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State of the Snarkology: November 18, 2014

I'm supposed to be taking the next few weeks off blogging with the expectation that the holidays, editing schedules, and children home on vacation will severely impact my time and stress levels. Also, The Snarkology will be moving off Blogger and onto Wordpress sometime in the next few weeks. (Fingers crossed Mr. Snark can help me.)

My new URL will be: http://www.thesnarkology.com/

Breaking from blogging is easier said than done. Not having guests is difficult. My blog feels empty if I don't have new posts up there every day. I'm not sure whether it's a habit or an addiction, but slowing down and stepping back is harder than it sounds.

There's a lot going on in my author life right now. I want to do a status post to bring my friends and readers up to speed.

1. If you haven't heard yet, I delayed the release of Battle Cry to enter it into Kindle Scout. I've got a lengthy post on it here, including an explanation about what Scout is and how it benefits both my career and my readers. I hope you'll take a moment and consider nominating Battle Cry if you haven't already. Thank you!

2. Farah Evers Designs is currently producing an audio book of A Cat's Tale voiced by Lilah Harding. I'm optimistic it will be released before Christmas. I'll do my best to obtain an audio sample to share.

3. I've completed a 30,000 word draft of Valkyrie's Vengeance, the expanded version of The Child Thief, which is currently with a couple trusted beta readers. Once editing it complete, I'd love to release it to ebook at approximately the same time Battle Cry becomes available. I have plans for an audio version to follow.

4. Mated Hearts, the working title for a sequel to The Mating Game, is my planned project for December. It will be my first attempt at a Male/Male erotica story. I'm excited to be returning to Robert Blane, Alpha of the Iron Stone Pack, so his character arc can continue to expand.

5. My plan for 2015 will include a focus on novellas. I have a number of titles that I've started and want to finish, including the Viking Love Slave trilogy, The King's Late Watch, Hell on High Heels, and at least one more novella set in my Loki's Wolves verse. If audio book production proceeds smoothly, I'd love to release audio versions of all my stories eventually.

99cents Kindle Countdown Sale || A CAT'S TALE

On sale for the next six days for 99 cents on Kindle Countdown Deal

Free on Kindle Unlimited.

Alpha werewolf, Jared Kohl, wakes up in a vampire’s dungeon, swearing revenge upon the wily Siamese werecat who lured him there with her sultry lips and the sweetest tail. To escape his undead captor, all he has to do is seduce the skittish puss and show her that trust is often a hot and hard lesson to learn.

Enslaved feline shifter, Josephine Young, has learned the hard way not to believe in anything or anyone—not men, not love, and certainly not the blood-sucking mistress who tossed her into the cage with the hungry beast she’d betrayed. But Josephine does what she must to survive, including tempting the dominant werewolf to give her more than promises.

Imprisoned for their blood, Jared and Josephine fight for survival and discover a passion that neither can walk away from. Can these two predators survive long enough to prove that cats and dogs can be more than enemies?

Snarkology Halloween Hop: A BAR STORY by Melissa Snark #Giveaway

Welcome to the Snarkology's Halloween Blog Hop. We have 60 author blogs participating this year so there are many opportunities to enter to win one of the hopwide grand prizes. Most blogs are offering individual prizes also. Follow the Linked List at the bottom of this post!

Leave a comment below for a chance to win a signed paperback of HUNGER MOON. A winner will be chosen at random on Nov. 1st. (Shipping restricted to continental U.S.)

Please enter the Raffletoper at the bottom of the post for a chance to win the hop-wide grand prize.

For your reading pleasure, I'd like to present a spooky Halloween short story. Enjoy! 


A BAR STORY by Melissa Snark

The gangly youth scurried on long legs and too-big feet. He stumbled on a cracked tile, but righted himself. Shoulders squared, Daniel Hollar ran a hand through his long orange hair, finger combing the frizzy mess. Hundreds of freckles peppered his pale face, and his green eyes were bright behind wire-rimmed glasses. He slapped on a polite smile for the middle-aged man crouched on a stool at the end of the L-shaped bar.

The customer's arms rested on the counter, the diamond frame forming a protective barrier about the shot glass cradled between his hands. Sweat bullets lined the man's blotchy red forehead. A scraggly crown of damp hair stuck to the collar of his white dress shirt. His gut overhung belted dark trousers. He wore a clean gold band on his left ring finger and his clothing was made from fine fabric.

 "Evenin', sir. What's your poison?"

The customer's lips bowed into a fearsome grin, revealing yellowed teeth. A hint of jaundice touched the sclera of his eyes. "Belladonna," he said softly. "Oh deadly nightshade, beautiful woman."

"Wha– Sorry?" Daniel dipped his head, trying to make out the man's words, and got a good whiff. A malignant scent circled the man like a coiled serpent, the combined cologne of booze, cigarettes, and body odor. Gagging, he jerked back and turned his head to the side.

The man lifted his shot glass in a toast. "If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?"

Daniel's eyes bulged. What a total nut! Biting his lower lip, he spoke at a pace suited to fools and madmen. "I'm sorry? Would you like something to drink?"

"Jack."

"Daniel. Pleased to meet you." He stuck forward his hand, held straight out and rigid.

Wicked humor lit the man's gray eyes. He refused the proffered hand. "Jack Daniels. Neat. Leave the bottle."

"Oh." Cheeks burning, Daniel fumbled through the booze on the back wall until he located the correct bottle. He poured the man's drink, sloshing amber liquid over the rim of the shot glass.

The customer dug into his pocket, extracted his wallet, and deposited a hundred dollar bill on the bar.

"You want change?"

"Nah, just put it toward my tab."

"Yes, sir." Daniel retreated to stand beside his boss.

Patrick Whalen, a grizzled Irishman and owner of the Albatross Tavern, was known as Twitch by the hardened sea-faring locals who frequented the Portsmouth, Maine wharf side bar.

The youth shoved his hands into the pocket of his navy windbreaker, striving to appear nonchalant. He tipped his head toward the customer. "Odd duck, that one."

Twitch's round head rolled on the long stalk of his neck toward the end of the bar. The old man's eyelid pulled in a constant facial tic–wink wink wink. His stretched taut in a sardonic smile. "Arrogant bastard, ain't he, Danny me boy? But he pays his tab 'n comes in regular, so I ain't got no problems with him."

Doing his best to appear disinterested, Daniel picked up a white rag and wiped down the scratched oaken bar counter. He cast a surreptitious glance down the length of the bar. "Who is he?"

"That?" Twitch tilted his head. "That's Jack. Jack Thorn. He's a local author. Horror fic, like that King fella."

"Is he famous?"

"Meybe. Yer an English major, ain'tcha?"

"Yeah, but I've never heard of him."

The old man sniggered and picked up the ice bucket, limping toward the machine. "His stories got less cursin', so I reckon that makes him more of a literary figure."

Too curious to resist temptation, the young man trailed Twitch, hoping to glean more information.

"Are his books movies?"

Twitch shot Daniel a long look as if considering him a moron. He sneered. "Course not.  His books are books. Movies is movies. The one ain't got nuthin' to do with the other. Everyone with a lick o' sense knows that."

Wink wink wink…

Daniel hung his head. "Sorry."

Twitch slapped him on the back, knocking him off his feet. "Don't worry your wee head 'bout it. Ain't your fault that you're greener than the titties on a leprechaun."

The boy's face lit like wildfire, drawing another cackle from the old man. Cursing the pale complexion that went with his ginger hair, Daniel tried and failed to keep his speculative gaze averted from Jack Thorn.

The author sat twisted on his stool, engaged in an animated conversation with the empty seat beside him. There was no one else at the bar in either direction.

Twitch filled the ice bucket to the brim and thrust the container into the boy's hands. "Here, go dump this in the bin. My leg is achin' somethin' fierce."

Obediently, the young man trotted to the ice machine. He emptied the bucket, and returned to fill it again. "Who's he talking to?"

"That one's crazy as a loon." Leaning forward, Twitch tapped his temple and spoke in a hushed voice. "Talks to himself 'n lives all alone in a big house out on the promontory."

Jack Thorn's disquieting gray eyes pinned him. A chill tore through Daniel's soul. He averted his gaze and swallowed convulsively, Adam's apple bobbing. "I've seen it."

The old man's thin lips stretched to reveal cracked, yellow teeth. Wink wink wink… "Jack over there used to have a wife and daughter. Wife was a real beauty and the little girl was an angel. Four years old with blond pigtails and big blue eyes…"

Daniel shivered. He dropped the scoop back into the ice machine and closed the flap. "What happened to them?"

"They ain't been seen for years. Some says they left him, others that he killed 'em. There was a police investigation, but no bodies ever been found. No one knows."

Daniel leaned in so close the old man's sour breath scoured his nostrils. "What do you think happened?"

Twitch's predatory smile swelled. He threw up clawed hands and shouted, "He ate 'em!"

Heart slamming against his breast, Daniel leapt backward. He dropped the bucket and ice cubes scattered across the floor. His foot slipped on the wetness and his knees locked. He slammed his elbow against the counter. Sharp pain lanced through his entire arm.

Twitch roared with laughter.

Humiliation stung Daniel's pride worse than his injured elbow. A cold sweat broke out across his body. Staggering, he retreated toward the bathroom, heading toward the smirking author.

Jack Thorn grabbed the boy's arm as he stumbled past, his ghoulish face leering at him. "They tasted real good!"

Leave a comment below for a chance to win a signed paperback of HUNGER MOON. A winner will be chosen at random on Nov. 1st. (Shipping restricted to continental U.S.) If the winner is International, then an ebook copy will be offered as an alternative.

Please enter the Raffletoper for a chance to win the hop-wide grand prize.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Cover Reveal: Kilts Ablaze by Melissa Snark (#1 in the Blazing Kilts of Scottish Firemen series)

KILTS ABLAZE

Genre: Historical Scottish Firemen Romance

Cover Artiste: Farah Evers Designs

The heat is on...

Book 1 in the Blazing Kilts of Scottish Firemen series is sure to be the hottest historical Scottish firemen romance read of the year.

English bastards raped and murdered Angus Wallace's secret child bride. Despite the trauma, he recovered. Three months later, he married the real love of his life, Mollie, a plaid seamstress from Dublin.

One evening their Scottish terrier ran away. Angus went out to search for the little bugger. Tragedy struck when he got hit on the head by a rampaging livery. Rendered forgetful by amnesia, Angus took up a new life as a member of Fire Company 95.

Grief stricken, Mollie never recovered from her loss even though she adopted a new dog.

Haunted for years by images of spinning wheels and knitting needles, Angus begins a revolt and leads Scottish warriors against the cruel English tyrants who rule Scotland with an iron fist.

When Mollie's house catches fire, will Angus put down his mobile phone long enough to save her?

Excerpt: 

"Whaur is ma kilt, Mollie? A'm aff tae rammy fur Scotland's freedom fae they sassenach bastards!"

Mollie sobbed. "Oh, na, Angus! Please dinnae gang tae rammy th' sassenach bastards wha rule Scootlund wi' an iron fist! We've ainlie juist fun ilk ither again efter decades apairt. We ur twa beats o' th' identical hert, ye stubborn, idiotic man!" 

"I'm sorry, Mollie, bit afore god 'n' jimmy, ah hae tae gang rammy fur Scots freedom against thaim sassenach bastards wha rule Scootlund wi' an iron fist!" 

Mollie choked on her final sob. "Oh, gey weel then." 

"Just promise me yin final thing, wifie. Afore ah go." 

"Aye?"

"Promise me ye'll keep th' damn dug ben this time!" 

Trailer by Farah Evers Designs:

I owe a big thanks to Farah Evers for her help in putting this presentation together. The spectacular cover and brilliant book trailer are her genius. So thank you, Farah! I had a blast working on this with you.

Dialogue translation into Scottish is thanks to ScoTranslate.com

My Kind of Heroine: Does Your Heroine Pass the Bechdel Test? @MelissaSnark #amwriting #Giveaway

  Comment below for a chance to win an ebook copy of A Cat's Tale!

Last month at Convolution 2014 I attended an interesting panel on The Bechdel Test. The discussion covered the roles and perceptions of women in movies, TV, and books. It wasn't the first time I've heard of Bechdel, but it was the first really good debate I've attended on the subject. It struck me as a great fit for the My Kind of Heroine blog series.

TV Tropes defines The Bechdel Test as:

The Bechdel Test, Bechdel-Wallace Test, or the Mo Movie Measure, is a litmus test for female presence in fictional media. The test is named for Alison Bechdel, creator of the comic strip Dykes To Watch Out For,...

To summarize, your story must meet the following criteria in order to pass Bechdel:

1. Include two named women
2. who have a minimum of one conversation
3. about something other than a man or men

Seems simple enough, right? The conditions are easy to understand and apply to any story. What's really interesting though is how easily the results of the Bechdel Test can become distorted. The three criteria don't take context into consideration. Movies that pass may be misogynist at their core, and movies that fail may embody the essence of female empowerment.

Let's look at a few examples from popular culture.

Kill Bill. At a glance, Kill Bill passes Bechdel with flying colors. There are multiple powerful named female characters, and numerous scenes involving women interacting with other women. With a team of highly trained woman assassins, female empowerment appears to be front and center. Yet, at it's core, each of these women is ultimately under the thumb of the manipulative and unscrupulous Bill.(For the record, I enjoyed Kill Bill.)

Hosted on Wikipedia.com

 

The Smurfs TV series.  I haven't seen the movie, so I'm going entirely based on childhood memories of the TV series. Smurfette is the only girl in a world of boys. She's vain, flirty, and dingy. A blue Barbie doll who never speaks to another woman, because there no other women in the entire world. Fail.



Star Wars Trilogy. Episodes 4-6.  Bet you wouldn't have guessed Star Wars would fail, would you? In an entire Lucas universe, there are only three named female characters with speaking roles: Princess Leia, Aunt Beru, and Mon Mothma. Yet, none of them ever have share a conversation with each other.*

Naturally, I couldn't write about Bechdel and fail to apply the test to my own books. I'd love to say that my own books passed with flying colors. Except, one didn't. A Cat's Tale, my first published paranormal romance novels, fails in a big way. I do have scenes where named female characters (my heroine and the vampiress villain) speak to each other, but it is always about a man (the hero).

Facepalm.

Thankfully, since then, each of my books contains scenes with women talking to women about things other than men. Bearing in mind that Bechdel has limited utility, I also make a concentrated effort to honor the spirit of female empowerment in my fiction.

How about you? How do your stories measure up under Bechdel?

Leave a comment to be entered into a drawing to win an ebook copy of A Cat's Tale. One lucky winner will be selected via random.org

Attribution:  *Film School Rejects.com