About J. A. Allen

J. A. Allen, author of the upcoming contemporary fantasy, Old Souls: When a woman claiming to know him from a life ten thousand years before asks Lucien Navarro to return to their great family, he abandons his antipsychotics to uncover the truth. His soul is immortal. Once the leader of three hundred beings who’ve incarnated over and over through the ages, Lucien must unite his kind again to rise up against a cult set on their destruction, take a stand in a war which has raged behind the veil of human awareness for millennia, and fight for a love that defies the boundaries of time.

Melania’s Coat


Let me open by saying I am Canadian. Some people might argue I don’t have the right to comment on American politics. As a human, I believe I do: especially because last night while watching US news, my heart broke. It actually ached in my chest. This morning it still does.


A couple of years ago, I was separated from my middle son at Walmart. He was eight. I was rushed and assumed he was walking behind me with his two brothers. It wasn’t until I came to the checkout I realized he wasn’t. We were separated less than five minutes before my name was called to the service desk. He was standing with his teacher who happened to be shopping in the same store, and appeared to be all right until the moment he saw me. Then, he broke down. He thought I forgot him. He thought that in my rush I had left the store without him. And, even though he was generally a tough little guy, he sobbed for almost ten minutes with his small arms around my neck.

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 Photograph: TIME

I have never felt so guilty.  But, I held him tight. I comforted him. Soon, he was okay.

The children separated from their parents at the American border are not okay.

The leaked audio from the patrol facility where agents openly mocked the children crying for their parents has affected me tremendously, taking me back to the day I lost my son for a mere five minutes.

Yesterday, the American President signed an executive order to put an end to the policy separating children from their parents (drummed up John Kelly and Stephen Miller, approved by The Donald, adopted by Sessions, and instituted on 4/6/2018). The executive order was a show. It was an attempt to appease the masses rallying against him. The President could have put an end to the policy with a simple phone call. In spite of the very grand gesture, many of the children already separated from their parents will have a long time to wait before being reunited.


And, while on her way to a border detention center, the First Lady of the United States of America wore this:

Melania-Trump-Sports-Jacket-That-Reads-I-DONT-REALLY-CARE-to-Visit-Border-Detention-Centers


Let me tell you something, as a citizen of the world, I do care. I care very much.


A spokesperson for Melania claimed the jacket carried no hidden message and was “just a jacket,” but the President later alleged Melania directed the statement to “fake news.”

We all know Melania Trump has handlers. She would have been told how the public would perceive the words printed very clearly on the coat. And, she chose to wear it anyway.

Because she doesn’t care.

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Michelle Martin, Ph.D. Cal State Fullerton, researches and writes about these issues and summed up the most important facts about the policy here.

Please, take the time to read it in full.


Her key statements really hit home for me:


•  The increase in asylum seekers is a direct result of the increase in civil conflict and violence across the globe. Rather than processing their claims (according to witness accounts) they have been taken into custody on the spot and had their children ripped from their arms. The ACLU alleges that this practice violates the US Asylum Act, and the UN asserts that it violates the UN Treaty on the State of Refugees, one of the few treaties the US has ratified. The ACLU asserts that this policy is an illegal act on the part of the United States government, not to mention morally and ethically reprehensible. https://www.nytimes.com/…/meatpackers-profits-hinge-on-pool…

•  We are a country that has an above-ground system of immigration and an underground system. Our government (under both parties) has always been aware that US companies recruit workers in the poorest parts of Mexico for cheap labor, and ICE (and its predecessor INS) has looked the other way because this underground economy benefits our country to the tune of billions of dollars annually. Thus, even though many of the people crossing the border now are asylum-seekers, those who are economic migrants (migrant workers) likely have been recruited here to do jobs Americans will not do. https://www.upi.com/…/Donald-Trumps-wall-ign…/2621477498203/

•  There is great legal ambiguity on how and even whether the parents will get their children back. According to the ACLU lawsuit (see attached link), there is currently no easy vehicle for reuniting parents with their children. Additionally, according to a May 2018 report, numerous cases of verbal, physical and sexual abuse were found to have occurred in these residential centers. The report covers earlier years, but highlights the problems of keeping children in large residential centers, even if they are run efficiently and supervised by licensed social workers and counselors: https://www.aclu.org/…/aclu-obtains-documents-showing-wides…


Despite everything happening in the world today, I believe most people are good.


Most people want to be productive. They want to contribute. They want to help when help is needed. People need to feel valued, and thrive when given the opportunity to instill that value into the lives of others. We all want the same things: dependable healthcare, creature comforts, education, and the promise of a stable future for our children.

As humans, we are within our rights to fight for it. And, to flee danger and oppression.

Because some people are not good.

They don’t care.

And often, those people do everything they can to climb into positions of power. They will turn the masses against each other with the use of words like “us” and “them.”bd91a50c9aa262d4b60d247e53e0615d


They are not like us.

They are dangerous.

They don’t share our “values.”


Don’t fall prey to it.


Don’t stop seeing the humanity in others. Don’t stop seeing the similarities that bind us to each other. Because that’s how the wars begin. That’s how rape, murder, bombings, and pillaging is justified.

That’s why people have to flee.

Children have been taken from their parents. They are being locked in cages and treated like criminals for seeking refuge from dangerous places. Believe me when I say there is no us and them.

You cannot justify child abuse with those words. You cannot justify ripping a nursing infant from his mother. You cannot justify horror.


This is horror:



The effects of what is happening at the United States border will last more than a lifetime. The children of these children will become the survivors of survivors. It’s a cycle that’s hard and sometimes impossible to break. It’s a cycle that does the entire world a grave disservice, no matter where these kids end up.

You, as a human, can do something.


Show you won’t be swayed by a grand gesture executive order.


If you live in the States, write your representatives. A plan should be implemented to reunite the children who have been taken from their families.

Canadians can write a letter to our United Nations Representative, Marc-André Blanchard, who can be reached at:

Canada.UN@international.gc.ca

i-really-do-care-do-u-melania-troll-tshirt

And hey, you can buy this shirt on Etsy, with all proceeds going to RAICES in support of refugee and immigrant services.


More links:


https://mashable.com/

http://takeaction.amnesty.ca/

https://globalnews.ca/news/

http://amp.slate.com/


 

Comments are moderated.


Finding Inspiration, A Guest Blog by Laura Mae


One of the most common setbacks for writers is inspiration. I would honestly put it at the top, along with writer’s block; but they seem to be one in the same. Not knowing what to write can be the most daunting feelings and sometimes it feels like it will never go away. But some good news, it will ALWAYS go away. How long it takes, though, is up to you.

There is no “one” or “right” way to gain inspiration to write.

We are all unique, weird, and at times, unstable individuals. If there was one way to get inspiration to write, there would be books getting published every minute of every day. But sadly, this is not the case, I’m here to try to help you in getting back that spark you’ve been missing.


Dreams


If you’ve been following me here for the last few months, you might know already that I value dreams over all others for inspiration. Dreaming can inspire your mind in ways you never thought imaginable. The things you dream of at night can sometimes be alarming on how the hell your brain came up with something like that. But that’s the beauty of it. Inspiration should hit us like a cement truck, and dreams are good at being blunt. You may not think so if you don’t dream much, but for me at least, they have several meanings. pexels-photo-279360.jpegYou just have to look for it. If you don’t remember your dreams very well, take my advice and make a dream journal. Any little sliver of a dream you have, write it down as soon as you wake up. This is when it will be the most vivid in your mind. The longer you wait to write it down, the more the details will just fly out of the window. Plus, it’s not a bad take-a-away, if while you’re writing, you start to make-up things in the middle that help you make sense of what’s going on. The draw-back on relying on strictly your dreams is that they can come far and few between. Or, if you have trouble sleeping, dreams will not come to you as easily. So, onto the second trial.


Do Stuff


I honestly feel dumb that this is something I’ve only recently started doing. If you’re like me, a homebody, you do not go out very much at all. You work, you might have kids, you might have school and homework. Going out to do things besides what you normally do, puts a damper on any kind of new inspiration. If you have the means, go out and do things you don’t normally do. For example, I haven’t gone hiking in a very long time, but I finally had the chance to go and I went somewhere I’ve never gone. The memory of just being there resonates with me and I am able to go back and visit it if I need to. I also did a ‘pay-it-forward’ at a fast food drive-thru and was actually given a free coffee by the cashier; just because. I’ve never done the ‘pay-it-forward’ thing before, but it was cool the way it worked out. My point is, get out of your comfort zone, get off the couch and go somewhere and do something different.


Talk to People/People Watch


Most writers are introverted, which is why I put 2 options on here. If you do happen to be outgoing-ish, randomly talking to strangers could be a good way to learn about others. The way they act, talk, move, ect. I think this is fun to base characters off of if they do something memorable. But if you are introverted like me and can’t imagine talking to random people, go somewhere crowded with people and just watch. Bring a notebook, take notes, learn what people do in “the wild”. This also helps with the “Do Stuff.” Maybe something fun will happen to you in your outings that you can write about later.


Playing Video Games


This may be a tad nontraditional, but I think video games have a tremendous positive impact on us.  Not only are they interactive, but they make you think differently than reading a book or watching T.V.  The way games work have to be different because it’s being controlled by a third person. RPG’s (Role Playing Games) are very story driven, and they are great examples of how stories are different. The immersion of them can force you to think outside of the box, and that’s always a good thing.


Taking Showers


For me, taking showers can spur on a lot of thinking and talking. I’ll be the first to admit, I sing and talk in the shower. A lot. Something about the constant flow of hot water somehow makes your brain work better. Or maybe you have conditioned yourself to brainstorm in the shower, so it’s just used to it by now. If you are needing something to get the gears running, try taking shower. Don’t go in expecting to have a light bulb go off as soon as your feet hit the duck stickers. Just relax, try to clear your mind and take in the hot water and sound of the shower. I also suggest showers instead of baths, but this is just my preference. (I hate baths) But if you like taking baths, try that too. Also, having some herbal scents in the bathroom can trigger more senses. The moisture of the steam activates them and is inhaled into your lungs.


Listen to New Music


Music has a way of seeping into our souls without even realizing it. (Earworms, I’m lookin’ at you.) pexels-photo-374777Listen to songs you’ve never heard of or bands that you think you might like. Pandora is really good for this. If you don’t have them and you want an easy way to get new stuff, Pandora is a quick, easy solution. Otherwise, if you have Spotify, they have a slew of playlists you can search for based on what mood you’re in and discover new music that way.


I hope this can help you get back on track for your writings. There is inspiration all around you; you just have to seek it.

–Laura Mae


Thank you, Laura, for a great guest blog.

Laura’s book is available on Amazon now. Check it out!

fliersreleasead1Follow Laura on Facebook, Google+, Linkedin, Instagram, Twitter, Tumblr, and GoodReads, or check out her website to get the latest updates on what’s going on with her writing.


 

Stuck

Being-A-Writer-Is-Easy-It-s-Like-Riding-A-Bike


I’m stuck.

Last week I was stuck.

The week before that, I got stuck.

And now I’m trapped in an endless vortex of soul-sucking stuck.

Writing can be fun. It can be really, really fun. The act of putting words where there were no words can divvy out a thrill like no other. The act of reading those words back and realizing they have come together to form a cohesive, INTELLIGENT, eloquently stated thought that no one else has come out with before is fuc@king exhilarating.

And Sometimes Writing Sucks.

I have been editing my book long enough to know that on certain occasions it’s best to walk away. I have also been editing it long enough to know that if I keep walking away it will never get finished.

It’s a double-edged, mother-loving, ambition-crushing, brain-stewing PAPERCUT.

I have a stack of beta-readers ready and waiting to help with my WIP. I have the time I need to attack the thing while the hellions are in school. In fact, I calculated that if I have sixteen good days of editing in a row, I will be DONE in sixteen days.

And I can’t get through a paragraph.

Yesterday I washed the rugs. I cleaned the windows and put the screens back in. I went for a walk. Yesterday, I finished the laundry, and then washed all the winter coats and put them into storage. Yesterday, I didn’t edit a single word. I opened my manuscript, cringed, died a little, and closed it. And opened it. And closed it again.

In truth, I have no idea why I’m stuck. I tried writer’s wine. I tried editor’s wine. And then I realized that if I plan on going to work tonight to earn actual REAL money, and not the theoretical kind that will so OBVIOUSLY come once I finish my brilliant book (if I ever do), I should probably stop drinking.

While writing can be fun, editing can be tedious. It can be really, really tedious. The act of replacing the right words for the wrong ones can suck your soul dry like nothing else. The act of reading those edits back and realizing you’ve made a mockery of the English language that no one will ever, EVER be able to untangle is fuc@king exhausting.

*takes deep breath*

It could be argued that a good amount of wallow is healthy in every activity worth tackling.

So, instead of writing today I’ve decided to do just that.

Wallow.

To everyone out there in the trenches, to everyone killing it, everyone kind of muddling their way through, and everyone stuck in a rut of wallow with me, I salute you.

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*raises writing wine glass*

*sees that it’s empty*

*raises editing wine glass*

*extends toast*

I love you guys.


Strings


He remained warm a long time.

Warm and still. I lay with my head on his chest, straining to hear the heartbeat that had lulled me to sleep so many times before. Only this time, I wasn’t trying to sleep. I wasn’t tired. I was engulfed: drowning in the tide of arrangements I’d have to make once I picked up the phone to announce it.

The sun rose slowly behind the blinds. He’d usually be up by now. Every night he made sure the alarm was ready, and every morning he rose before it went off. On the rare occasions I woke before him I could practically feel his consciousness return to his body; the stages of his awakening marked by a subtle, sentient shift in his breathing. He’d yawn. Quietly stretch. And then he would lay still a moment, caught up in mental preparations for the day.


In the last few years his joints creaked and popped as he rose from the bed. But, it wasn’t because he was old. He wasn’t old. Not old enough, anyway.


coffee-1487886_1920.jpgEach day began with the same routine, ever since the kids moved out. He’d put on his slippers and shuffle to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee, humming softly. He’d make his way down the front stairs to grab the paper and pull the door shut quietly behind him, careful not to wake me.

The lapel of his pajamas was soft between my fingers. Our room still smelled like him. The scent of his breath. His hair. How long could I lay with him like this before the smell of him ripened?

It had always seemed like there would be more time.

There had been times throughout our marriage I fantasized he would die. I’d even longed for it in the days after we laid our first baby to rest. I had wanted him to go with her so I could move on. So I didn’t have to see the sadness of losing her swallow the spark of fatherly pride that so briefly lit his eyes.

It had been morning when he found her still and quiet in her crib. She had been released from life as irretrievably as the string of a helium balloon, floating above the reach of my careless grasp. I should have known. I should have felt her passing, but I didn’t. Just like I hadn’t felt Walter’s, sometime in the hours before.

He brought home a puppy, three days after Luanne died. He’d left me alone in the house until dinner and returned with the dachshund, a bag of kibble, and a rubber ball. How many years ago had that been? Fifty-three. Our Luanne would be fifty-three now.

How I hated Walter when he brought that dog home.

I didn’t love my husband. I hadn’t loved him before our daughter’s death, and I didn’t love him after. In truth, there was never any great spark between us. We went through the motions of love. Meet. Become engaged. Get married. Exchange our apartment for a house. Buy a dog after our baby died, as if that would help. As if a dachshund might entice me to forget the sweet way the top of her head had smelled, and the warmth of her tiny body at my breast.

I pulled back a little, moving my head to the pillow beside his to take in the sight of Walter’s face in the rising light. His colorless lips hung open slightly. Small grey hair sprouted from wide nostrils and spilled from his ears. Lines ran thin around his mouth and eyes, and deep across his neck.


He was old. We both were. Maybe I just hadn’t noticed before. Not really.


The blankets were wet at my legs. It had happened quietly. A final release of urine while the organs inside his body shut down, like lights switching off in an old house at night, one, by one, by one.

I left him to shower. The water felt good on my shoulders, and I adjusted the taps gradually until the stream was almost scalding. I stood naked beneath the flow, watching the clouds of steam rise in the air. He’d been a good father when he wasn’t pulled from the house by clients. I’d raised the boys alone for the most part. He mowed the grass, budgeted my grocery allowance, paid the bills, and came home to cold dinners, left on the stove long after the kids had reluctantly padded to bed.

That was a long time ago. There would be no need of asking Walter for permission to spend money now. I could paint the house whatever color I wanted. I could sell the house if I wanted. In fact, I’d have to. There’d be no reason to keep up with the shoveling in winter, the gardening in summer, and the raking in fall without him.

Partitioned from the world like this, water raining on my back, it was easy to imagine Walter at the table, drinking coffee, turning the pages of his paper. The memories came easy of him teaching our sons to ride their bikes on the road out front and to skate on the rink out back.

Would these memories come as easy if I lived somewhere else?

No, I never loved him. Not in the way women loved men in the movies. I could live without him now. Thrive without him. We had never been soul mates. We argued more often than not. About trivial things. They all seemed trivial now.

The boys would want to salvage some of his things. A few tokens to remember him by. What would they choose? His tools. His journals. His books, maybe. And I’d have to go through the rest, weeding out the objects binding him to our house. I’d made these arrangements before, for his parents, and then mine: the going through of the houses to remove the things. It had been hardest when Walter’s mother passed. She loved me like a daughter since the first time we met. She loved me effortlessly. Easily. I could almost feel her sadness of his passing now. The comfort she might offer me if she was still here. The tightening of her arms around my body.

What was this feeling constricting the bones in my ribcage? Sadness? Regret? What was a woman supposed to feel, in the moments after her husband died? I had been the witness of Walter’s life, and I failed him. I never loved him the way he deserved. I never loved him the way he loved me.


The conditioner rinsed from my hair, I turned off the tap. I hesitated, listening to the last of the water trickle down the drain. The house was quiet. Walter’s body waited.


Clearing the fog from the mirror, I examined my reflection. My eyes weren’t quite as sharp as they used to be; the border between my pupils and irises slightly blurred. Water dripped from my short white hair. My breasts hung heavily from my chest. Yes, I was old. Just as old as Walter. And we had come down this road together.

In the bedroom, I pulled Walter’s clothes off his soft, deflated body. I struggled to roll him to the clean side of the bed and dress him in fresh pajamas. Blue ones, his favorite. I changed the bedding and put the put the soiled laundry in the washer downstairs after ensuring he looked comfortable, head propped up on a couple of pillows. This is how the EMTs would find him when they came.

I puttered about the house, moving our glasses from the coffee table in the living room to the dishwasher and tidying the kitchen. The phone rang once, twice, three times, breaking the sanctuary of silence to remind me of the outside world. The world waiting for me to say it.

What were the boys doing now? Were they eating? Talking to their wives about their children and grandchildren? How could I tell them their father had died? I picked up my cell from the counter. A picture of Walter with our youngest great-grandchild lit the screen. A girl. The only girl in our family since Luanne. How Walter loved her. How he spoiled her. How she’d miss him.

They’d all worry about me now. They would swarm and hover. But I didn’t have to tell them yet. It would be days before they expected our call, checking in to see they were well in their respective cities of Vancouver and Saskatoon.

The old oak tree stood strong and tall outside the kitchen window. nature-3176398_1920.jpgBelow the surface of grass and dirt, its roots had likely twisted around bones of the dachshund I’d loved; the dog that had carried me through my baby’s death, just as Walter hoped.

We would bury Walter next to Luanne, next to her grey rotted coffin in the cemetery just out of town. But then, maybe Walter was already with our baby. With his parents, and mine. And maybe he was waiting for me.

I let the cellphone timeout to black and padded down the hall. I lay on the bed beside him, clean and fresh, and ready.

I kissed his cheek. I took his hand in mine.

Oh, how I had loved him.

This was how they’d find us.


 

Small Things


Tonight I’m making a roast.

I work four nights a week. While the hellions are in school I edit Old Souls, which means the nights and weekends I do get to spend with the boys are typically quite busy. 68d87662123424c6b65f8fa98cdb0b02Meals are rushed. There is homework to contend with, chores to be doled out, and music lessons to practice between futsal, basketball, and physiotherapy appointments for the youngest hellion’s clubfoot, which has recently begun to turn back in as his quickly growing bones seem to be growing a little too quickly for his muscles to keep up.

*takes deep breath*

Sometimes I look at my family and marvel at how fast life moves.

My husband and I often pass like two ships in the night: occasionally able to enjoy each other’s company in the workings of everyday life, but usually high-fiving at the door for “shift change.” We exchange texts and calls throughout the day, highlighting all the pertinent information like what’s going on at work, or that one of hellions needs to be monitored a little more closely on his newly acquired social-media privileges, or a message from the principal about the middle one fighting at school.

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Should have seen that one coming . . .

This is our life. It isn’t the neat and tidy undertaking I envisioned with that first positive pregnancy test: where my husband and I would be home to enjoy family meals at night, and my career would fit neatly into a 9-5 package. Sometimes I feel like I’m just treading water: my book will never be finished, I’m not devoting enough attention to my job, house, or marriage, and I’m a terrible mom.

I hear those feelings are normal these days.

Our life is messy, and oftentimes not ideal, but it works. Our family works. Our life works.

And it’s often only when tragedy strikes that we realize it.

On Friday March 8th, one of the oldest hellion’s good friends lost his mother in a horrific car accident on her way home from work.

I didn’t know her.

It was snowing. Her son was waiting at home. And instead of meeting his mother at the door, he was greeted by two police officers who took him to the hospital to meet his father.

Even though we weren’t friends, I have been affected by this woman’s passing in ways I could have never anticipated. It’s as if the world has been spinning like a top the last few years . . . and has suddenly come to a halt. It’s as if this moment stopped us to stare at the stars.road-3168803_1920

And all I can think of is this boy and his father.

And all I can think of is my own beloved hellions opening the door to find two police officers with terrible news.

Tonight, it’s supposed to snow again. The winds are going to blow. In fact, I can hear them now, railing against the front windows, growing in force. Tonight, we will be together, safe indoors with absolutely nowhere to go.

So tonight, I’m going to make a roast.


 

A Character Guest Blog


Amie Fish

written by lucinda e. clarke


LUCINDA 10Dear JA, I happened to be passing her laptop when I saw your email and I have to admit I feel extremely hurt. Why oh, why did you ask her to write something when I have a much better story to tell?

There is no comparison to her boring life when mine has been so exciting, well some might think that, but to be honest, she’s put me through so much hell, I’d leave her if I could.

I was quite happy living near London close to my family and friends, but then she packed me off to Africa with my new husband, just when I’d planned out the rest of my life. OK, so I settled down and it wasn’t too bad, except she had me out with a video camera recording all kinds of daft things including – wait for it – a massacre which was indescribably awful. Then, she creates a civil war and I’m right there in the middle of it. Everyone else had been flown out to safety and I get thrown in jail. I simply can’t describe how ghastly that was. So, I get free and then have to make a run for it. Yes, she sends me out into the bush with a few bottles of water and minimal food how cruel is that?

amie-1-bookkindle-pic-250kb.jpgWas she finished? Not a bit of it. Not content with that in book 2 she has me searching for my foster child who just happens to have been captured by a radicalized terrorist group.

She has a nasty habit of killing off all the people I love, and blows up my house and I lose everything, and I mean everything, even my name and my identity. (You do know Lucinda E Clarke isn’t her real name, don’t you? Well she changes mine as well and didn’t even consult me).

The brutality continues as I’m dragged off to intercept arms smugglers and end up perched on the edge of a tank full of sharks with the biggest teeth you have ever seen.

And that reminds me. The humans I meet are dangerous enough, but let’s not forget my close encounters with lions, crocodiles, hippos, snakes and practically everything that’s dangerous on the African continent.

And where is this paragon of virtue all this time you ask? Sitting comfortably at her dining room table tapping on her laptop without a care in the world. She pauses every now and again to hatch up another dangerous plot, kill off another friend I’ve made – she has such a nasty habit of doing that – and then waddles off to replenish her coffee (she makes two mugs at a time) and grab a chocolate bar from the fridge. set 1 of booksApparently, this is the diet that helps her brainstorm yet more appalling scenarios. And what am I doing? I’m slogging through the bush, with the sweat pouring down my face stinging my eyes, my shirt sticking to me, every muscle is aching and my tongue is swelling in my mouth because I’ve not had a drop of water all day.

I’ve tried to talk to her, I really have, but her only response is that people don’t want to read about boring day to day lives when nothing exciting ever happens. She throws words around like ‘cliff-hanger’, ‘nail-biting’, ‘on the edge of your seat stuff’, but between you and me, I think she’s the boring one and it would be a total waste of time to let her loose on your blog.

So, as soon as I’ve finished this, with all respect, I’m going to delete your invite, she won’t notice right now as she’s won yet another award (yes, for torturing me) and she’s busy on her iPad tweeting it to the world.

If you hear of any organization which will fight for the rights of the downtrodden, helpless heroes and heroines caught in the dark recesses of the writers’ mind, I would love to join. I’m familiar with human rights but what about character rights? No one ever considers us.


Yours miserably,

Amie Fish


LUCINDA E CLARKEWhen it comes to me talking about me and my books I’m a disaster! Do I mention being abandoned in the African bush with a 9 week-old baby? That I’ve lived in 8 countries, in a mansion, a one bed flat and on a boat? Meeting kings, presidents, international artists and peasants? Earning my living by writing after I got fired from my teaching post? Or what about that live radio broadcast with a bayonet digging into my neck?

I ran the very Worst Riding School in the world, and presented on radio and had my own video production company, with dozens of tales about some of the famous people I’ve met including Mandela. The problem is there is so much it took 3 books to put it all down on paper and that’s only the bits I remember.

Officially, I’m retired now. Not a chance, I’m only pretending while working 24/7 writing books, 8 to date, and wrestling with the marketing world.  Once I make the first million or five I’ll be off sailing round the world scribbling on my mega yacht, but that’s never going to happen.


Lucinda E. Clarke


WRS Kindle Cover (1)You can meet up with Lucinda here:

Web page – http://lucindaeclarkeauthor.com

Blog link  http://lucindaeclarke.wordpress.com

twitter name  https://twitter.com/LucindaEClarke

I have a free novella myBook.to/WRS

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Top 5 Lessons From Bad Writer

I’m proud to call Allison Maruska one of my writerly besties.

She writes YA Urban Fantasy, and Adult Mystery & Suspense stories. Her first novel, The Fourth Descendant, has rocked Amazon bestseller lists for the last THREE YEARS.

You can check it out here:
https://www.amazon.com/Fourth-Descendant-Allison-Maruska/dp/1507809840

Her sense of humor is dry and witty, and her Twitter alter-ego is a truly special brand of cut-throat hilarious. This post had me in stitches.

Allison Maruska

I have an alter-ego on Twitter. Her name is Bad Writer.

BW page

She doesn’t have a million followers or viral tweets or anything like that. She exists merely to be the public face of my sarcastic side. And since I talk to writers a lot on Twitter, she focuses on writing.

Since her creation in July, she has tweeted 643 times, according to that screenshot. That’s a lot of bad advice being doled out. Some of those are quoted Retweets from Nat Russo’s #HorribleWritingTips, Sam Sykes’ joke tweets, Tweeps who reply, and other parody accounts, but most are her own content based on things that I read she reads. Sometimes, the content overlaps a little. I thought we could use those instances for learning. And since Bad Writer says the opposite of what a writer should do, the lessons will be actual constructive things with her non-examples.

Lesson 1: Stop abusing…

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