Low Life, Author of Tha Wreck'n Crew: Book 2 pro tha test of times

Today we are interviewing author Low Life (Calvin E. Jones) about his urban fiction book That Wreck'n Crew.

Tell us a bit about yourself.
I am a 28 year old black male in prison, 20 do 15, on #10.

What inspired you to write your book?
Dealing with time.

How long have you been writing?
Started in 2009, finished 2014.

Why do you write? Is it to share a message? Or is it to have emotional release? Or both?
To share a message and emotional release.

What do you hope readers will get from reading your book?
That it is a choice to live in a situation or change it.

What do you plan to accomplish with your writing during the next ten years?
I hope to some day build a building where all kids can come play sports and other games instead of being on the streets, have a place where they can just come talk to someone.

Anything else you’d like potential readers to know about your book? 
My book is about 9 young men who did not have a family, the bonded and became a family, and remain loyal to each other. Family is not always blood. Loyalty over wants.

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Timothy D. McLendon, Author of Last Hero

Today we are interviewing Timothy D. McLendon, author of the young adult fantasy novel Last Hero.
 
Tell us a bit about yourself.
I’ve written stories with supernatural undertones since I was in the fifth grade. My background is in suspense, but I’ve found new meaning as a fantasy author. I’ve always had an overwhelming need to communicate with the world and entertain it through written words.

Describe the plot of your book in a few sentences.
A teenage boy discovers that his heritage is much different than everyone else’s. Olympus has been destroyed by monsters, all of the gods are dead, and he is the last descendant of Zeus. He is the only one who can save the world from the monsters of Greek mythology.

What inspired you to write a middle grade / young adult fantasy?
I sat down one day last year and had a vision of a teenage boy in a school cafeteria who could see monsters that no one else could, and had to defeat them or the world would be destroyed. The monsters of Greek mythology were a natural fit, as I remembered them from books when I was in middle school.

Although protagonist Danny Neumann is the son of two demigods, he is still, for the most part, an ordinary guy. What did you do to make it so readers could relate to Danny?
Danny is in love with the girl he grew up with, but he can’t have her. His best friend has claimed Danny’s love interest as his own, and now has nothing to do with Danny because he’s popular. Danny doesn’t feel like he belongs anymore, but won’t give up finding his meaning in life.

Who do you think will enjoy your book the most?
This book was written with a Young Adult and Middle Grade audience in mind. Those who enjoy fantasy and Greek mythology will enjoy Last Hero the most.

Have you always been interested in Greek mythology or is something that developed recently?
I’ve always been interested in the supernatural. Since monsters are in integral part of Last Hero, Greek mythology is the perfect outlet to show what Danny is capable of. I wanted to create a world that is normal for all of us, but much different than how we perceive it.

What do you have in mind for your next project?
Last Hero will continue to part 2. I don’t want to give away too much, but Danny’s parents are in terrible danger. There are more monsters that Danny must face.

Anything else you’d like to tell potential readers?
I wrote Last Hero in hopes of showing readers, through Danny’s actions, that everyone can accomplish whatever they put their minds to. Our lives may be turned upside down and rearranged one day, but we are the only ones who can decide how we react to it and fight back. Never give up hope.

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Crystal Tummala, Author of Alimony, Child Custody, Divorce and Support in Pennsylvania

Today we are interviewing Crystal Tummala about her book, Alimony, Child Custody, Divorce and Support in Pennsylvania.

Tell us a bit about yourself.
I am licensed to practice law in Pennsylvania.  I am the owner of the Pittsburgh based, Tummala Law Office. I earned my Juris Doctorate degree from the Duquesne University School of Law. I am a member of the Allegheny County Bar Association and the Family Law Section. This is my second book.  My first book was inspired by the wisdom and business success of my grandmother.  It is entitled Grandma's Wisdom For Business and Life.

Describe the purpose of your book in a few sentences.
• How to keep your priorities straight while overcoming anger and fear
• What to expect when you contact an attorney
• To develop a focused approach to identify and gather the documents needed for your case
• Definitions relating to alimony, custody, divorce, and support
• What to expect in the child custody process

What inspired you to write a book about divorce, custody and support?
I wanted to offer an informative resource for those faced with issues of Alimony, Custody and Support in Pennsylvania.

What do you think is the most difficult thing for people facing the legal issues related to divorce or custody?
To put aside their emotions of fear and pain and to try to focus on wise long term solutions.

You emphasize in your book different ways for individuals to keep anger and fear under control during the process. Why is this so important?
Fear and pain can cause us to make impulsive decisions that may not be good choices.

How do you think reading your book will impact people?
This book will serve as a resource to inform the reader and I believe information is power.

What do you have in mind for your next writing project?
I am looking to write a book that encourages celebrating life.

Is there anything else you’d like to tell potential readers?
If you are faced with any of these issues I truly believe this book was meant for you.

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Kamla K. Kapur, Author of The Singing Guru

Today we are interviewing Kamla K. Kapur, author of the historical fiction THE SINGING GURU, Legends and Adventures of Guru Nanak, the First Sikh.

Describe the plot of your new book in a few sentences.
The Singing Guru is about an unhappy man’s journey from conflict to joy and peace. Mardana, who was historically the rababi, or rabab player (a medieval stringed instrument also called a rebec) of Guru Nanak, (1469-1539) the founding father of Sikhism, traveled with the master on his extensive journeys from India to other countries. Mardana’s odyssey, full of many dangerous adventures, parallels his spiritual and psychic journey from the animal end of the human spectrum to a man in the process of transformation and liberation.  

What inspired you to write a novel about the life and travels of Guru Nanak? 
My father always wanted me to write this book. I grew up in a fairly traditional Sikh family. My mother is one of the many sixteenth generation descendants of Guru Nanak and I heard a lot of the stories that are embedded in the larger narrative arc of the book.

I am eclectic about spiritual wisdom, and glean it from all sources. I have written two books from the Hindu and Muslim traditions: Ganesha Goes to Lunch (now reprinted in India as Classics from Mystic India) and Rumi’s Tales from the Silk Road  (published in India as Pilgrimage to Paradise: Sufi Tales from Rumi). This eclecticism and egalitarianism is an integral part of Sikhism. The Sri Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikh holy book, contains the songs of seven Sikh gurus, including Guru Nanak, who composed and sang, and the songs of fifteen Hindu and Sufi saints.
Guru Nanak’s definition of a religious person is “one who looks on all as equal.” Brotherhood and sisterhood of all on this planet is Sikhism’s basic tenet; music is at its heart. What better subject to write about than one I resonate with?

Who do you think would most appreciate this book?
Sikhs, obviously, because the old, hackneyed stories they grew up with have become uninteresting clichés. My book shows Guru Nanak in a new, modern light, highlighting his spiritual relevance even today. I hope it will be of particular interest to the younger generation of Sikhs who will be able to relate to their roots in a new way. It will also be of value to those interested in Eastern spirituality and the oriental tale. The book comes from a different, an unknown tradition whose nondenominational approach to spirituality and joyous acceptance of all aspects of life is particularly relevant in today’s fragmented and conflicted world.

The book will also appeal to any spiritual seeker who wishes to know about a wonderful new (yet obscure) religion and to learn very simple truths that make the difference between suffering and joy, between living life blindly, or with awareness. The word ‘Sikh’ means a devotee and disciple of the ultimate Guide of all Guides, a student who is always eager and passionate to learn how to grown into his or her full potential as a true and conscious human being. Guru Nanak’s definition of a religious person is simply someone who treats all as equals. This is a lesson we all need to learn, over and over again.
 
Thomas Hoover, author of Zen Culture and The Moghul, compares The Singing Guru to The Odyssey. Did you set out to write a novel with such an epic scale? Or did it just develop that way as you wrote?
It was a combination of both. When you begin writing a book you don’t really know what direction it is going to take. It is still in an inchoate state. At least, that’s how I work, not with a plan, but with a vague idea that then becomes amenable to a plan. After a lot of trial and error it begins to take form, and it is at this stage that your knowledge of works that have influenced you comes to your aid. Thomas Hoover’s response pleased me tremendously and I am happy that he made the connection.

But the epic scale is inbuilt into the book. The Singing Guru is the first book of the Sikh Saga. I plan to carry the story through another nine generations – which, in fact, is how it panned out historically. I did not realize while I was writing The Singing Guru that I had stumbled on the mother lode.

You have written in other genres. What is the primary difference between writing for the stage and writing a novel, for example?
I write in all genres – plays, poetry, essays, fiction. The subjects, ideas, feelings, characters that interest me, come with their own forms. The subjects with the most psychic or social conflict come to me as plays. Conflict lends itself well to dialogue because there are two or many more opposing points of view. This is not to say that plays are only about disembodied opposing points of view. Characters, embodying the conflict, are central to what happens on the stage. Since plays progress through dialogue and action, and since their performance has a communal interface, they are pared down to something that can take place in a few hours. Plays are much more time-bound, dense, and compact.

Fiction, on the other hand, can ramble, something I like to do. They can include description, thoughts (which can also be expressed as soliloquies in plays), meditations, cogitations, philosophizing in addition to dialogue and character. Fiction is the most capacious of the genres and I love it for these reasons. But of course, you have to be careful not to abuse its freedom to the point of boring your readers. Art, above all, is the imposition of limits on nature, and you have to be aware of this if a project is to succeed – by which I mean, find its audience.

Matters of the heart and soul are best suited for Poetry, which goes deeper into the human spirit than the other genres. It is a soliloquy of the soul with itself.

Having said this, though I have never had to debate about whether a particular subject should be expressed in a play or fiction or poetry – like I said, they come clothed in their forms – I use the strengths of each genre in the others as well. Dialogue is an integral part of my fiction because dialogue, more than any other technique, propels the story into the present, makes it come alive in the Now. My last book of poems, As a Fountain in a Garden, is one long monologue, comprised of smaller ones, and is in the form of a dialogue between a woman and the ghost of her husband who committed suicide. 

How was the process of writing The Singing Guru different from that of the other books you’ve written?
The subject is different, the process remains the same. Having said that, I have to admit that initially there was a lot of anxiety in me about writing it.

A writer above all must have no allegiances except to truth as he or she sees and experiences it. “Truth,” (I wish I could remember who said it), “has no moorings.”

Having said that, I have to admit that my survival has depended upon just such a mooring, my faith as I practice it: gurbani, the words of the Sikh Gurus and Bhagats in the Granth Sahib, the Sikh holy book. Words have been my salvation, whether the ones I write and explore through the process of writing, or the words of the Gurus.

When you have two competing loyalties of two equally important allegiances, there is bound to be conflict. It was this: do I write this book as an idolater? Though this was never an option, I did mistake it for one frequently while writing this book. It was made more complex by the knowledge that Sikhs, like upholders of any other religion, can be quite possessive of their own canons and do not brook disagreement or other interpretations. I have to admit that there was some fear.

I had to finally accept and acknowledge to myself that I am a writer, first and foremost. My primary allegiance is to the God of Writing, and I belong (in my husband, Payson R. Stevens’s words) to the Nation of Writers. Guru Nanak also conceived of God as the Arch Writer, the Playwright of the drama of life.   

Where can potential readers learn more about The Singing Guru?
I will have a website for the book shortly where I will do blogs about the book and related areas. In the meantime, there is a lot about the book, a sample chapter, the introduction to the book, on my website: www.kamlakkapur.com

What do you have in mind for your next writing project?
I am currently finishing up the first volume of a fantasy, Malini in Whirlwood that has been in the making for forty years! I have also written about half of the next book of the Sikh Saga, called The Dancing Guru.

Is there anything else you’d like potential readers to know about The Singing Guru?
I would like to talk a little bit about Guru Nanak, the founder of the Sikhs. He reunited mankind with the forces of nature. He said of himself that he had no more caste or race than wind or fire; he blasted through the petty, parochial, limited, superstitious, and encrusted version of God, cut through the delusions and ignorance that separate humans from each other, saw through the skin of appearance to the light that informs every breathing thing, shattered the prescriptions and constrictions of rituals and idolatry, and sought at the source the transcendent and immanent energy infused through the micro- and macrocosm. Nanak’s is a personal, direct, and unmediated Way that places no barriers between the lover and the Beloved. In his songs, Nanak rends the perceptual veils that blind us to the truth that the Lord of the cosmos and the human heart are one.

His message is very relevant to us today.

Tell us a bit about yourself.
Here is my bio:

Kamla K. Kapur (aka Kamal Kapur) was born and raised in India, and is a citizen of the United States. She got her Bachelor's in English Honors from India, and her Masters' Degree in literature from Kent State University, Ohio, USA. She also took classes in creative writing from the University of Iowa, and the University of California in San Diego. During her time in the USA, many of her poems were published in prestigious American journals and quarterlies.

She returned to India (1974-78), was a freelance writer for The Times of India, The Hindustan Times, and The Tribune, and taught English Literature at Delhi University. Her poetry and short stories were published in the original English and in Hindi and Punjabi translation in journals and magazines. In 1977, she won two  National Awards, The Sultan Padamsee Award for Playwriting in English. Her full-length play, The Curlew's Cry, a bi-lingual play, was produced by Yatrik, New Delhi. A Punjabi translation of her play, Clytemnestra was produced by The Company in Chandigarh. Her award-winning Zanana, was produced at the National School of Drama, New Delhi. Seven of her plays were published in Enact, New Delhi. Her full length plays, Hamlet's Father, Kepler Dreams, and Clytemnestra were showcased at the Marin Shakespeare Festival in San Francisco, Gas Lamp Quarter Theatre in San Diego, and Dramatic Risks Theatre Group in New York, respectively. The New Mexico Arts Division selected her as the Playwright in Residence for two years.
In May 2014, her award winning play, Kaamiya, was produced by Ank, Mumbai. It is currently traveling to various festivals in India.

Kamla has two books of poetry to her credit: the critically acclaimed As A Fountain In A Garden (Tarang Press. Del Mar, USA, 2005) and Radha Sings (Rolling Drum and Dark Child Press, USA, 1987). Her poetry has also appeared in Yellow Silk (Berkeley, California), Journal of Literature and Aesthetics (Kerala), and the anthology, Our Feet Walk The Sky (Aunt Lute Press, Berkeley, California, USA). Ms Kapur was a semi-finalist in the Nimrod/Hardman Pablo Neruda Prize competition.

In addition to her three books of fiction (Ganesha Goes to Lunch: Classics from Mystic India (2007, Mandala, USA,),  Rumi’s Tales from the Silk Road (Mandala USA and Penguin India 2009) and The Singing Guru (Mandala, USA, 2015; Jaico, India, 2015), five of her short stories have been published in Parabola (New York) and two in the anthology, The Inner Journey: Views from the Hindu Tradition (2007).
 Kamla was on the faculty of Grossmont College in San Diego, California for 18 years and taught creative writing courses in play writing, poetry, creative non-fiction, fiction, and courses in mythology, Shakespeare, and Women's Literature.

Together with her husband, Payson R. Stevens (www.energylandscapes.com) Kamla lives half the year in a remote Kullu Valley in the Himalayas and the other half in California.


An excerpt from The Singing Guru:

CHAPTER 1
Mardana, the Unhappy Human 

Two pilgrims paused in a bamboo grove to rest on a hot summer afternoon. Nanak, ten years younger than his companion Mardana, hung his wool blanket and few meager belongings on a branch and walked to a tiny spring nearby. He removed fistfuls of dead bamboo leaves and rotting mulch, which had choked its flow, until the clear water overflowed into the adjoining land and fed the thirsty earth. 

“Come drink, Mardana,” he said to his companion. Sitting at the spring’s edge, Nanak cupped his hand and drank. 

Mardana took off his satchel, leaned his rabab—the musical instrument he was carrying—against a rock, and collapsed on the ground. He felt unable to move, yet severe thirst made him crawl to the spring, put his face to it, and drink like an animal, lapping the water with his tongue. The cool liquid flowing into his parched mouth revived him a little, and he returned to the spot by his rabab and lay down as one dead. 

Nanak proceeded to wash and clean himself in the spring before clearing the ground of stones, spreading his blanket, and lying down on it. Soon he was fast asleep. 

Mardana lay in a heap, too tired to remove the pebbles or to spread his blanket beneath him. A tired body and an overactive brain kept him too agitated to sleep. He was hungry and uncomfortable, and a vague discontent at having been away from the comforts of home for so long began to brew in Mardana’s mind. It quickly turned into a full-blown, raging unhappiness. 

How long, how very long have I been away from home? Do I even have a home? Mardana asked himself, repeating the question that had been foremost in his thoughts for quite a while. Twenty years—maybe more, twenty-two, or three—what am I doing so far away from my homeland, from Fatima, my children, and my dog? 

He looked at Nanak, who he called Baba, resting in the shade of the bam- boo grove, his arm folded under his head, his face radiant even in sleep. 

Why can’t I be like Baba, so certain and centered, so detached from comfort or discomfort, satisfaction and hunger, prosperity and adversity? Mardana thought, stretching upon the ground, longing for something soft beneath his body and head. He felt coarse and altogether too human compared to Nanak. Mardana was aware that he was rather attached to his appetites and vacillated too much between despair and joy. He felt like a Persian waterwheel, some- times empty like the buckets clanking all the way down, and sometimes full and sloshing with sweet, clear water on the way up. He felt certain of the presence of God when things went his way, when he was provided for—with food when he was hungry, a bed when he was sleepy, and the unexpected boat or bullock cart arriving on the riverbank when his bruised and blistered feet screamed in pain. But in adversity, the thin film of his faith dissolved, and he was certain that this whole philosophic construct of God was nothing but a pipe dream. 

The image of the pipe brought with it a whole train of other desires. I could really do with a bowl full of bhang and a jar full of sweet red wine. All these hardships would be worth it if they were followed by some rewards. 

He recalled how once, when Nanak and he had returned home to Sultanpur after a long journey, Fatima had been angry at Mardana and told him to go away and leave her alone. Mardana, upset, had gone to the village bhang shop and had some in a hookah, sitting in a circle with others, all pleasantly high and happy. He had returned home in an amorous mood and made up with Fatima. Wah! Wah! Allah himself had descended into their bed and bodies that night! As Mardana recalled the scene, his fingers reached out and traced the contours of his wife’s absent body. 

Doesn’t Baba ever miss his wife? Mardana wondered. He hardly ever speaks about her, or even mentions his two sons. He is wedded to an intangible thing he calls Beloved, Husband, Guru, Akal Purakh, and the Timeless One. But I miss Fatima and the comfort of her in my arms, in our bed, her delicious cooking, and her ministrations when I am sick. Will I ever be with her again? Will I ever reach home and lead an ordinary life?
Mardana turned his mind to the image of the kind hostess in the last village where Baba and he had rested. Her features and face swam before his mind’s eye: her slim brown hand as it handed him the full glass of cinnamon- and cardamom-spiced milk; the shape of her body as she labored over the fire to make their meal; her arm jangling with bangles as she brought him the dinner plate arranged with delicious food; her face with its large, dark eyes, and the tiny dimple at the corner of her lips as she smiled at him in the morning while giving him a warm honey ginger drink. The more Mardana thought about her, the more his senses were inflamed, and the more agitated he became. 

How much have I missed by following Nanak these many years? What have I got in return for following him, hungry and weary, for thousands upon thousands of miles, up and down steep cold mountains, through hot and windy deserts, over stormy seas and flooded rivers and under thunderous skies? What do I have except an imperfect and chimerical wisdom? Wisdom is a poor substitute for real life, for simple human pleasures and joy. One doesn’t live forever, and the purpose of life is not some insight that comes and goes like fairy dust in the eyes of deluded fools. Baba talks about vague, intangible things, and I want certainties now, a life where the senses are fulfilled and at rest. Perhaps an ascetic life suits Baba Nanak, but I have had enough! 

Sitting up, Mardana broke off a stalk of bamboo and peeled it to get to its edible heart. Chewing on the tender shoot, Mardana wondered why he followed Baba like a meek lamb. Lambs always get slaughtered in the end, he thought. 

Baba’s music and voice have entrapped my soul, and I can’t break away from the spell!
Mardana stopped chewing as this thought flashed through his mind. Rage rose in him like a whirlwind. I have been cheated out of life by this magician! 

It seemed to Mardana that for the first time in his life he understood with perfect clarity what he must do: break away from Baba and leave, never to return. He looked at Baba sleeping peacefully; he looked at his satchel that contained the quills, ink, and book in which he, Mardana, had written down Baba’s songs in painstakingly neat handwriting; he looked at the rabab, leaning against a boulder, the intricate mother-of-pearl inlays around its sound hole shining in the moonlight. In his fury he wanted to pick up the instrument and dash it to pieces on a boulder. 

Mardana saw the dense jungle surrounding the small clearing in which they rested and was momentarily afraid at the thought of leaving, but his desire for freedom pushed the fear away. 

Enraged by Nanak and his rabab, Mardana stood up, turned, and walked away, determined not to look back upon the causes of his frustration. 

He walked with one clear intention—to get as far away as possible as fast as he could. Mardana forged ahead, re-creating in his mind the amorous night with Fatima. He was raging and he was angry at nature, kudrat, that gives a man desires only to thwart them.
When he quieted down enough and looked back, so many trails led away from him that even if he had wanted to return, he couldn’t have found the way. “Just as well!” he said and continued down the same path, images of his longing crowding his mind. 

“Yes, I will find a woman now,” he fantasized aloud. “Young and beautiful like the first bloom on the mango tree, smelling of fragrant sandalwood and roses. She will be waiting eagerly, her eyes filled with adoration for me. Per- haps her name will be . . . Razaa . . . yes, her name will be Razaa, the obedient one. She will be willing and submissive, unlike my Fatima. I will make a home with her, start another family, and I will never, ever leave. Besides, who knows what’s happened to my family in my long absence?” 

A pang of guilt held him at the thought of Fatima—her high cheekbones, that dark mole on her chin, her quick and lively brown eyes that flashed in anger or annoyance just as frequently as they did with love and need. “Ah, my Fatima with her sharp tongue, always giving me a hard time about traveling and not being there for her. What a shrew she can be! And who knows what she’s been up to in my absence?” 

Mardana paused. He clearly heard Nanak’s voice in his ears: “Why should I forget those with whom I have exchanged hearts?” He looked around, wondering if Nanak had followed him, but there was no one there. 

“The magician has gotten into my mind!” He clutched at his head as he fought his way through the darkening bushes. The sounds of beasts roaring, growling, and mating in the forest only inflamed his mind with feverish desire. Mardana thought about all his fights with Fatima and all the things he didn’t like about her, trying to pump up his resolve to seek fulfillment with another, convincing himself that his hunger must be quickly gratified. He punched his way through the thick underbrush into a large, circular clearing in the forest and stood transfixed at the marvelous sight before him. 

The landscape was completely transformed from the jungle of a few moments ago. Mardana couldn’t even tell if it was night or day. Perched on a craggy hill that spiraled up, Mardana saw a formidable and imposing fortress with battlements, domes, and turrets. From its massive iron gate protruded huge brass spikes and hanging bronze bells. It seemed to Mardana that the fortress somehow hovered in the air and was lit by soft lights from both below and above. A valley with a meandering stream and a small village rested at the foot of the hill, in the shadow of the fortress. A festival and a feast were in progress, and enchanting flutes, strings, and drums filled Mardana’s ears as he moved toward the scene before him like an iron filing caught in the gravity of a large magnet. Slaughtered goats were being skinned and cut open, and women in colorful clothes were harvesting their organs in neat piles: skins for carpets, water bags, drumheads, saddlebags, and parchment; guts for twine and stringed instruments like rababs and dilrubas; hearts, livers, and tongues to be roasted as special delicacies. Some goats, minus their heads, were roasting on spits above open flames. The aromas of herbs and spices and the smell of dripping fat wafted to Mardana’s nostrils as he salivated over the scene, his teeth involuntarily masticating over the promised meal. 

Wah! Wah! Mardana thought. This is the place. My heart has come home! 

His intuition was confirmed when several of the women in colorful, sequined ghagras and cholis, sweet smelling and lovely to behold, noticed him and let out screams of delight, as if they had been waiting just for him. As they ran toward him, Mardana scanned their faces, each one lovelier than the next. His gaze rested on the one who wore a red dress. She smiled directly at him, and Mardana felt himself drowning in her eyes. Drawn to her without volition, he began walking toward her. All of the women immediately surrounded him, caressed his arms and back, and carried him as if on a wave, into the house. 

“Mardana, Mardana, this is Maya’s magic, don’t fall into her entangled web! Your ego is creating these illusions.” Mardana heard Baba Nanak’s voice in his head as he bobbed on the crest of the wave. Oh Baba, stop all this moralizing and let me live! Mardana replied irritably. I’ve had it with your magic and am ripe for some of Maya’s now.
A warm bath awaited Mardana, and the women took turns pouring water over him and scrubbing him down with fragrant soaps. His eyes followed their movements while his heart and body swelled with pleasure and gratitude to Allah for fulfilling his secret desires. His gaze lingered on the woman of his choice, their eyes meeting every now and then, hers coy, his probing. She looked at him submissively, adoringly. 

“What’s your name?” Mardana asked.
 

“Razaa.”
 

All of Mardana’s doubts vanished. He knew that the reciprocal, bountiful nature of the universe had helped him to manifest his desires. I have created this with the power of my thoughts! Yes . . . I have learned much from Baba and am no longer the disciple, but a master creating magical realities! 

The women teasingly dried him with soft towels, carried him to a canopied bed, laid him down on soft sheepskin rugs, and rubbed him down with fragrant, heady oils. They brought him the hookah, its bowl full of bhang buds, resins, and other fragrant herbs. Once he had his fill they massaged him and fed him by putting grapes and other berries into his mouth with their hennaed hands. All of them wanted Mardana. Juices dripped from the corners of his lips as they stroked his hair and giggled. He was at the pinnacle of his pleasures; his every desire had become flesh, all because he had stumbled upon the truth about the power of his own will. 

In a moment he sketched out his future. One of the adjoining huts would be his own little home, his corner of the universe. It would be comfortable, not lacking in provisions, and Razaa would be there to service his every need. She would be sweet and compliant, like Fatima early in their marriage, before she aged and became more willful and sharp tongued. The lord or lady of the fortress would recognize his greatness as a singer and a rabab player, make him a court musician, and honor him with a small kingdom. He would lack for nothing for the rest of his life. 

The women continued to dress him, and then put a chain around his neck. The chain felt tight and heavy. Never mind, he thought. Let them have their way with me! The perfume they put on him seemed to have a whiff of something like the urine of sheep or goats, but Mardana ignored the smell. Their singing, too, seemed like it had turned from mellifluous to cacophonous, like the agitated bleating of goats before slaughter. Perhaps he had overhead them slaughtering one for his dinner tonight. He was ravenous and couldn’t wait to eat. 

Mardana recalled a feast he’d had in Emperor Babar’s tent once, long ago. Just the thought of it made him salivate: A plump, whole, roasted goat was brought in on a silver platter with carrots, peas, and potatoes garnished with roasted almonds, fried cashews, and raisins. There was fragrant basmati rice and all sorts of condiments and fruit. Mardana had torn off the leg of the goat and eaten it. Babar’s musicians had given him some bhang, and the drug had made the food taste a hundred times more delicious. Babar knew how to treat his musicians, unlike Baba, who wanted his minstrel to feed on air. Bhugat gian! Mardana scoffed. For food, wisdom. 

Enough of poor asceticism! God himself gave humans these appetites, he reasoned.
The alluring and mischievous women put a crown of flowers on his head, put vermillion on his forehead, and raised him from the bed he lay upon. Mardana got up a little awkwardly, his heart filled to bursting with gratitude as he prepared to impress the women with his voice. He wished he had his rabab, but his voice alone was beautiful in its range and richness. Mardana opened his mouth to produce a soaring celebratory sound, but his voice came out raspy and hollow. He tried again, and again he heard a very strange bleating coming from his mouth. The girls were laughing hysterically, urging him to sing louder. He tried once more to burst into song, but what issued from his mouth was a high-pitched and vibratory “Mainnn . . . mainnnn . . . mainnn.”
The women continued laughing. Mardana was dreadfully confused. What was happening? Why was he standing on all fours? He looked down at his feet and saw hooves at the end of thin, hairy legs; he looked up and saw that the women stood far above him instead of at eye level. Through the corners of his eyes he saw the flapping of long ears, and when he squinted, he saw twisted white horns on top of his head. “Am I hallucinating from the drugs? What is happening?” he tried to ask, but all he heard was a frenzied bleating and the answer of roaring laughter from the women as they danced around him in glee. One of the women stroked his neck and pulled at the rope around it. In a flash of insight, Mardana understood that he was the goat he had hoped to eat for dinner! 

“Oh, what a handsome sacrifice he will make!” Razaa said. “Even his bleating is different, sweeter than the others. He will be my gift to Nur Shah. She’ll be so pleased she is sure to fulfill my heart’s desires!” 

“Sacrifice?” bleated Mardana. But the women couldn’t hear him. Singing and dancing, they led him out of the house and into the backyard. They opened an iron gate and led him into a dank, dark pen. Immediately, a strong and offensive odor assaulted his nose.
When his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw other goats, all tied with short tethers to stakes in the ground, staring at him in silence. When they tied Mardana to a stake with four other goats, they all let out a cacophony of bleating. Mardana joined in and bleated fruitlessly for hours, until sleep mercifully overtook him and he sank to the ground, wet and dirty with his own excretions. As he drifted off to sleep, he heard Guru Nanak’s words rever- berating in his mind: “O man, weep and mourn; the priceless soul is bound and driven off.”

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L T Graham, Author of The Blue Journal

Today we are interviewing author L. T. Graham about the murder mystery The Blue Journal.

Describe the plot of The Blue Journal in a few sentences.
When one of Randi Conway’s psychotherapy patients is found dead of a gunshot wound, the investigation is turned over to Lieutenant Anthony Walker.

Formerly a New York City cop, Walker now serves on the police force of an affluent community in Fairfield County, Connecticut.  He lives among the privileged gentry, where he understands that appearances are often far removed from reality.  This certainly proves to be true in the death of Elizabeth Knoebel, when Walker discovers that she had been keeping a private journal entitled “SEXUAL RITES”.

In her diary, Elizabeth was recording the explicit details of her sexual adventures with various men, many of whom were married to the women in her therapy group.  Elizabeth was a predator bent on seducing and, in some instances, humiliating these men, obsessed with a perverse mission that Walker believes led to her murder.

As Walker uncovers the secrets of Elizabeth’s memoir, he becomes convinced that her killer is another of Randi Conway’s patients.  But which one?  Dr. Conway is unwilling to divulge her patients’ confidences, complicating the investigation while increasing the danger the therapist faces, especially as Walker comes closer to the truth and to Randi herself.

Amidst these unfolding revelations, we meet an assortment of Dr. Conway’s patients, glimpsing the dynamics that cause marriages to succeed, to fail and, sometimes, to end in tragedy.    

Who do you think would most appreciate this book?
 Anyone who loves a good mystery, or who is interested in what makes a marriage succeed or fail, or who wants to explore what drives sexual attitudes and desires.

What inspired you to write a murder mystery involving a detective who is out of his element, having moved from NYC to a suburb in Connecticut?
Some years ago, I witnessed the marriages of several close friends dissolve into unhappiness, unpleasantness and, ultimately, divorce.  I wondered what led to the disintegration of those relationships, and why people I knew so well, and thought were so happy, had grown apart.  That was my original inspiration for creating and examining the various characters for this book.

The murder victim, Elizabeth, is unique in that she had a specific sexual agenda and carefully documented her sexual adventures. What inspirations contributed to this character?
Every good book has a good villain.  Elizabeth is based on a particularly evil woman, and I chose her to be the central figure of the mystery around which the story revolves.

Who was your favorite character to write?
I love them all, the good and the bad.  A novelist spends so much time with his characters, you cannot avoid getting close to them. My favorite, however, was Anthony Walker.  I like all of his contradictions, flaws , and his basic humanity.
 
The Blue Journal, in addition to being a mystery, contains elements of suspense and erotica. Did you want these elements in the story since the beginning of the writing process or was incorporating these elements just something that happened as you wrote?
These elements were always a part of the story, since they are inextricably intertwined with the action, the characters, and the things I wanted to examine as I wrote—and the things I want readers to experience and relate to as they read the novel.

Were there any murder mysteries that influenced your style as you developed as a writer?
I cannot possibly point to any one book or author, since the genre is so rich with talent.  From Poe to Christie to P. D. James, just too many to name. 

Can you share with us what the creative writing process is like for you, from initial idea to finished novel?
Only if you have a year!  Seriously, the ideas for my novels percolate for quite a while until I even decide I am willing to spend the time and effort necessary to develop a particular concept.  Then I move from summary, to outline, to first draft and then rewrite after rewrite after rewrite.  As to process, I prefer to write early in the morning so, if I can put in a good three or four hours, I know I’ll be happy the rest of the day.

How do you feel about the increasing popularity of ebooks?
Anything that gets people to read is a good thing, and the devices certainly make traveling with multiple books a lot easier.  Personally, I like the feel of holding a book, but that’s just me.

Can you tell us anything about the next book in the Detective Anthony Walker series?
Well, both Walker and Randi Conway will be back. And this time, the murders at the center of the book will be particularly sinister.

Is there anything else you'd like potential readers to know about your book?
I promise they will not be able to put it down, and that it will keep them thinking about the characters even after they’re done :)

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Dylan Lee Peters, Author of Everflame

Today we are interviewing Dylan Lee Peters, author of the Fantasy Adventure novel Everflame. 

Describe the plot of Everflame in a few sentences.
The world is old and full of lies,
But also full of truth,
And here between the earth and sky the questions fall to you.
 
Long ago, when the earth was young, four ancient beings created man to be the bastion of the earth and its creatures, but when the Great Tyrant came and chased the Ancients away, the world was transformed into a place of fear and isolation. Over time, humans lost their connection with a world they had been created to protect, they forgot the ways of their ancient creators, and accepted the Tyrant’s lies as truths from the mouth of a god.

Now, deep in the forests that surround Gray Mountain, two bears find a small child that is abandoned and left for dead. The bears name him Evercloud, raise him as a member of their kingdom, and teach the boy of the Ancients, all underneath the light of the Everflame, the flame that burns atop Gray Mountain as a monument to the integrity and spirit of the bears.

As Evercloud grows, rumors reach the bear kingdom of the Ancients’ return, and now the young man must leave his home to find them, and help save the world he holds dear.

Will Evercloud lose himself in the darkness of the Great Tyrant’s lies, or will he have the courage to judge his own heart, the strength to master the darkness, and the faith to follow his purpose until it burns within his heart like the Everflame?

Who do you think would most appreciate Everflame?
Everflame is a series full of action and adventure that is geared toward anyone with an imagination, from teens to seniors.

What inspired you to write a fantasy-adventure novel?
Fantasy adventure has always been a favorite of mine. As a child, I loved watching Jim Henson's Labyrinth and Dark Crystal. As I got older, reading Tolkien, Rowling, Paolini, and others, became a my pastime. However, the inspiration to become a storyteller came from authors like Orwell, Bradbury, and Ayn Rand. I loved the idea of trying to say something meaningful about the world we lived in through the vehicle of an alternate reality.

You’ve stated that you have added undertones of your personal philosophies into the novel. Can you elaborate more on this?
I always want my writing to mean something, and my goal is always to write something that is more than just a story. Because of this, I add a lot of my own personal philosophy and a lot of my personal opinions on life into the pages of my stories. It would be difficult to run through everything I've touched upon in the Everflame Series, but maybe the most central theme to Everflame is the idea of accountability to one's self. Here is an excerpt from the book that I believe explains it best:

“The Everflame is a symbol, Tomas. It has no power. It’s just a reminder of something we all have, our spirit. And it is to this spirit that we are accountable, not to an all-powerful tyrant, not even to ancient creators, simply to ourselves. By making an oath to the Everflame, I am merely making an oath to all that I am. If I break that oath, it is I who suffer the greatest loss, and nothing can change that. All these men who barter with their Holy for forgiveness should ask themselves, first, for this forgiveness. They would not find it so easy to come by. We all have the ability to judge our own hearts, and we should all have the courage to do so.”

Who was your favorite character to write?
I think I need to answer this question in relation to the entire series. Densa, was by far my favorite character to write. He is in each book of the series, but it is not revealed who he is until the end of the second book. It's difficult to relate why he was my favorite, without giving away spoilers, but I can say this: Densa is personal to me. His development through the Everflame series is a metaphor for my development through life. Many of the lessons he learns are lessons I once learned, and through writing the character of Densa, I learned truths about myself.

How do you feel about the increasing popularity of ebooks?
I think the world of ebooks is wonderful. From an author's perspective, I now have a voice in a world where, previously, only large publishing houses controlled what was available to readers. This does increase the likelihood for a reader to come across material that is not up to industry standards, but this can be viewed negatively and positively. Wouldn't someone like to see a young Michael Jordan develop his basketball skills? Wouldn't someone be interesting in watching a young John Lennon learn to play guitar? The reader now has a view into a world that was never open to them before, and they also have a greater power to affect change in the life of a new author.  I choose to see that as a great thing. 

What are your goals as a writer for the next ten years?
My goal is just to be able to continue writing for an audience of readers, however large or small it may be. I feel I have a lot of stories to tell, and I know I'm lucky to have readers that enjoy them.

Is there any aspect of writing you don't like?
I’ve found that many other writers feel this way, and I can’t argue. Writing a synopsis of your novel is, by far, the most tedious, difficult, and frustrating aspect of writing. One would think that writing an 80,000 word novel would be the most difficult aspect, but really, taking 80,000 words and trying to shrink it into three paragraphs is daunting and maddening. You spend a lot of time adding texture, nuance and emotion to your writing. When you have to strip all that away, yet still try to make your book sound interesting… I’m definitely not a fan of writing a synopsis.

Have you ever had writer's block? If yes, how'd you deal with it? If you have not had writer's block, why do you think you haven't?
I’ve been lucky, in that I don’t suffer writer’s block very often. Usually my issue is not having enough time to do all the writing I want to do. However, on those occasions when I am stuck, I change location. It usually works for me. In my opinion, the best way to fix writers block is to create change, do something different, see something different, hear something different. Writer’s block comes from focusing on the wrong thing – so force yourself to unfocus.

Do you write with a computer, typewriter, or pen and paper? Why do you use this tool?
I write on a laptop, and I’m not really sure it’s a preference, as much as it’s simple laziness. I don’t want to have to write something out, just to have to type it all over again.

What do you have in mind for your next project?
The project I am currently working on is called The Dean Machine, and I hope to release it before the end of the year. My inspiration for the novel came from a rescue dog I adopted who was named Dean. Here's the blurb:

Dan Delacor was a normal citizen of Yellow City. He put on his yellow shoes, and yellow tie, and took the Tunnel Runner from the suburbs into downtown, every day. He had a job, lived with his loving, yellow-haired girlfriend, and never wondered what waited beyond the great glass wall that surrounded Yellow City.

Sure, he wondered why people at his work annoyed him so much, he wondered why everything in Yellow City had to be yellow, he wondered why he suffered constant anxiety attacks, and he wondered why he couldn’t help himself from strolling through dangerous neighborhoods, or running wildly through the wheat fields that separated downtown from the suburbs. Mostly though, Dan Delacor wondered how he had lost most of his right arm, and he wondered why he couldn’t remember anything before five years ago.

So, when Dan’s mysterious yellow world is interrupted with the seemingly impossible presence of a little, red dog, the man can’t help but wonder why. Unfortunately for Dan, what he finds leaves him running for his life, doubting everything he knows, and wondering what side of the glass wall he is really on.

Is there anything else you'd like potential readers to know about your book?
The entire Everflame Series is available in print and ebook. Four books compete the series. Check out www.dylanleepeters.com to find out about each book.

An excerpt from Everflame,  Chapter 5:

“Then we shall begin,” said Whiteclaw. “Once, there was nothing. Or at least that is the word that we use to describe what there was. You see, Evercloud, at one time, our world was made up of things that we have no words for and no images for, things our minds cannot conceive of. So we say that once, long ago, there was nothing, and we imagine it as infinite blackness. 

“All we have as a clue to our origin are the teachings of the elder bears. Though even they do not know of true origins. The first things they have told us of were the Ancients. The Ancients were strange creatures. Not at all like the creatures of today’s world, but at the same time, very much like many of the creatures we know. There were four of them and they controlled the elements of our world. 

“There was the mermaid, Chera, who controlled the water. There was Bahknar the dragon, who controlled the element of fire. Tenturo the griffin, who had the head and wings of an eagle, but the body of a lion. He controlled the air. Finally, there was Densa. Densa was a gigantic beast, who most closely resembled a gorilla, and he controlled the element of earth. 

“Each of these Ancients created many creatures to populate the earth. It is believed that it was Densa who created the Kingdom of Bears. Man, however, was another story. The Ancients wished to create a creature that embodied a bit of them all. So they gathered together and drew upon all of their strength. Densa created the form and Chera added to it water. Bahknar used fire to give it warmth and then Tenturo breathed into it air. This was the way in which they created man. Man was to be the connection between all creatures. Man was to be the balance. The Ancients also gave unto man some of the powers of the elements. They gave man slight control of wind, water, earth and fire, so that man could help the world flourish. The Ancients had created a utopia and man was their bastion of peace. The earth saw ages of prosperity for itself and all creatures. 

“But then the Great Tyrant came and destroyed the utopia of the Ancients. It is said that the Great Tyrant possessed a power that the Ancients did not. It is said that he could summon the lightning from the sky. The Ancients were powerless against him. The Great Tyrant hunted the Ancients, hell-bent on destroying them. Given little choice, the Ancients fled from the earth, never to return. 

“The Great Tyrant took control of the creatures of the earth, driving them apart. Mankind became his slave and he forbade them from controlling the elements, under the penalty of death. The Great Tyrant had cast an ominous cloud over the earth and ruled it for many ages. After a time, mankind forgot its powers. It was not long before the entire world had forgotten what it once was. It was now a world afraid, amid the storm of the Great Tyrant."

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Sahar Sabati, Author of Spirit Within Club

Today we are interviewing Sahar Sabati, author of the middle grade / young adult book Spirit Within Club.
 
Describe the plot of your new book in a few sentences. 
The second volume in the Spirit Within Club series continues where the first one left off; the characters are still trying to figure out how to make the world a better place.  But they are a year older; emotions are becoming weightier, responsibilities are slowly increasing, and injustices strike closer to the heart.

What made you decide to write a book about finding the “spirit within” when faced with obstacles?
Drama seems to be the primary plot booster nowadays, be it in books, music, movies, or television shows.  It gives the impression that the world is fuelled by drama when really, it isn’t.  Similarly, a lot of attention is given to negative news; why is there so much about the bad choices that preteens and teenagers make and not more on the ones making the difficult, good choices?  And, finally, there is a focus on the world being saved by a Messiah-like figure armed with superpowers—from Harry Potter to Superman.  But the world is fuelled by the daily, often menial but still vital actions of the billions of regular people that live on this planet; if anyone is going to save us, it is those of us who tap into the spirit within.

Who do you think would most appreciate this book?
Anyone who looks at the state of the world and feels helpless, whatever their age may be, will end up cheering for the characters in this series as they struggle to learn how to make a positive mark.  I also hope that it will inspire them to continue giving it their all.

Who was your favorite character to write?
Two of the characters are loosely based on my sisters; they were by far the most fun to write!

What is your favorite book and why?
I do not have an overall favorite book; I have a favorite “book of the moment” which currently is Jennifer Niven’s "All the Bright Places."  If you haven’t read it, you should.  It’s beautiful, inspiring, and will raise your awareness about a very real challenge we are facing: depression and suicide.

What genre do you read most frequently?
I tend to read a lot of non-fiction books based on whatever topic has piqued my curiosity.  I also love Young Adult and Women’s Fiction, and also regularly pick up books from the Mystery, Literature, and Sci-Fi shelves of the library.

How do you think you've evolved as a writer since when you first started?
I started writing when I was ten years-old; I had no idea what life was about and consequently, all my stories had massive plot holes in them!  I would like to think I have become better at tightening those.

How do you feel about the increasing popularity of e-books?
Electronic books are wonderful!  While paper books remain my preferred option, e-books make reading more accessible on so many levels.  Anyone around the world with a smartphone can download an app and start reading, enlightening the thirsty minds of people around the world who would otherwise have no access to books.  It is also a lot easier to carry around a couple of books at the same time without hurting one’s shoulder!

What are your goals as a writer for the next ten years?
I would like to finish the seven volumes of the Spirit Within Club series; I would like to see it continue being used in Brazil as part of an empowerment programme, as well as spread to other countries in the world.  I also am going to write a couple of young adult books (one is already in the works!) as well as some women’s fiction books (again, one is already in the works!)  I hope that with every new book that I complete, my writing will have become significantly better and an increasing number of readers will be inspired.

Is there anything else you'd like potential readers to know about your book?
The first volume in the Spirit Within Club series is currently being used by a non-governmental organization in its empowerment programme for preteens between the ages of 12 and 15.  It is a dream come true: to be able to contribute to the betterment of society through writing so directly!

Thank you for the opportunity to be interviewed for Writers' Interviews; I love hearing from readers, so if you pick up Spirit Within Club, please drop me a line on my Facebook page!

An excerpt from Spirit Within Club:

`Zafirah?’ 

She shook her head. 

`I’m very dizzy,’ she whispered. 

`I’ll take her to the infirmary,’ said the teacher, picking Zafirah up. `You all stay put until I come back, you hear? I want the two heads of class to make sure no one misbehaves.’
Silence fell until the teacher had disappeared into the school. 

`Poor Zafirah,’ said Laura in a mocking voice. `If she didn’t have to wear that ridiculous getup . . .’ 

I don’t like Laura. She isn’t the nicest person around. She and her group are some of the people who tease Zafirah constantly. 

`Stop it,’ I snapped at her. 

`And why would I?’ Laura said. 

`Because you shouldn’t talk like that about someone who is so devoted to her faith,’ Egan said in a calm, soothing voice. `You should do your best to help her.’ 

`Why?’ Laura said, looking disgusted by the suggestion. `I’m not Muslim. I’m Christian. I don’t wear head scarves. I don’t think that it’s part of worshiping God. Mom says it’s a form of repression that keeps women from achieving equality with men. I don’t have to support it.’ 

`No, you don’t,’ agreed Egan. `But although we are all different and worship God in our own way, the spirit within is the same. That’s why you should be supportive of Zafirah because she is worshiping the same God as you, but in her own way.’ 

Arwen gasped. 

`What?’ I asked, worried. 

`That’s it,’ he said. `That’s the perfect name!’ 

`What name?’ I repeated. I really didn’t know what he was talking about. 

`The perfect name for our club,’ Arwen said. `The Spirit Within!’

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M. Anu Narasimhan, Author of The Little Parrot and the Angel's Tears

Today we are interviewing M. Anu Narasimhan about the picture book The Little Parrot and the Angel's Tears.
  
Tell us a bit about yourself.
I was born in India, raised in the Netherlands, and came here for my undergraduate studies. My mother used to think I was mad (verbatim) because I would just sit for hours and make up stories and then draw them in the air because I didn’t have paper handy. I’ve been writing and illustrating books ever since I can remember. However, this is the first time I’m actually allowing anyone else look and read my creations.

Describe the plot of your new book in a few sentences.
The little parrot is very small. He’s smaller than his friend the elephant. He’s smaller than his friend the deer. He’s even smaller than his friend the rabbit. But when his friends and home are in danger, the little parrot decides he has to do something to help. Find out if the little parrot can save them from a big problem.

What inspired you to write The Little Parrot and the Angel’s Tears?
There are so few books that deal with everyday South Asian narratives and it is those stories that colour our everyday lives that I wanted to pass along to my children. I started out illustrating the stories so I would have a visual aid to tell my kids and that let to me writing The Little Parrot and The Angel’s Tears.

What was your approach to illustrating this story?
I wanted to use bright colours and draw upon Indian art as my inspiration. For example, I based the flames on the Indian mango motif which is a pattern used often not only in art, but in block prints and relief sculptures.

Were you a writer or illustrator first? Or did both talents evolve at the same time?
A bit of both, really. All my life I’ve been drawing or writing something. Sometimes an idea inspires me to write something and then make the illustrations accordingly, and other times I really want to paint something and then I create a story around it.

Who do you think would most appreciate this book?
I’m hoping everyone will appreciate the book. While the story is South Asian, the underlying concept has a lot of heart and is something everyone can take inspiration from or feel kinship with.

Who was your favorite character to illustrate?
That’s a tough one, but I loved the elephant. It was much easier to show emotions on the elephant by using body language and facial expression than on the other animals. Additionally, I loved painting the banana trees. We had banana trees and mango trees in our yard when I lived in India and painting them always makes me smile.

What do you have in mind for your next project?
It’s a picture book, again, but this time with fewer words. It’s about how I used to play in the rain with my friends when I was a small girl. My kids love hearing about what I used to do when I was little and I decided to turn this one into a book as well. I’m about halfway done with the illustrations.

Is there anything else you'd like potential readers to know about your book?
Just that I hope they love the story of The Little Parrot and The Angel’s Tears as much as I do. It’s a story that stayed with me always, and helped me always keep faith in myself. I hope it does the same for them.
 
An excerpt from The Little Parrot and the Angel's Tears:

The Devtas couldn’t help but laugh at such a sight

It seemed to them that the parrot wasn’t very bright.

All but one Devta that is,

who couldn’t help but notice,

That the parrot tried keep his friends safe and sound

Regardless of his size or the dangers that abound.

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Aaron Majewski, Co-Author of Bedmonsters Are Cool

Today we are interviewing Aaron Majewski, co-author of the young adult fantasy book Bedmonsters Are Cool.
 
Tell us a bit about yourself.
Well, I am the author of several self-published novels mostly of the humor or 'monster' variety; as well as screenplays, stageplays and short stories. I am from Winnipeg Manitoba, and I have a mild dislike of (otherwise known as hate) the ice and snow, so that um, well I get by somehow during the winters!

Describe the plot of your new book in a few sentences.
Basically a young lady rips a hole in time in space, unleashing her very own personal bedmonster on herself and her friends. Then she must come to terms with her heritage of witchcraft while working out how to stuff him back through that tear and close it up... all while definitely not falling in love with her best friend.

You know, classic coming of age stuff.

What made you decide to write a Young Adult fantasy novel?
I enjoy the genera, it gives me as an author the opportunity to explore ideas and situations which would only merit a passing mention in more 'mature' settings, and really is just fun to write.

Who do you think would most appreciate this book?
Anyone who likes their fantasy with a dash (or three) or humor, from teens to adults it has a little something for everyone.

What was it like writing with your co-author, Lorain O’Neil?
Lorain is a joy to work with, I think we complement each others strengths as writers (she loves to edit…as in slash and burn entire pages, and I hate editing)

She also pushes me to be a better writer; more in depth characterization, more on the nose dialog without being too ham fisted about it, just better polished work all around.

Who was your favorite character to write?
Oh Bedmonster, he or it as it were, was the perfect foil to the ‘strightman’ of Becca’s love interest.

What do you have in mind for your next project?
Lorain and I are working on a new fantasy novel, Terabithia, about a young woman's quest to find a mystical key which will put aright what has gone awry after the worlds of Fey and Humans collide.

Is there anything else you'd like potential readers to know about your book?
This book will absolutely positively without a doubt change your life in every single way!

Ok I am just kidding, sorry, but honestly it is just a good fun read. Sit down and spend the weekend with bedmonster’s antics, you will start your Monday with a smile on your face (and if not I don’t do refunds)

A Short Excerpt from Bedmonsters Are Cool, Chapter One:

He was hungry. He was very hungry. He was so HUNGRY.

The gnawing in his hunger-arm was a physical pain and had been for some time, he could no longer remember the last time he’d had a good meal, let alone been full.

The hunger drove him onward, made it impossible to be still. Loud rumbles from his eating-hands filled the air as he padded through the darkness of the Dust Bunny Caverns. The air was heavy and still and reeked of unwashed socks, moldy breadcrumbs (which his sub-species couldn’t digest), decomposing homework, and the acidic taint of Atomic Jazz.

Around him his sound-gathering arms detected the rustles of others of his kind, while his vibration-hairs detected the soft currents of the subworld’s power grid, the magical energy that filled his world and made the impossible probable. His seeing-hands could see nothing now though, because he was too hungry to manipulate light. Relentlessly he pushed on through the darkness on his walking-arms, searching, searching for anything that might sustain him for just a little longer.

His skin-shedder no longer believed in him or anything else that might come through a Door; he’d been unable to gather sustenance in that way for a very long time now and he was

reduced to trolling through the dregs of what drifted through Doors opened by others.

As he prowled through the caverns, BedMonster 1137465893 left his own kind behind, far behind, and moved into the unknown in his quest for food. This was a danger, for who knew what lurked within the darkness of the underworld? Who knew what prowled and stalked and waited for prey? But his kind were hunters, snatchers, and he knew no fear, being the greatest of his kind… okay, so no one else might have thought he was the greatest, but heck, what did they know?

BedMonster’s smelling-hands caught a whiff of something different, something that smelled like fear, and he was instantly alert. His prowling turned almost into a gallop as he climbed the cavern wall, running towards a small dark opening high above he wasn’t sure he was really even seeing. Reaching it, he entered into a low tunnel on his stalking-hands and began probing ahead with his snatching-arms outstretched, his long-corded muscles rippling, attesting to the power of his grip, the expert finality of his snatch.

He’d found something like a Gate into the Real, yet it was different. Too hungry to make his own light yet, he nevertheless saw ahead of him a golden glow emanating from a Gate-like disturbance of air. Gates did not normally glow... perhaps he should be worried about that he thought suspiciously.

Too late.

As he approached the Gate-thing, the golden glow suddenly turned dark red, a color that cried danger and the swirling pattern of disturbance became faster, faster, while the fear scent turned to one of triumph!

And then the light turned green.

*****

She’d friggin’ found it! Becca had exactly six and a half minutes left to get dressed, pack her book bag, get to the bus stop, but she’d found it. No way was she going to high school without her cell.

“Get your ass moving!” her father bellowed from downstairs.

Make-up had to be forgotten (damn), clothes (had she worn these yesterday?) thrown on in abandon, algebra book dispensed with (she’d share Carlie’s who’d hate that but toughola) and she flew. Passing her father pulling out of the driveway to take Normie to daycare and himself to work, she raced toward the bus stop.

She missed it.

Shoot, shoot, shoot, she fumed. Rebecca Ann Westin you are such an idiot! What do I do now?

She walked slowly back to the empty house, defeated, entering its silence, weighing alternatives. She could call her Dad (No!) or she could... just stay home? Who would know? That mattered? She caught a glance of herself in the hall mirror and thought no one’ll probably even notice.

She was not pretty she knew, too tall, too gangly, with way too curly boring brown hair that refused to do anything sensible. One consolation, she had gotten rid of those godawful braces last year. Her teeth were white and straight now and she was going to make darn sure they stayed that way. (She loved her dentist. She hated her dentist.) Good teeth or not though, even with her mother’s assurances that her blue eyes were striking (even when she wore her glasses) and she was going to be beautiful, it hadn’t happened in sixteen years and she had her doubts.

I can just spend the day at home she moped in resignation. Alone.

And then Becca heard a noise upstairs.

*****

This is stupid, this is STOO-PID, she chanted through gritted teeth as she pushed open her bedroom door. The room was a mess of course (she being a teenager, Mom being away, and Dad being, well, Dad) and anything could be hiding anywhere. She gripped her mother’s old golf club and slowly entered the room.

A soft rustling and quiet thumping came from under the bed, its unmade sheets dangling onto the floor obscuring her view underneath.

Oh crap, she cringed, some rabid, chittering, gibbering (or worse, salivating) thing is gonna shoot right outta there and go straight for my ankles. I should call someone, but... I’m skipping school, they’re not exactly gonna be sympathetic.

From as far away as she could manage, Becca thrust out the club and gingerly lifted the fabric.

Okay, breathe now... get down on one knee and just look.

Nothing was there unless you counted massive dust bunnies and small mounds of discarded pantyhose... oh, so that’s where those went.

And then... at the very back, against the wall, something stirred. A hiss, something uncoiling in the shadows.

“DON’T KILL ME!” Becca shrieked. The hiss and the movement ceased abruptly, leaving her unsure whether she had actually even heard them in the first place.

Then something moved, maybe even... glittered?

There’s definitely something there, she decided grimly, it’s suspended off the floor and it’s swaying in the breeze from the air vent. And you know there’s only one way you’re gonna find out what that something is. I am so dead, I am so dead, I am... stop that, you are a big girl.

Carefully, slowly, Becca slid the golf club toward the glimmering darkness. The club met a soft resistance.

GIANT FREAKIN’ COBWEBS! FROM GIANT FREAKIN’ SPIDERS!

Don’t be a moron.

Becca started swishing the club back and forth and found herself getting angry.

Oh show yourself you—

Instantaneously a sparkle of soft golden light appeared and whirled around Becca’s golf club. A sinewy arm shot out of the faintly glittering light, sporting a purplish-gray six-fingered hand that clamped down on the club and pulled. Becca screamed so loudly that her vocal cords nearly ripped, and as she was yanked under the bed the thought that ricocheted through her horror-struck brain was I’m gonna die FOR CUTTING SCHOOL?

Another followed dimly on its heels: Does this mean I can skip the lecture for not making my bed?

*****

The light enwrapped him, melding against his body like a coating of paint, which was not normal for any usual Gate, certainly nothing like a Door. It seeped along his hair coating his hands, his arms, grasping him firmly, carrying him along. BedMonster sensed fear, knew he approached prey, but that prey seemed oddly angered and confused as well. He couldn’t process what was happening to him. A vague shape appeared in the distance and BedMonster 1137465893 reached out to it, heard a scream, a scream that vibrated throughout the small world that was his Gate-like encompassment. He grasped that dark shape and pulled, felt it drag against the palm of one of his snatching-hands trying to get away, trying to leave him behind. He knew that would lead to his dissolution so immediately he twisted, slowly birthing into a small dark space.

The scream echoed around him and he reached out with all his senses, contacting the prey, bounding towards it eagerly. He was under a bed, his natural striking place, and he knew exactly what to do. He careened into the human, hands snaking around and grasping firmly, finding all those places he liked to strike, and scooped up great globules of his sustenance as the prey screamed and struggled beneath him. He had not fed this well in years.

But something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

It was Day, in the Real.

Bedmonsters didn’t do Day.

BedMonster whimpered and fled.

*****

The overlarge hand seemed vaguely gorilla-like, gray-tinged, with purple embedded deeply in the tissue, and six large fingers almost human but for their immense size and strength. The hand clamped onto the golf club and pulled. Becca’s head and shoulders were yanked under the bed as she screamed.

HELL NO I AM NOT GOING UNDER THERE NO WAY! Slamming back on the club with all her might, Becca experienced a weird tingle surge down the back of her spine, across her shoulders and into her arms. The sensation streamed across her hands leaving a faint trace of heat and a metallic taste in the back of her throat. Something seemed to undulate down her arm, jump to the golf club, travel its shaft and flow into the golden light under the bed. The light changed to green, an emerald color like deep ocean, not a safe, soft green, but a dark, scary green, and a part of Becca’s mind whispered green means go, green means open.

Pulling hard, Becca struggled backwards and managed to rock herself back onto her haunches. Without warning the golf club was released and Becca found herself launched, flying across the bedroom landing on her rump, hearing the ominous crunch of her cell phone in her jeans pocket. And then the thing was upon her.

It was a ravenous beast, all hands, hot moist breath, powerful arms, and fur, fur everywhere as it pressed itself against her. Atop her. Pressing her down beneath its weight. It was rummaging she realized in stark petrified terror, it was looking for that perfect place to grip and tear.

And then it was gone.

The beast retreated with a soft cry, leaving Becca disheveled, trembling, but (to her bleak amazement) intact. Under the bed something moved and the light faded. Whatever had pounced on her was huddled under the foot of her bed trembling and whimpering. Becca squatted and edged nearer to gawp at the creature.

The thing under Rebecca Ann Westin’s bed was clearly some kind of animal; it had too many limbs (at least eight she could see) and was furred, about the size of a large dog. For one ridiculous moment Becca thought of her father’s Australian Terrier, Melvin, but this is no dog. The beast had orange-brown fur, oversized six-fingered hands ending in blunt fingernails something like a man’s but much bigger, and most certainly much stronger. Becca was sure the creature could have torn her to pieces if something hadn’t caused its hasty retreat back under the bed.

Becca stared directly at the monster’s eyes –it had two– both perfectly round, each rimmed in gold, but with centers the exact same blue as her own set into the palms of two hands!

BedMonster stared right back.

“What are you?” Becca croaked.

“What are you?” came the sneering response. Its voice was small, afraid, somewhat human, but decidedly not.

“You talk!” As the thing had no head, no clear front or back, this astonished Becca.

“Of course I talk! I’m a bedmonster! Now what are you?” it sniffled, its bravado seemed to be wavering, as if it were in pain.

“Bedmonster? As in nightmare-under-the-bed? But those are fairy stories, ghosts and goblins!”

“Bedmonsters are nothing like fairies, and certainly not like any smelly old goblin, and there are no such things as ghosts. Bedmonsters are the great hunters, the stealthy snatchers, we go where others fear to tread!”

Becca wanted to point out that the bedmonster was currently cowering and whimpering under her bed but that seemed somewhat impolite so she said instead, “You speak English.”

“And modern Greek, some provincial backwoods French, and Latin. Fluently. What’s your point?”

Now the thing was petulant.

“But what are you? I’m sorry, but I still don’t know what a bedmonster really is.”

“A bedmonster obviously is the thing you fear in the dark, the thing that creeps under your bed at night, so when you feel that silent shift of air and know there is a malevolence beneath you, you lie still and quiver and hope that my kind do not come for you.”

It sounded like it was quoting something, or someone, else. “Now again, what are you?” the beast demanded.

“I’m... a girl. My name’s Becca.”

The light about BedMonster seemed to flicker just for a moment, almost in excitement, when Becca said her name.

“Yessss,” it hissed. “You are. Well you are a nasty girl, a naughty girl, fearing me under your bed in Day, opening some weird-assed Gateish thing, drawing me here. Don’t you know bedmonsters shrivel up and die in sunlight?” The bedmonster now sounded aggrieved, and blinked its watery blue eyes once.

“Me? I didn’t bring you here.” It was then that Becca noticed BedMonster was slowly creeping toward her, staying well away from the slant of sunlight streaming in from her mullioned window. “What do you eat?” she demanded suspiciously.

“Human flesh. Specifically, when I can get it, yours.”

“ME?!!”

“Not you, the stuff that sloughs off you. Bedmonsters exist in an asymptomatic-symbiotic relationship with people.”

A whatsit now?

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” a voice demanded from behind Becca who jumped up so fast she actually whirled in midair.

“Aunt Andrea!”

“What were you doing down there?”

Becca was speechless, her eyes darted back to the bed but its sheets were once again dangling onto the floor.

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