into her writings! (You even have a chance to win a free Kindle version of one of her books!)

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EA Copen is a time traveler who’s been writing since she was three. She exists, not only on our timeline, but also in Ancient Rome where she’s called Pompeia Furia.

Hi and welcome to the launch of the Indie Author BLT Spotlight. If you are here, you are helping to launch a brand new way to appreciate Indie Authors for all their hard work. I will be spotlighting a new author each month, they will always be Indie or small press authors, though my focus is on Indies. Each month you’ll get to know my featured author, how they came to be an author, how they approach their craft and many other exciting facts. You’ll also be eligible for a sweepstakes in which I’ll give away one or more of their books so you can sample their work! What could be more exciting than that?

Read all the way to the bottom to enter the Sweepstakes!

This month the sweepstakes winner will receive a Kindle version of Guilty by Association. Be sure your subscribed to take part in the sweepstakes and find out if you won!

EA Copen is a breakout Indie author of 2016.

She’s the author of four books with a fifth and sixth set for release later this year. In 2016 she published her first book on April 1, her second book on July 8 and her third on November 4. Let me reassure you, they are all powerhouses that will keep your eyes glued to the pages as you stay up long past your bedtime. I got a chance to chat with her for a bit and this is what I learned about her. Sit down, pour yourself a drink, wine if you want to join her in ancient Rome while you visit, and enjoy getting to know an Indie author that is well worth your time.

Head over to Ann’s blog to read the full story. 

April Writing Challenge

400 words a day – can you do it? If so, this is the writing challenge for you. I did this in January, had to skip February, and did it again in March. It’s a fun challenge and you get to meet some nice people on-line. Check it out!

 

https://anygoodthing.com/2017/03/27/any-good-thing-april-writing-challenge-starts-soon/

 

For the past few weeks, writers participating in the Any Good Thing Writing Challenge have been pumping out words–400 x 5 days per week per person. While the March results aren’t in yet, here are the results of February’s Writing Challenge:

Folks who wrote 5 out of 7 days produced, on average, 13,698 words.

Our “highest volume” writer generated 16,432 words.

Our “most consistent” writer wrote for 25 days out of the month–blowing past the expectation of 20 days. This writer basically squeezed an extra week of writing into the month.

Our “highest daily average” was 1040 words.

Our group daily mean was 627 words per day of writing.

Embrace the Shadows #WOW555

The prompt this week for the #WOW555 contest is “write about what comes out of the shadows when the world outside goes quiet.” So, I didn’t focus a lot on the quiet part, but I did try to take a different look at the shadows. Perhaps you can relate..

Jose hated walking home at night. Ever since he was young he had feared the shadows. He knew there was something lurking in the shadows, watching him, just waiting to spring. He looked back, thinking he had seen something move in the alleyway that he just passed. Nothing was moving. He stared into the dark, willing whatever spirit or force that might be hiding to come out.

His gaze was interrupted by the clash of the trash can and the grunt of the man who had tripped over it. Jose pivoted to take in the scene. He saw him sprawled on the ground. He began stooping to help the poor guy when his heart stopped. He saw the knife just a foot away from the bad guy. He hadn’t heard the clatter because the trash can had drowned it out. He kicked the knife back towards the direction he had come and sprinted towards home. He didn’t want to be around when would be thief got up.

“It’s funny, isn’t it Clarence,” a voice from the shadows whispered.

Clarence nodded. “Yes Joseph, it is,” he replied. “Why can’t I just let him know?”

“You know the rules,” Joseph said.

Clarence nodded. Not that anyone but Joseph could see him. Jose seemed more adept than most at recognizing some sort of presence. Still they lurked in the shadows because sometimes children walked along with their parents and children were more likely to see them.

Clarence looked down at the would-be mugger who was getting up. He rubbed his shin and looked back at the trash can like he was trying to figure out how it had moved. He shook his head, grabbed his knife, and stuffed it in his pants. Then he slithered back into the shadows awaiting his next opportunity.

Clarence looked through the mugger at Joseph and raised an eyebrow.

“No! There are rules!” Joseph admonished him. “Now, follow Jose and protect him!”

Clarence looked up at some boxes on the fire escape wistfully and sighed. Then he flitted through the shadows to catch up to his charge. “I guess it’s true that keeping up with him is a full time job,” he sighed as he caught up to Jose and caused him to stumble.

Jose caught himself in the stumble and finally stopped running to take a breath. The car whizzing down the street paid no attention to the stop sign that would have prevented him from running into Jose. Jose’s eyes widened in fear; then he wiped his brow and chuckled. “My guardian angel must be working overtime tonight!” He looked carefully and crossed the street and headed home.

Clarence looked at Joseph and raised his eyebrows.

“No, Clarence, you still don’t get time and a half.” Then, Joseph laughed. “You did ok. Watch over him tonight on your own. I have a few new G.A.s to train.”

Anyone else think their Guardian Angel must be working overtime to keep you safe?

Ready for Forever

The prompt for #WOW555 this week deals with the timeless nature of death and I took a far different tack than I normally take. This week, I wrote about a condemned prisoner getting ready to die. He has become comfortable with the inevitable nature of death and finds humor that others don’t. I also used poetry as the way to convey it – even though it’s non-rhyming…

Ready for Forever

Staring at the wall

Gray, flat, boring.

I sit on my bed and wonder

“Is there anything more?”

 

Some never know

Some see him come

“Which would be better”

I thought with a smile

 

“How could we compare?”

And then I frowned and pondered

“What if there’s a place to do that?”

I started laughing

 

Lightly at first

But then enough to annoy

And the guards came running

To see what I had done

 

They saw me with a silly smile

And scowled at me.

“Hey boy! Whatcha doin there?”

“Just thinkin’”

 

They wouldn’t understand

They couldn’t see him like I could

They would be surprised

I’d be seeing him soon.

 

I didn’t fear him anymore

I was at peace

Funny that I would be

And they would be so troubled.

 

It’s funny how

Inevitability

Makes it easier to accept

While ignorance breeds fear

 

“Then stop the laughing!”

They broke into my thoughts

I turned to them and smiled

They recoiled as if in danger

 

“I know,” I said

“I’m meeting death tonight.

While you have no clue

When you will too.”

 

Death takes all

He is not biased

No matter the color

No matter how good or bad

 

I would soon have

My “cocktail”

And be introduced

Face to face

 

I wonder if

I’ll slip away

And be welcome

At the party forever

 

 

 

Celebrating Freedom #WOW555

This week’s #WOW555 prompt was  write from the perspective of a character who is not free while others are celebrating their independence and, at the same time, they somehow become reunited with someone unexpected. Especially given the recent discussion on the Confederate Flag issue, my thoughts were drawn to the Confederacy. Let’s be honest: I grew up in the north. While not seeking to absolve the north of racism, because we had plenty of it, when I moved to the south and saw Confederate flags (before the internet mind you) they were usually on bumper stickers that said, “The South’s gonna do it again!” or some other such language. All I could think of was, “What? The South is gonna fight a losing war for a horrible idea again?” (To those who would argue the concept of “state’s rights” for this issue, let me refer you to this link.) The setting of the story is some southern plantation in March 1861 after the Constitution of the Confederacy was adopted.

That being said, I had a very difficult time with this story for many reasons; not the least of which was my use of language that I abhor. It was used because of an attempt to be as authentic as possible for the setting of the story.

“Oh Clyde, more wine. My guests’ glasses are almost empty and I’d like to make a special toast,” my master said.

I nodded demurely and quickly refilled the glasses. Years of self-preservation had taught me to avoid revealing my emotions, so the anger didn’t show. “Yes Marse Johnson,” I said.

He looked at me and sniffed contemptuously. “Gentlemen! This day will live in history. Today with the adoption of the Constitution, you will be able to tell your grandchildren that you were here at the birth of the Confederacy. To freedom!” He raised his glass and drank deeply. They all applauded.

I kept my feelings in check. Anything else could have brought me a severe whipping – or worse. James, who had held my job previously, got whipped because he didn’t look happy enough when he was serving Marse Johnson dinner one night. The next night, I had the job. I made sure that Marse Johnson thought I was happy.

I had missed some of what Marse Johnson had been saying. “…now take Clyde here…” he said.

“Yassir?” I asked.

Marse Johnson looked me, disgusted at first and then he laughed. “See what I mean? These niggers can’t understand how to get along in day to day living. If we freed them like the Yankees want they’d be in a sorry state without us. Ain’t that right, boy?” He stared at me, waiting for an answer.

“Yassir,” I said, glad that my skin hid the shame I was feeling. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, sir,” I added. I hoped they wouldn’t note my sarcasm.

Marse Johnson didn’t think I was capable of sarcasm. He smiled smugly. “That’s a good boy. I’ll take care of you, boy.” He looked at the others. “The cheapest way to get more niggers is to let them breed among themselves.” He turned back to me. “Clyde, I’ve bought you a wife.” He motioned towards the door as a frightened black girl less than half my age was shoved through.

I recognized her. I fought my emotions. Marse Johnson went over to her and pulled her head up roughly so that she had to look at me. “I’m gonna call you Tonya. Look at your new husband, Tonya. I want you to have lots of babies for me.” He laughed.

Her eyes widened as she recognized me. My look warned her to be quiet. She was so young that she hadn’t developed any defenses yet.

“Well, Clyde, what do you say? Shall we show your new bride off to my friends?”

I knew what he had in mind. “Sir, she’s new. I would hate for her to embarrass you. Please allow me to train,” I almost slipped, “uh… her so that you may present her properly.”

Marse Johnson smiled. “Good sense for a nigger, Clyde. Go ahead. My friends and I will talk so we don’t need you right now. Take your bride to your room and start the training.”

“Yassir,” I said, trying to avoid trembling. I walked away holding Tonya by the elbow. As soon as we were out of earshot I whispered to her, “Never tell anyone that I’m your father. I’ll figure something out!”

Of course, I don’t know of anything like this actually happening. That being said, the horrendous way families were broken up in the slave trade, I can imagine this being possible. I can even imagine that something like this could have happened without anyone recognizing it.

Words From My Father – #WOW555

In honor of Father’s Day, the #WOW555 prompt this week is to “honor our dads by including some piece of fatherly advice.” While this isn’t a true story, the advice is some that my father gave often. He didn’t believe in excuses. I’ve had to remember this advice quite a few times and I always smile as I do. This year will mark 10 years since my father’s death, but his advice is one way that he is still with me.

One of the things I hated about being sales manager was these incessant sales meetings. “Yes, you’re doing good.” “No, that’s not right.” “If you can’t handle this, maybe you’d better think of a different line of work.” I thought my previous sales manager liked saying those things. When she got promoted and I took her place, I found out quickly that those were things you had to say whether you liked it or not.

Today was one of the worst meetings, though. My best salesman had gone through a rough time. He decided to explain just went wrong. After listening to his woes for a while, my mind began drifting back to my days playing baseball.

Dad was the coach. When your dad’s the coach you know two things. One is that you will always play. The second is that everyone will think that the only reason you’re playing is because your dad’s the coach. He didn’t want that, and neither did I. He pushed me hard, and I responded by working twice as hard as everyone else. No one, I mean no one, accused my dad of playing me because I was his son. Even I had those days, though. We were playing the worst team in the league and they were kicking us all over the field. We were losing 7-2 and it was the seventh inning. I had committed three errors and had struck out with two men on base and two outs in the first. My other two at bats hadn’t been good either. I wanted to do something to fight back and came to the plate determined.

As the first pitch flew towards the plate, my eyes widened and I smiled a bit. This was MY pitch. I stepped into the swing just as the ball started tailing in. As I swung, the ball hit me on the knuckles and then bounced off my ankle. I don’t know which was worse: the frustration over the game or the pain. I collapsed, holding my ankle and fighting back tears. The umpire looked at me and waved my dad over. He walked in from the third base coach’s box, taking his time.

He squatted down to look at me. I think he knew that I was more frustrated than hurt. “Do we need to take you to the hospital, son?” Others might not have recognized the sarcasm, I did.

“No sir.” He knew me well enough to know that I was fighting back the tears.

He stood up and looked at me sternly. “Well, then, spit on it, rub some dirt in it and get back in the game. Don’t you dare quit on me. This thing ain’t over yet.” He turned and walked back to the coach’s box.

I don’t think the ump thought too highly of my dad at that point in time. But I stood up, rubbed the areas that were hurt, and stood tall in the batter’s box again.

Hector brought me back to the present as he finished his complaints. “So what should I do, sir?”

“Hector, your skills are still there. It’s only your ego that’s bruised. So spit on it, rub some dirt on it and get back in the game. Don’t you dare quit on me!”