{Review} Her Dear & Loving Husband @copperfield101

How long would you wait for the one you loved?   Her Dear & Loving Husband, the new novel from Meredith Allard, is part literary fiction, part historical fiction, part romance, and part paranormal fantasy. With elements of Twilight and The Crucible, Her Dear & Loving Husband is a story for anyone who believes that true love never dies. James Wentworth has a secret. He lives quietly in Salem, Massachusetts, making few ties anywhere. One night his private world is turned upside down when he meets Sarah Alexander, a dead ringer for his wife, Elizabeth. Though it has been years since Elizabeth's death, James cannot move on.  Sarah also has a secret. She is haunted by nightmares about the Salem Witch Trials, and every night she is awakened by visions of hangings, being arrested, and dying in jail. Despite the obstacles of their secrets, James and Sarah fall in love. As James comes to terms with his feelings for Sarah, he must dodge accusations from a reporter desperate to prove that James is not who, or what, he seems to be. With the help of their friends, witches Jennifer and Olivia, James and Sarah piece their stories together and discover a mystery that may bind them in ways they never imagined. Will James make the ultimate sacrifice to protect Sarah and prevent a new hunt from bringing hysteria to Salem again?

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Biography

Meredith Allard has taught creative writing and writing historical fiction workshops at Learning Tree University, UNLV, and the Las Vegas Writers Conference. Her short fiction and articles have appeared in journals such as The Paumanok Review, Wild Mind, Moondance, Muse Apprentice Guild, The Maxwell Digest, CarbLite, Writer's Weekly, and ViewsHound. She is the author of the Loving Husband Trilogy, Victory Garden, Woman of Stones, and My Brother's Battle (Copperfield Press). She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. Visit Meredith online at www.meredithallard.com.

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This book was another quick read!  And it was very good. That author has a way to set the story in front of you, leading you on the mystery, and then ending with a climatic finale!  This one although it is set as a trilogy is just as well as a stand alone!  This was one I really enjoyed and am very happy that I was lucky enough to be included on this tour!  So deff pick this one up!

"*I received a copy of this book for free to review, this in no way influenced my review, all opinions are 100% honest and my own."

The below excerpt will scroll 

PROLOGUE                                                                                                              I am looking lovingly into the eyes of a man, though I cannot see his face because it is featureless, like a blank slate. We are standing in front of a wooden house with narrow clapboards, and there are diamond-paned casement windows and a steep pitched roof with two gables pointing at the laughing, hidden moon. I am certain I hear someone singing sweet nothings to us from the sky. From the light of the few jewel stars I can see the halo of his hair, like the halo of an angel, and even if I cannot see his eyes I know they look at me, into me. I stand on my toes, he is much taller than me, and I point up my face and he kisses me. As the warmth of his lips melts into mine, making me weak from the inside out, I feel my knees give from the thrilling lightness his touch brings. I know the face I cannot see is beautiful, like the lips I feel. His hands press me into him, clutching me closer, closer, unwilling to let me go. I grip him with equal strength, wishing he would carry me inside, yet I cannot bring myself to break our embrace. “I shall never leave you ever,” he whispers in my ear. I promise him the same. I do not know how I have been so fortunate to have this man in my life, but here he is, before me, wanting me. I am overcome with the joy of him.                                                                                  CHAPTER 1                                                                                                      Sarah Alexander didn’t know what was waiting for her in Salem, Massachusetts. She had moved there to escape the smog and the smugness of Los Angeles, craving the dulcet tones of a small town, seeking a less complicated life. Her first hint of the supernatural world came the day she moved into her rented brick house near the historic part of town, close to the museums about the witch trial days, not far from the easy, wind-blown bay. As the heavy-set men hauled her furniture inside, her landlady leaned close and told her to beware. “If you hear sounds in the night it’s ghosts,” the landlady whispered, glancing around to be sure no one, human or shadow, could hear. “The spirits of the innocent victims of the witch hunts still haunt us. I can feel them stirring now. God rest them.” Sarah didn’t know what to say. She had never been warned about ghosts before. The landlady peered at her, squinting to see her better. “You’re a pretty girl,” the old woman said. “Such dark curls you have.” She still spoke as if she were telling a secret, and Sarah had to strain to hear. “You’re from California?” “I moved there after I got married,” Sarah said. “Where’s your husband?” “I’m divorced now.” “And your family is here?” “In Boston. I wanted to live close to my family, but I didn’t want to move back to the city. I’ve always wanted to visit Salem, so I thought I’d live here awhile.” The landlady nodded. “Boston,” she said. “Some victims of the witch trials were jailed in Boston.” The landlady was so bent and weak looking, her fragile face lined like tree rings, that Sarah thought the old woman had experienced the hysteria in Salem during the seventeenth century. But that was silly, Sarah reminded herself. The Salem Witch Trials happened over three hundred years ago. There was no one alive now who had experienced that terror first hand. Sarah wanted to tell the landlady how she believed she had an ancestor who died as a victim of the witch hunts, but she didn’t say anything then. “Yes, they’re here,” the landlady said, staring with time-faded eyes at the air above their heads, as if she saw something no one else could see. “Beware, Sarah. The ghosts are here. And they always come out at night.” The landlady shook as if she were cold, though it was early autumn and summer humidity still flushed the air. When Sarah put her arm around the old woman to comfort her, she felt her skin spark like static. She rubbed her hands together, feeling the numbness even after the old woman pulled away. “It’s all right,” Sarah said. “I won’t be frightened by paranormal beings. I don’t believe in ghosts.” The landlady laughed. “Salem may cure you of that.” For a moment Sarah wondered if she made a mistake moving there, but she decided she wouldn’t let a superstitious old woman scare her away. She thought about her new job in the library at Salem State College—Humanities I liaison, go-to person for English studies, well worth the move across the country. She saw the tree-lined, old-fashioned neighborhood and the comforting sky. She heard the lull of bird songs and the distant whisper of the sea kissing the shore. She felt a rising tranquility, like the tide of the ocean waves at noon, wash over her. It was a contentment she had never known before, not in Boston, never in Los Angeles. She was fascinated by Salem, looking forward to knowing it better, certain she was exactly where she needed to be, whatever may come. Sarah’s first days in the library were hectic since it was the start of an autumn term. She spent her shifts on the main floor, an open, industrial-style space of bright lights, overhead beams, and windows that let in white from the sun and green from the trees abundant everywhere on campus. Across from the librarians’s desk, a combined circulation and reference area, was a lounge of comfortable chairs in soothing grays and blues where some students socialized using their inside voices while others stalked like eagle-eyed hunters, searching the stacks or the databases. By Wednesday afternoon, as she saw the short-tempered rain clouds march across the Salem sky, Sarah thought she would have to buy a car soon. After driving and dodging in nail-biting Los Angeles traffic for ten years, she liked the freedom of walking the quiet roads from home to work, watching in wonder as the leaves turned from summer green to an autumn fade of red, rust, and gold. But she had been living in the sunshine on the west coast for ten years, and she had forgotten about the sudden anger of New England thunderstorms. They could appear just like that, a crack of noise overhead, then a gray flannel blanket covered the sky as fast as you could blink your eyes, water splashing all around, wetting you when you did not want to be wet, and she was caught unprepared. She held out her hand and shook her head when she felt the drops splash her palm. Jennifer Mandel’s voice sang out behind her. “Need a lift?” “Please.” Sarah wiped her palm on her skirt, grateful once again for Jennifer’s assistance. Jennifer had been the head librarian at the college for five years, and she had taken Sarah under her wing, showing her where everything was, introducing her to the rest of the staff, answering her questions. There was something almost odd about Jennifer’s intuition—she always seemed to know when Sarah needed her, like a clairvoyant magic trick. They sprinted to the parking lot, trying to avoid the sudden splats of rain soaking their thin blouses through, and they clambered into Jennifer’s white Toyota, laughing like schoolgirls jumping in puddles. Jennifer drove the curve around Loring Avenue to Lafayette Street, the main road to and from the college. “Where were you before you came here?” Jennifer asked. “You’re obviously not used to the rain.” “I worked at UCLA.” “A small town like Salem must seem dreary after living in the big city.” Sarah looked at Jennifer, saw the compassion in her eyes, the understanding smile, so she said just enough to make herself understood. “I’m recently divorced.” Jennifer held up her hand. “You don’t need to explain. I have two ex-husbands myself.” They drove quietly, letting the sound of the car’s accelerator and the rain tapping the windshield fill the space. As Sarah watched the small-town scene drift past, she thought it might not be so bad to drive in Salem. Everything back east, the roads, the shops, the homes, was built on an old-time scale, narrower and smaller than they were out west. But here people slowed when you wanted to merge into their lane and they stopped at stop signs, so different from L.A. where they’d run you over sooner than let you pass. “Why don’t you come over tomorrow night?” Jennifer asked. “We’re having a get-together at my mother’s shop.” She leaned closer to Sarah and whispered though they were alone in the car. “I should probably tell you, and I’ll understand if you think this is too weird, but my mother and I are witches.” Sarah studied Jennifer, her hazel eyes, her long auburn hair, her friendly smile. “You don’t look like a witch,” she said. “You mean the kind with black hair and a nose wart? The kind that fly around on broomsticks? Not that kind of witch.” “You mean you’re Wiccan?” “Yes, I practice the Wiccan religion, among other things. I’m the high priestess of my coven. I’m also licensed to perform weddings here in Massachusetts, in case you ever need someone to preside over a wedding for you.” Sarah laughed. “I just got divorced. I won’t be getting married again any time soon.” She paused to watch the drizzle slip and slide on the windows. “I’m surprised there really are witches in Salem.” “Ironic, isn’t it? The city known for hanging witches is now a haven for mystics.” Jennifer shook her head, her expression tight. “Is this too much information? I don’t usually tell someone a few days after I’ve met her that I’m Wiccan, but you have a positive energy. You don’t seem like someone who’s going to assume I’m a Satanist who loves human sacrifices.” “I don’t mind. I’m just surprised. I’ve never known a witch before.” “There are all sorts of interesting people you could meet around here.” Jennifer nudged Sarah with her elbow. “So will you come tomorrow night?” “I don’t know, Jennifer.” “You don’t need to participate in the rituals. Come make some friends. I think you’ll like the other witches in my coven. They’re good people.” A Wiccan ceremony did sound odd, Sarah thought, but she had always been fascinated by different religions and cultures. Librarians had to keep learning—a healthy curiosity was a job necessity. And it would be nice to know some people in Salem, even if they were witches. As they continued down Lafayette Street, Sarah saw the sign for Pioneer Village and she added it to her mental to-do list. “I haven’t had a chance to see much of this part of town since I’ve been here,” she said. “How about a quick tour then?” “What about the rain?” Jennifer turned right down Derby Street. “I’ve lived here my whole life. A little water doesn’t bother me.” Jennifer drove down one tree-lined street, then down another street, and another until Sarah didn’t know where she was. Though Witch City was small, Sarah was still learning her way around. She tried to gauge her surroundings and saw the tall, white lines of the Peabody-Essex Museum, then further down was the Hawthorne Hotel. Past that was the brick, colonial-looking Salem Maritime National Historic Site. As she watched the history flip past, like a stack of photographs from time gone by, she noticed a house she thought she knew though she was sure she hadn’t been down that way before. The one that caught her attention had wooden clapboards, diamond-paned casement windows, and two gables on the roof. It was old, though it didn’t seem to be a museum as the other old buildings were. “What is that house?” she asked. “It looks familiar.” “James Wentworth lives there.” “Do you know him?” Jennifer’s answer was stilted, as if she considered each word, weighed it, measured it, decided yes or no about it, before she let it drop from her lips. “He teaches at the college. He—his family—has owned this house for generations. It’s over three hundred years old, one of the oldest standing homes in Salem.” Jennifer slowed the car so they could get a better look as she drove past. “Does it still look familiar?” she asked. “Yes. Even that crooked oak tree in front seems right. I can picture the man I dream about standing in front there kissing me.” “What dreams?” Jennifer gripped the steering wheel more tightly and her eyes brightened. “My mother’s friend Martha is great at dream interpretation. She’s done a world of good for me.” She winked at Sarah. “And you dream about a man? Is he a good looking man?” Sarah pulled her arms around her chest, wishing she could take back her casual reference, afraid she had already said too much. “Do you have a lot of dreams?” “Yes,” Sarah said. But that was all she could manage. When Jennifer had waited long enough and Sarah had to offer something more, all she could say was, “It’s not a big deal. I just thought I knew the house from somewhere.” “A lot of houses around here look the same,” Jennifer said. Sarah looked at the houses, the tall, Federal-style ones, the Victorian ones, the brick ones, the modern-looking ones. Suddenly, as they drove around the green of Salem Common, the rain cleared, the sun brightened, and the clouds flittered away across the bay. “That must be it,” she said. She lowered the car window so she could smell the wet air. Though she missed the rain when she lived in Los Angeles, at that moment she was glad to see the serene blue reflection of the northeastern sky again. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

{Review} Hating Heidi Foster @JEBlount

Mae McBride and Heidi Foster were the very best of friends. Tied at the hip from early elementary school, their relationship was the stuff of storybooks, legendary even, in the minds of their high school classmates.  Unshakable.  That is, until Mae's father died while saving Heidi's life. When Mae finds out, she blames Heidi. She blames her father for putting Heidi ahead of her. She blames her friends for taking Heidi’s side. She begins to unravel amid that blame and her uncontrollable and atypical anger. At the same time Heidi is beset by guilt, falls into depression and stops eating properly; wasting away physically and emotionally while waiting for Mae to let her back into the friendship she misses so dearly. Mae, consumed by her hatred of Heidi, the confusion regarding her father’s motives, the perceived desertion of her friends and her mother’s grief, loses more and more of herself. What could possibly bring these two old friends back to each other? A miracle? Hating Heidi Foster, is a young adult novel about the place of honor true friendships hold in our lives. It is about suffering and loss and the ethics of grief. It is about a deep and painful conflict, the bright light of selflessness and sacrifice and the love that rights the ship and carries us safely to port.

› Visit Amazon's Jeffrey Blount Page

Biography

Jeffrey Blount is an award-winning author, an Emmy Award-Winning television director and an award recipient for scriptwriting on multiple documentary projects. Born and raised in rural Virginia, he now lives in Washington, DC with his wife, Jeanne Meserve. They have two children, Julia and Jake.

This book was a very quick read and although I cant say that I was fond of Mae, I kind of feel her pain as loosing any parent at such a young age can one make you grow up faster.  But, when your father dies while saving your best friend that makes it so much worse.  This is book is a coming of age, dealing with grief, loss of friendship, book.  With being under 200 pages this book covers so much stuff and does it in such a wonderful way!  This is a deff must read if you want something fast and heartfelt.

"*I received a copy of this book for free to review, this in no way influenced my review, all opinions are 100% honest and my own."

{Review} Carolyne Letters #AbigailBCalkin @BookSparksPR

This Title Will Release on Sept 24, 2013

       Amelia: young, naive, in love. Geoff: charming, narcissistic, intelligent. In a decidedly European affair, a young couple consummates a courtship destined for differences. The resultant pregnancy provides a haunting yet charming backdrop for the challenges of love and its often unwanted decisions. In the first person and in a creative journal style, author Abigail Calkin explores three choices that Amelia can make—give birth, give the baby up for adoption, or abortion. The resultant exploration and mature reflection provides a unique and rich literary backdrop for the choices each young woman faces when pregnant.

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Biography

Abigail B. Calkin was born in Boston and raised in New England and New York's Greenwich Village. After moving to a few other states and living in Scotland, she settled in a very small town in Alaska's bush. Her first novel, and fourth book, Nikolin, was shortlisted for a Benjamin Franklin award when it came out in 1994. She ventured into writing about commercial fishing when the woman wallpapering her house told her the story of her husband's fishing disaster and Coast Guard rescue. The events tumbled into her thoughts and became The Night Orion Fell. She also has had poetry, behavior analysis article
s, and other nonfiction published. She currently works on books on self-esteem, PTSD, and a memoir about moving to Alaska.

This book deals with a situation that I must say that I am very glad I never had to make.  Having to decide on with or not to keep a baby, give it up for adoption, or making the choice to end the pregnancy via abortion is one of the hardest decisions that a women has to face.  This book is written in letter type form and starts in the year 1963 and ends in 1965 with a last letter in 1985.  This was a very good book although I had small issues with the letter form.  I would say pick it up if you think it is something you would want to read about.

"*I received a copy of this book for free to review, this in no way influenced my review, all opinions are 100% honest and my own."

{Review & Giveaway} The Emblazoned Red @

Once, in another world—a dark world, the world of Faetta—there lived paladins and pirates, tyrants and scallywags, vampires and the undead. In this world a revolution is brewing. The royalty of Sieunes are in chains, and those priests and paladins who follow the holy word of the gods are under attack. In the west, the kingdom of Kellerhald receives the fleeing priests in their temples of the paladins of Silvius, god of the Sky.

Here, a young woman has just passed her tests to become a paladin. A pirate crew raids along the Azez Sea. An undead creature, wielding great power, roams the graveyard of Yetta. And a lost soul, crying out from beyond the veil, seeks out a pure hearted warrior to hear its plea.

Amid the turmoil of the revolution, Ilka’s mettle is tested. Rescued by pirates, she ends up with an unlikely ally: the pirate captain himself. The newly trained paladin finds herself collaborating with the undead, working with a vampire, and worst of all, longing for revenge against the man who has ignited the revolution in Sieunes: Francois Mond.

Death of an Innocent. Rise of a Paladin.

Dawn McCullough White is known for her strong female protagonists, and gritty dark fantasy.

Ms. McCullough-White has lived the majority of her life in and around Rochester, NY with a brief stint in Tucson, AZ. She is pursuing a degree in psychology at R.I.T. Dawn is a history buff and was a member of the Society of Creative Anachronism for years, active as a heavy weapons fighter. She currently resides with her husband and son in a quaint neighborhood next to an old cemetery.

This book was very odd.  As a series it wraps up the end a little too nicely.  It is a combo of many genres which was a great blend.  The other issue I had was the age difference (she is 18 he is 41) that was a really big turn off for me.  But, if you can get past those issues it really is a pretty good book.  So enter to win a signed print copy!


"*I received a copy of this book for free to review, this in no way influenced my review, all opinions are 100% honest and my own."

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{Guest Post} Chaos @coneilYA

My name is Maggie Raynard. After sixteen years being just plain me, suddenly I can kill people when I lose my temper. Turns out I'm a semi-god, descended from Aphrodite. Sounds cool in theory, but when I accidentally put my ex-boyfriend in a coma, things go downhill pretty fast.

Now some new guy named Mac Finnegan has made it his mission in life to continually piss me off. I'm stuck learning how to use my new powers while also dealing with regular high school problems, and with this---annoying and super-hot---guy all up in my business, I'm about to flip out.

But it gets worse. I just learned there's this council for semis that wants me dead. They think I'm bad to the bone and when my ex suddenly dies, it's like everyone is determined to take me out. Mac might turn out to be my only salvation, but he's got secrets of his own---that may just kill us both.

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Exclusive Excerpt

I was done with guys.

Not in that fake, I-say-that-but-deep-down-I-really-want-a-boyfriend kind of way, but in, like, the seriously-I'd-rather-eat-maggoty-cheese kind of way. No relationships. Not for me. Not now and maybe not ever. Who I am…what I am, and what I’m capable of? Everyone’s better off this way.

"I have to stop at my locker real quick," I said, veering to the right and cutting through the crush of kids heading straight like wildebeests to a watering hole. Libby followed and then stood by me as I fiddled with the lock.

"What's that?" She pointed to a white piece of paper sticking out half an inch from one of the slots in the olive metal door.

I tugged the padlock open and flicked the catch with my thumb. "Dunno." Maybe Bink had left me another note. Bink was my neighbor, bud, and—most days—my ride home. Last time I’d found a note in my locker, it was when his cell phone died and he needed to bail early. I seriously hoped this wasn’t a repeat performance.

I mentally ran down the list of people I could bug for a ride and came up empty. Libby always had to stay after for some activity or another, and I only really had two other people I could call "friends" and neither lived near me. I wrinkled my nose in anticipation of the dirty-sneakers-meets-day-old-bologna smell of a bus filled with kids who'd had last-period gym and opted not to change clothes. 

With a sigh, I pulled open the door and the white rectangle floated to the floor.

Libby bent to grab it and read it out loud. "'Dear Sad and Lonely…'" She trailed off and went quiet 

for a few seconds until her peachy complexion went hot pink, and then she gasped. "Oh my God. 

Holy… Oh, Mags, you are so not going to like this."

I snatched the paper from her, trying to ward off the growing pit in my gut.

Dear Sad and Lonely,

Since I can almost guarantee She is about to give you some seriously shite advice like she does every week, let me be the voice of reason. Your boyfriend is just like most high school guys. Cut him some slack and, even better, why not offer to learn how to play some of the games he likes? He'd probably appreciate the effort and might even take you somewhere nice after. If that doesn't work, sit him down and let him know how you're feeling so he can tell you what's going on with him. Could be that constantly calling the things he likes stupid isn't the best way to get what you want in this situation, yeah? In any case, don't let the ramblings of some bitter emo chick who's probably never had a boyfriend ruin your relationship.

Hope it helps,

He

The shock was too thick to let the anger in right away, but as stunned as I was, I knew exactly who was behind this. There was only one person in the whole school who would use the word “shite.”

Mac Finnegan.

Opinionated, annoying, hot—did I mention annoying?—Mac Finnegan, who had barely given me the time of day since he'd come to Crestwood High a couple months ago. Mac Finnegan, who thought he was soooo cool with his Irish accent and his mocking smile. Mac Finnegan, who inexplicably made me want to lick him like an ice cream cone and then immediately rinse my mouth out with acid.

How had he discovered my secret? Only Bink and Libby knew I was the girl behind “That's What She Said,” and I would have bet everything I owned that neither of them would have ratted me out.

Didn’t matter, though. One way or another, he knew. Even worse, he'd chosen to taunt me with it. Bitter emo chick who’s probably never had a boyfriend, indeed. I had a boyfriend once and it hadn’t ended well for either of us. I was in no rush to repeat the experience. Besides, what did this Irish asshat care?

Anger tightened my chest. I could feel the power rising in me, clawing to get out, roaring to be heard. The hair on my arms stood on end as I tried to breathe through it, to let the fury dissipate and flow out of my pores in harmless pings of energy, but it was no use. I pressed a hand to my locker and opened up the tiniest of escape valves, the spout of the teakettle, whistling off a stream of steam. The cheap metal instantly heated against my skin, the door buckling and warping on the spot just beneath my fingertips.

"Uh, Mags—" Libby whispered urgently, but a male voice cut her off.

"How's it going there, Libby? Maggie."

I turned around, still trying to catch my breath, and there he was, strolling by, a grin splitting his sinfully beautiful face.

Mac Finnegan, who had decided that being the new kid wasn't bad enough, so he had to actively go out of his way to make enemies. Mac Finnegan, who wanted to turn my world upside down rather than minding his own business. Mac Finnegan, who didn't know the meaning of live and let live.

Mac Finnegan, who clearly had no idea who he was fucking with.

 

About Christine:

Christine O’Neil is one half of the happiest couple in the world. She and her handsome hubby currently reside in Pennsylvania with a four-pack of teenage boys and their two dogs, Gimli and Pug. If she gets time off from her duties as maid, chef, chauffeur, or therapist, she can be found reading just about anything she can get her hands on, from Young Adult novels to books on poker theory. She doesn’t like root beer, clowns or bugs (except ladybugs, on account of their cute outfits), but lurrves chocolate, going to the movies, the New York Giants and playing Texas Hold ‘Em. Writing is her passion, but if she had to pick another occupation, she would be a pirate…or, like, a ninja maybe. She loves writing fun and adventure-filled romance stories, but also hopes to one day publish something her dad can read without wanting to dig his eyes out with rusty spoons. Christine loves to hear from readers, so please feel free to get in touch with her via the Contact Page. Christine also writes adult romance under the name Christine Bell.

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Follow the Tour

Tour Schedule:

Week 1

9/2/2013- Crossroad Reviews- Guest Post

9/3/2013- The Book Belles- Review

9/4/2013- Manga Maniac Cafe- Interview

9/5/2013- A Backwards Story- Guest Post

9/6/2013- Coffee, Books and Me- Interview

Week 2

9/9/2013- Books Are Magic- Review

9/10/2013- K-Books- Guest Post

9/11/2013- Curling Up With A Good Book- Review

9/12/2013- Fantasy Book Addict- Interview

9/13/2013- Ticket to Anywhere          - Review

  

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Guest Post! 

Thanks for having me today to celebrate the release of Chaos! 
I thought I could talk a little about what makes me fall in love with a fictional character. Stick around until the end and tell me what you think, because I’m doing an awesome contest too!

 

So when I think of all the things that make me fall in love with a book, regardless of genre, it’s the characters. If I fall in love with the characters, nothing else matters. I’ll follow them down a mine shaft, or to another planet or to Regency era London, or to a dystopian future. Because I’m invested. I care about them and their story. I think the best authors make us do that through voice. I’m a sucker for humor, but if I really think on it, that’sjust a small piece of it. More important? Things that make them relatable. Do they have a little stutter when they get stressed out? Will they only eat if none of their food touches on the plate? Do they have a weird ritual they do before they leave for school every morning, like jumping off the front step and hitting the wind chimes with their fingertips? People are weird. We do weird stuff all the time. If characters aren’t a little weird too, readers can’t relate.

 

Another thing I think that makes me love a character is if they are vulnerable and flawed in some way. If not, it’s hard toconnect. Readers want to see themselves on the page, and know that their hero or heroine has been through strife, is a wide open nerve for the author to poke and prod. Sounds sadistic, right? But without it, who cares. I mean, that’s the investment, right? Without falling into a crevice due to hiking-hubris, there IS no sawing off of the proverbial arm. And without the sawing off of the proverbial arm, where is the “HELL YEAH!” The fist pump along with that good, juicy feeling payoff of seeing someoneclimb out of that hole, overcoming the odds? Where’s our Rocky or our Big Mike from the Blind Side? In order to celebrate the victory, we have to witness the suffering too, and that requires our protagonist to be vulnerable.

 

This holds true in all stories, but for paranormal tales even more because they need to have both emotional AND physical vulnerability in order for readers to really connect. If they are COMPLETELY immortal, or had no physical “kryptonite” so to speak, the nervous tension of “Will he make it this time?” or “How will she get out of THIS one?” would be gone. Whatwould happen if Spider Man didn’t love Gwen (or Uncle Ben orMary Jane, depending on which version)? What would the super-villains use to manipulate him? What if Superman’s powers weren’t drained by kryptonite? What if the Hulk COULD control his anger? BORing. When I was writing Maggie and Mac for Chaos, I knew that not only had to beflawed, vulnerable and wide open for a world of hurt, they also had to be a that way for each other. Mac is one of the strongest semi-gods in the world, but his care for Maggie makes him vulnerable, and vice versa. Otherwise, the story doesn’t work.

 

I’m weird. And I’m vulnerable. And I’m flawed. So, like, whenever I draw a picture or doodle of something like a snowman, I always draw two so that when I close the notebook, there’s not just the one left there all lonely. Frigging weird, right?  And my kryptonite would be maggots. Show me maggots and I will tell you ANYTHING you want to know. As for flaws, I have a ton. I think my least favorite one is that I love to argue. Seriously, even if I don’t believe what I’m arguing about, I STILL have the intense urge to debate about it. It’s not cute, y’all.

 

So what about you, blog readers? What makes you weird? Flawed? Vulnerable? (Asking that last one for a friend. Not going to use this information to take over the human race one by one and use your planet as a breeding ground my race of super-aliens *shity eyes*).