Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Wednesday's Special Is...Road Trip of the Living Dead!


ROAD TRIP OF THE LIVING DEAD by Mark Henry

Order on Amazon

Visit Mark's Website


Thanks to her friend Gil’s latest money-grabbing scheme gone wrong, Amanda Feral is now zombie non grata at all of Seattle’s hottest events–pure hell for a fashionable undead socialite like herself.

The answer: a road trip with Amanda’s best ghoulfriend Wendy and the clueless Gil, which will allow his enemies time to cool down and give Amanda a chance to visit her dying mother, a woman who’s never been in touch with her maternal instincts.

Along the way they’ll confront unfriendly ghosts, a kraken, and a superhot werewolf, plus assorted murderous fiends. And it’ll take more than biting wit and a flair for accessorizing for Amanda to get herself and her friends out of this one (semi) alive.



Excerpt:

Gil brought lawn chairs to the cemetery—not stylish Adirondacks, not even semi-comfortable camp chairs (the one’s with those handy little cup holders). No. He dug up some cheap plastic folding chairs; the kind that burrow into your leg flesh like leeches. He arranged them in a perfect semicircle around a fresh-sodded grave, planted an iBoom stereo in the soft earth, pulled out a bottle of ’07 Rose McGowan, and drained half of it before his ass hit plastic. Granted, he managed these mundane tasks in a pricey Gucci tuxedo, the tie loosed and dangling. On any other day, this would have been his sexy vamp look, but tonight…not so much. His eyelids sagged. His shoulders drooped. He looked exhausted.

I, on the other hand, looked stunning.

One of those movie moons, fat and bloated as a late-night salt binge, striped the graveyard with tree branch shadows, and spot-lit your favorite zombie heroine reclining starlet-like on the polished marble of the new tombstone—there was no way I was subjecting vintage Galliano to the inquisition of plastic lawn chairs; the creases would be unmanageable.

Wendy didn’t take issue with the cheap and potentially damaging seating. She wore a tight pink cashmere cardigan over a high-waisted chestnut skirt that hit her well above the knee. She crossed her legs and popped her ankle like a 1950’s housewife, each swivel bringing attention to her gorgeous peek-toe stilettos—certainly not the most practical shoe for late-night graveyard roaming, but who am I to judge?

The dearly departed were our only other company; about twenty or so ghosts circled the grave—in a rainbow of moody colors and sizes. A little boy spirit, dressed in his Sunday best and an aqua green aura, raced by, leaving a trail of crackling green sparks; the other, older specters muttered to each other, snickered and pointed. Popular opinion aside, zombies do not typically hang out in graveyards—ask the ghosts. We don’t crawl out of the ground all rotty and tongue-tied, either. We’re created through bite or breath, Wendy and I from the latter. So you won’t see us shambling around like a couple of morons, unless there’s a shoe sale at Barney’s.

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Answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of ROAD TRIP OF THE LIVING DEAD:

Describe the hottest date you ever had with a zombie.

Stop by to chat, have a cup of coffee or tea, and talk the latest undead gossip!

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Tuesday's Special Is...Red-Headed Stepchild!


RED-HEADED STEPCHILD by Jaye Wells

Pre-order from Amazon

Visit Jaye's blog


In a world where being of mixed-blood is a major liability, Sabina Kane has the only profession fit for an outcast: assassin. But, her latest mission threatens the fragile peace between the vampire and mage races and Sabina must scramble to figure out which side she's on. She's never brought her work home with her---until now.

This time, it's personal.



EXCERPT FROM RED-HEADED STEPCHILD:

"Sabina Kane." His voice had this odd echo effect, as if it came from another dimension. A reptilian smile hovered on his black lips. This wasn't a social call. I crouched low, ready for battle. I'd never fought a demon, but damned if I was going to stand there like some scared woman waiting for whatever he planned.

"Get out."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," he said—at least I think it was a he. The black leather codpiece kind of hinted in that direction. A wooden stake appeared in his claw, the tip whittled down to a single spear-like point.

That didn't bode well. "Who sent you?" I slowly stepped to the right, trying to find a way to the exit. The demon's eyes tracked me.

He didn't answer, just moved a couple of steps forward. I held my ground, but tightened my grip on the gun. I didn't know if the apple bullets worked on demons, but they might slow it down. I glanced at the stake. The demon would have to get in close range to use it, whereas I had the gun. I pulled back the slide and squeezed the trigger twice.

The bullets ripped through the demon's chest. He blinked and looked down at the two rapidly healing holes. "That wasn't very nice." The stake disappeared and a crossbow took its place.

Panic froze me to the floor. My brain screamed at me to move, move, move. Instead, I watched the demon lift the crossbow as if in slow motion. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The arrow flew through the air so fast I barely saw it before it slammed into my chest. My body flew back as the arrow went through my body and speared me to the wall. I registered the impact on some level, but my mind was too busy dealing with the fact I was about to die. Any second my body would burst into flames and I'd be gone. Poof. Nothing left but a pile of ash.

Hot tears rolled down my cheeks as I closed my eyes and waited. There was no pain. Just shock and a dull sense of inevitability.

"Why haven't you exploded yet?" The demon was closer now, only a few feet away. I opened one eye to look at the arrow. Blood bloomed from the site of impact, just over my left breast.

"I—I don't know." Holding myself up became difficult as the seconds passed.
"Hmm. I wonder if I should stake you just to be sure."

"I'd really prefer it if you didn't," I said. "I'm sure I'll ignite any second."

I focused on the pain, which had just started to register. It didn't feel like I was about to combust though. It felt more like a freaking arrow had ripped through layers of muscle. Not the best feeling in the world, but I had to imagine it paled in comparison to having my immortal soul sucked from my body in a fiery death.

The demon came forward without warning and jerked the arrow from my body. The damned thing had lodged itself so deep it took a couple of good pulls to get it loose. I grunted against the pain and cold sweat broke out on my forehead. The tip of the arrow finally came free with a disgusting sucking noise. I collapsed to the floor and curled up into the fetal position in the puddle of spilled beer.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the demon hold the arrow up to the light. It lifted the tip to its mouth and his forked tongue darted out to taste the blood. My blood.
I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut. At that point, I almost hoped he'd stake me. No words exist to describe the pain.

"Well, I guess that's that." The demon's hooves click-clacked against the hardwoods as he walked to me. I felt him hovering close. "You okay?"

My eyes snapped open. Already, my heightened healing powers were making quick work of the wounds. "Am I okay?" I barked. "You just shot me through the heart with an arrow!"

"Hey, it's nothing personal."

******************************

Answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of RED-HEADED STEPCHILD:

If Cupid's arrow through the heart makes you fall in love, what would a demon's arrow through the heart make you do? Extra points if it gets you arrested.

Please drop in and say hi, and hang a while with Jaye! She's an uber cool person and makes strong drinks.

Monday, March 2, 2009

First Ever Literary Festival in the Middle East


Hi Everyone,


I thought this week I would put together a post about the first ever literary festival in the Middle East. Since I'm witness to it, it's quite a fun bit of history to be living! It's in Dubai, and underwritten by Emirates Airlines.

(Ms. Spitfire will return next Monday with juicy tidbits from her side of publishing!)



Here's a blurb:


The inaugural Emirates Airline International Festival of Literature will take place between 26th February and 1st March 2009 and will be launched at the London Book Fair. The festival will be directed by Isobel Abulhoul, director of Magrudy’s, the region’s leading chain of bookshops, and Bill Samuel, vice chairman of Foyles.


For schedule/author information about festival, click here.


A sampling of authors:




Anthony Horowitz's life might have been copied from the pages of Charles Dickens or the Brothers Grimm. Born in 1956 in Stanmore, Middlesex, to a family of wealth and status, Anthony was raised by nannies, surrounded by servants and chauffeurs. His father, a wealthy businessman, was, says Mr. Horowitz, "a fixer for Harold Wilson." What that means exactly is unclear — "My father was a very secretive man," he says— so an aura of suspicion and mystery surrounds both the word and the man. As unlikely as it might seem, Anthony's father, threatened with bankruptcy, withdrew all of his money from Swiss bank accounts in Zurich and deposited it in another account under a false name and then promptly died. His mother searched unsuccessfully for years in attempt to find the money, but it was never found. That too shaped Anthony's view of things. Today he says, "I think the only thing to do with money is spend it."


His mother, whom he adored, eccentrically gave him a human skull for his 13th birthday. His grandmother, another Dickensian character, was mean-spirited and malevolent, a destructive force in his life. She was, he says, "a truly evil person", his first and worst arch villain. "My sister and I danced on her grave when she died," he now recalls.



So how did an unhappy boy, from a privileged background, metamorphose into the creator of Alex Rider, fourteen-year-old spy for Britain's MI6? Although his childhood permanently damaged him, it also gave him a gift — it provided him with rich source material for his writing career.


Alex Rider is unwillingly recruited at the age of fourteen to spy for the British secret service, MI6. Forced into situations that most average adults would find terrifying and probably fatal, young Alex rarely loses his cool although at times he doubts his own courage.

***********************************************************************



Terry Brooks was born in Illinois in 1944, where he spent a great deal of his childhood and early adulthood dreaming up stories in and around Sinnissippi Park, the very same park that would eventually become the setting for his bestselling Word & Void trilogy. He went to college and received his undergraduate degree from Hamilton College, where he majored in English Literature, and he received his graduate degree from the School of Law at Washington & Lee University.


A writer since high school, he wrote many stories within the genres of science fiction, western, fiction, and non-fiction, until one semester early in his college years he was given The Lord of the Rings to read. That moment changed Terry's life forever, because in Tolkien's great work he found all the elements needed to fully explore his writing combined in one genre.
He then wrote The Sword of Shannara, the seven year grand result retaining sanity while studying at Washington & Lee University and practicing law. It became the first work of fiction ever to appear on the New York Times trade paperback bestseller list, where it remained for over five months.


During the spare time he could afford from his law practice, Terry wrote The Elfstones of Shannara, which followed in 1982 and once again brought the literary world an epic novel of wonder and adventure in the eagerly awaited sequel to The Sword of Shannara. The Wishsong of Shannara, published in 1985, finished the remarkable trilogy.


(I met Terry, who is btw so incredibly fun and approachable and chats with every single person as he signs books, and of course I am trying to get him over here at the Book Roast! We'll see what happens!)

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Qaisra Shahraz was born in Pakistan and brought up in Manchester, England, from the age of nine. She studied English and Classical Civilization at the University of Manchester and went on to gain two Master Degrees at the University of Salford - in English and European Literature and in Scriptwriting for Television and Radio. She is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts and a director of Gatehouse Books, publishing books written by students for Skills for Life classes. She is an advisor for the University of Lancaster for a three-year writing project entitled 'Mediating Marginalities', and has hosted and led many workshops and seminars in creative writing, abroad and in the UK.

As a freelance journalist, she has contributed features and articles to various magazines and newspapers and has also had several short stories published in the UK and abroad, in particular in schools anthologies in Germany. One of her short stories, 'Perchavah', won the Ian St. James Award in 1994. She has also written plays for radio and television, including a screenplay adaptation of her first novel. Her award-winning drama serial Dil Hee To Hai (The Heart Is It) was broadcast on Pakistani Television and on Prime Television in 2003. A second serial, Tauheen (Insult), is in production.

Qaisra Shahraz is the author of two novels, and is working on a third. The first, The Holy Woman (2001), is a powerful love story, introducing the reader to the traditions of a vibrant world of four Muslim countries. It was awarded the title 'Best Book of the Month' by Waterstones. Her second novel is Typhoon (2003), a sequel set in the village of Chiraghpur.

*********************************************************************************



Jung Chang was born in Yibin, Sichuan Province, China, in 1952. She was a Red Guard briefly at the age of fourteen and then worked as a peasant, a "barefoot doctor," a steelworker, and an electrician before becoming an English-language student and, later, an assistant lecturer at Sichuan University. She left China for Britain in 1978 and was subsequently awarded a scholarship by York University, where she obtained a Ph.D. in linguistics in 1982, the first person from the People's Republic of China to receive a doctorate from a British university. Her award-winning book, Wild Swans, was published in 1991. With her husband, Jon Halliday, she is also the author of Mao: The Unknown Story (2005, nonfiction).

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Born: Brighton, Sussex, England

Educated: Charterhouse, then Ravensbourne Film School.

Animals: Bertie, Phoebe, a German Shepherd with a gorgeous temperament, unless you are unfortunate enough to have been born as a rabbit... (see photo at right - with the late Bertie on left) or a burglar, and Oscar, a rescue labrador/border collie cross, who is so chilled out at times we think he secretly does drugs... And our latest addition, Coco.

Mother: The late Cornelia James, Glovemaker to the Queen

Home: In Sussex, formerly a Georgian manor house, near Ditchling, built on the site of Roman ruins, haunted by four ghosts. Now on a historic site between Lewes and Glynde. Was occupied until recently by a whole bunch of ghosts of victims of the Battle of Lewes, but they have now been politely evicted. In Notting Hill, London, an apartment on the site of a former cinema. No spectral screenings yet during the night, but always hoping...


(A best-selling author with too many awards to list. Please drop by his site if you like thrillers. And it looks like he blogs.)

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Lies and Loyalties is the title of my latest novel which was published in paperback in December, 2008. It’s about a family of four brothers and one sister, an MP, a QC, a Catholic priest, a brother who suffers from mental problems and his wife who at the beginning of the novel is resident in Her Majesty’s Prison Holloway. I’ve always been interested in the gap between the haves and have nots, between the comfortable and the disturbed. I may have caught that interest from my father, Lord Longford (see Longford Trust) who spent most of his later life trying to help prisoners. Now I’m involved with my work for Inside Time, the national newspaper for prisoners.

*********************************************************************************


There are many talented authors at the festival, but I picked a random few to illustrate the diversity being represented here.


What's also nice (in my opinion!) is "Education Day" which is discussed below:


Day 4 (Education Day) - 1 March 2009


A unique part of the Emirates Airline International Festival of Literature is Education Day, a first both for Dubai events and for literary festivals.

In line with the vision of His Highness Sheikh Mohammed Bin Rashid Al Maktoum, Ruler of Dubai and Vice-President of the UAE, of the eradication of illiteracy in the Arab World, an integral part of EAIFL is to bring authors into schools and colleges and into direct contact with students of Dubai.

The founders of EAIFL believe that educational success is intrinsically linked to reading, and that literacy is therefore the key to knowledge. In a city such as Dubai, where many different languages and cultures sit side-by-side, reading becomes a vital way of accessing our neighbours’ cultures – and indeed our own.

An Author in Your School
What does this mean to the teachers and lecturers of Dubai?
It means that every author who attends the festival has agreed to visit one institution and speak directly to the students in order to kindle an interest in the vitality of language and literature. We have contacted educational institutions throughout Dubai, and will be making arrangements for an author appropriate to the age groups and language of teaching to speak to your students on a mutually-agreed topic. In return, we are encouraging schools to become involved in the fringe events surrounding the main festival dates on the 26-28th February.
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Ms. Spitfire will return next week. Meanwhile, would love to talk about anything related to literary festivals and not Middle-East politics. :-)

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Wednesday's Special Is...The Blue Cotton Gown!

THE BLUE COTTON GOWN by Patricia Harman




“A flower child who found her calling after coaching a friend through a home birth, nurse-midwife Harman works with her ob-gyn husband at a West Virginia clinic. In her sweetly perceptive memoir, she reveals how her exam room becomes a confessional. Coaxing women in thin blue gowns to share secrets—about abusive boyfriends, OxyContin habits, unplanned pregnancies—she reminds them that they’re not alone.” —People magazine

“Here is an intimate account of a woman, both her career as a midwife and her life as the wife of a doctor in West Virginia. Her patients’ lives are stories of hope and loss; her marriage is a story of love and faith accompanied by debt and tension. Well-written and heartfelt.” —Boston Globe

"As the mother of seven children and veteran of eight pregnancy losses, I knew when I ran my bath that I would be unable to resist Patricia Harman's memoir of midwifery. What I didn't realize was that it would cause me, a sensible person, to get into the bath with one sock still on and rise from it when the candle was gone and the water cold. Utterly true and lyrical as any novel, Harman's book should be a little classic." —Jacquelyn Mitchard, author of The Deep End of the Ocean and Cage of Stars

"A seductive read! Read it to understand the fragile thinness between the care-giver and the cared-for. Patsy Harman does not shy away from her narrative. She does not shy away from controversial topics. She grabs the reader by the literary throat." —Judy Schaefer, editor of The Poetry of Nursing

"A nurse midwife struggling to keep solvent the women's health clinic in Torrington, W.Va., that she ran with her surgeon husband shares poignant stories about her patients over the course of a year …Wearying of the financial pressures and tensions with Tom, Harman tells in this heartfelt memoir that she dreamed of leaving the practice, though a genuine love for helping women, and her great faith both in God and her spouse, sustained her." —Publisher's Weekly






Excerpt from THE BLUE COTTON GOWN
Chapter 1

Confessional

I have insomnia . . . and I drink a little. I might as well tell you. In the
middle of the night, I drink scotch when I can’t sleep. Actually, I
can’t sleep most nights; actually, every night. Even before I stopped
delivering babies, I wanted to write about the women. Now I have
time.

It’s 2:00 a.m., and I pull my white terry bathrobe closer, thinking
about the patients whose stories I hear. There’s something about
the exam room that’s like a confessional. It’s not dim and secret the
way I imagine a confessional is in a Catholic church, the way I’ve
seen them in movies. I peer at the clock. It’s now 2:06.


The exam room where these stories are shared is brightly illuminated
with recessed lighting. The walls are painted off-white and
have a wallpaper border of soft leaves and berries. There are framed
photographs of babies and flowers and trees, pictures I took myself
and hung to make the space seem less clinical, and a bulletin board
with handouts on stress reduction, wellness, and calcium.


The room is not big. It’s the usual size. If I had to guess, I’d say
eight feet by ten feet. The countertop under the tall white cupboard
is hunter green, and there’s a small stainless-steel sink in the corner.
Other than a guest chair, my rolling stool, and a small trash can with
a lid, there’s just the exam table, angled away from the wall, with a
flowered pillow and rose vinyl upholstery. On it lies a folded white
sheet and a blue cotton gown with two strings for a tie. The exam
table dominates everything.


I don’t drink for fun. I don’t even like scotch. It’s for the sleep.
I can’t work if I can’t sleep. The scotch is my sleep medicine and I
want it to taste like medicine. The little jam jar with the black line
at three ounces sits in the bathroom cupboard. My husband fills it
for me, then locks the bottle in the closet. I ask him to do that.
When you have as many alcoholics in your family as I do, you don’t
take chances. On nights when I’m restless, I drink it down sip by sip,
making a bad face after each swallow. Then in an hour, I go back to
bed.


I stand now at the window listening to the song of the spring
frogs and thinking of the stories the women tell me, and then, in the
stillest part of the deep night, I sit down to write. I need to sleep
. . . but I need to tell the stories. The stories need to be told because
they are from the hearts of women; the tender, angry hearts; the
broken, beautiful hearts of women.
The Blue Cotton Gown by Patricia Harman
Copyright © 2008 by Patricia Harman
Reprinted by permission of Beacon Press, Boston
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Answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of THE BLUE COTTON GOWN. Or stop by and let's hear your confesssions...
:-) Seriously, please drop in and say hi, and feel welcome to ask questions! Patricia has a great listening ear!! Let's open the floor for discussion related to this topic.
Patricia mentions a drink as a sleep aid. What kind of drink would she recommend to writers to help them write better?

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Tuesday's Special is... The Adventurous Deeds of Deadwood Jones

The Adventurous Deeds of Deadwood Jones by Helen Hemphill

When Prometheus Jones wins a horse with a raffle ticket he got from Pernie Boyd and LaRue Dill, he knows things won’t go smoothly. No way are those two rednecks going to let a black man, even a freeman from the day of his birth, keep that horse. So as soon as things get ugly, he jumps on the horse, pulls his cousin Omer up behind him, and heads off. They hook up with a cattle drive out of Texas heading for Deadwood, South Dakota. Prometheus is a fine hand with a horse and not so bad with a gun, and both skills prove useful as the trip north throws every twist and turn imaginable at the young cowpokes. School Library Journal writes, “Hemphill’s convincing vernacular narration and well-researched, hard-bitten details of life in the South and on the western range give this adventure story surprising depth.”

Buy from Amazon




Excerpt from The Adventurous Deeds of Deadwood Jones

We ain’t paying you any money,” LaRue says. “Didn’t you hear me, slave boy?”

I ain’t their slave boy. I ain’t never been their slave boy. I was born on the day Mr. Lincoln made his Proclamation, and I’ve been free since my first breath. Mr. Lincoln done won that war, and Colonel Dill done lost half his land and most all his gold money. But that don’t matter to me. The Dill boys still owe me four bits.

"He speaking for you?" I say over to Pernie Boyd.

Pernie Boyd looks up at me, uncertain. "Figured Miss Stoney would break your neck. I ain't got no silver," he says, stuffing his hands deep in his britches to hide his lying. "All I got is my lucky rabbit's foot, and I won't part with that."

But Pernie Boyd stares are Omer's rawhide sure enough and starts flapping his pockets, airing out his jitters. Pernie Boyd pulls the rabbit's foot out of his pocket and holds it up for Omer to see. "It's a good rabbit's foot too. Cut off the left hind leg during a full moon. Old man sold it to me said it's full of hoodoo magic. I'm safe as a baby." LaRue’s worrying with Miss Stoney’s bridle and don’t look up. Pernie Boyd hides the rabbit’s foot in his hand, then sneaks it back in his pocket. “Ain’t nothing but good come looking for me.”

He glances over at LaRue, then at the whip, then at me, then at the whip again and bites back his lip. Pernie Boyd was born yellow-dog fearful.

“I know!” His words come out all at once. “I got a jim-dandy idea! I got a raffle ticket you can have. Come from old man Levi. He’s offering a fine horse worth thirty dollars. It’s a beaut—black stallion with two strong hindquarters. Ticket’s not even cold; I bought it this morning for fifty cents.” Pernie Boyd shows me the stub, but he don’t let go of it.

Omer steps up behind me with a wild, colored-boy look on his face, and Pernie throws the raffle ticket into the dirt. “Take it! We don’t want it. We ain’t got no money. You touch us, and our daddy will have you both swinging on a rope.” He looks like he might cry.

The hounds sniff all over the ticket, but I kick them out of the way and take it up and look on the back. “When’s the drawing?” I ask.


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Howdy, folks! (How's that for convincing vernacular narration?) Please answer the following question for a chance to win a copy of The Adventurous Deeds of Deadwood Jones: If you won a horse from Helen Hemphill, do you think she'd let you keep it? Why or why not? Explain your answer.

And if that's too much pressure, just pop in for an old-fashioned campfire chat with Helen!

Monday, February 23, 2009

Bringing Eyes to Books

From the desk of Ms. Sally Spitfire



My dearest Suzy,


I'm sorry it's been so long since I've written! I hope that all is well with you down there in the warm embrace of the sunny south. These past few weeks in NYC we have had rain, snow, driving winds and bitter cold sprinkled with the occasional day of teasing warmth and courageous sun. I know we have a few months of winter to go, but oh! how I do long for spring!


In the meantime, despite my whining about the weather, life in the big city is going quite well. Antonio says hello (he says that I talk about you so much he feels he already knows you) and I hope that you'll give my love to everyone back home.


Now on to your question from you last letter. It's an extremely good question and the one that I get asked most frequently about working in the marketing department: what exactly is the different between marketing and publicity?


It can get a little confusing because there is definitely some overlap and--in other industries or even in much smaller publishing houses--in some cases publicity and marketing are smushed together into one job or one department.


At larger houses like mine, though, the publicity and marketing departments are very separate entities with very separate responsibilities. Once I heard it described this way: although both departments departments are--in essence--responsible for drawing attention to a soon-to-be or just-published book, publicity generally does it without spending money.


But perhaps that doesn't make sense yet. Let me break it down for you a little bit further one department at a time.


Publicity

The publicity department publicizes a book. It is their job to make sure that book-buyers--the general public--learns about a book. The majority of their energy is spent getting the book reviewed (in newspapers, magazines, websites, and blogs), getting the book or the author featured in national television or radio shows (NPR, The Today Show, Oprah, etc.) and setting up publicity events such as book signings or tours for the authors. Although of course it does costs money to set up a tour, none of these things (think interview on NPR or positive book review in the Wall Street Journal) can actually be purchased. Successful publicists can often be described as a combination of a talented car-salesman and a socialite... they're able to pitch anything (and convince you that it's PERFECT for YOU) and they have a well-thumbed little black book with contacts everywhere it matters. Talented publicists can name-drop with the best of them.


Marketing

I feel like the longer I work in marketing, the more responsibilities I realized are delegated to us. But at heart, the marketing dept. is in charge of making sure that booksellers--bookstores--and bookbuyers--the general public--learn about a book. We do this by advertising (in newspapers, magazines and online), by making promotional materials (think bookmarks, t-shirts, advanced readers' editions and galleys, etc.), by offering co-op to bookstores, and by setting up special programs or opportunities such as planning a sweepstakes or getting the author to do a guest blog for a popular website. You'll notice that most of these things (advertising, promotional materials) cost money. Successful marketing people are a perfect mix between left-brain and right-brain: they are able to understand money and budgets and bang-per-buck and can also be creative, reinvent the wheel (i.e. the marketing plan) for every book and continually put themselves in other people's heads. Talented marketing people know that every book has an audience and come up with creative ways of introducing THAT audience to THAT book in such a way that they will feel compelled to rush out and buy it immediately.


Whew! And there you have it! The marketing dept. spends money (usually) and publicity does not (usually) and both bring eyes to the books.


What do you think? Does it make more sense now? If so, I'm going to enlist YOUR help, Suzie-darling, at the next family reunion; you'll be in charge of answering that question every other time it gets asked...


Much, much love,

(Ms.) Sally S.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Friday's Special Is...Priscella and the Hollyhocks!

Priscella and the Hollyhocks by Anne Broyles

Priscilla is only four years old when her mother is sold to another master. All Priscilla has to remember her mother by are the hollyhocks she planted by the cow pond. At age ten, Priscilla is sold to a Cherokee family and continues her life as a slave. She keeps hope for a better life alive by planting hollyhocks wherever she goes. At last, her forced march along the Trail of Tears brings a chance encounter that leads to her freedom.

Based on a true story. For elementary schoool age children.
What others are saying:
"Priscilla and the Hollyhocks tells a story too often ignored or overlooked - a story of how the west was not won but captured. Reading about Priscilla's remarkable life makes all our hearts a bit warmer while filling our heads with a much-needed piece of American history."

Nikki Giovanni, poet
"When Priscilla's mother is sold to a new owner and the two are separated, the young slave girl finds solace in her mother's hollyhock patch. As she grows older, the kind words of a white businessman, Basil Silkwood, instill in Priscilla a desire to attend school, but she is soon sold to a Cherokee family, and her life of servitude continues. As her Native American owners embark on the grueling 20 mile journey west, known as the 1838 "Trail of Tears," she again meets the compassionate Silkwood, who purchases her freedom. Alter's appealing acrylic illustrations, rendered in single- and double- page spreads and framed close-ups, elevate the emotion of the story and echo the flattened perspective and thick outlines of folk art.


Based on real events, Broyles' poetic and colloquial narrative, voiced by a grown Priscilla, ends with the girl sowing the seeds of her mother's hollyhocks near her new home with the Silkwoods and an author's note detailing the historical basis of the story."

Buy from Amazon






Excerpt from PRISCELLA AND THE HOLLYHOCKS


When I was young and still wore slavery’s yoke,
I was saved by hollyhocks, and a white man’s kindness.

Freedom filled my dreams, but I was born a slave’s child.

“She’ll fetch a pretty penny,” Master said as he loaded Ma up in a wagon like a steer led to slaughter. Ma turned her anguished face to me, raised one hand in farewell.

I lacked strength to wave back, tho’ I ’spect my eyes mirrored her sorrow.

I pined after Ma.

Old Sylvia recollected me t’was Ma planted hollyhocks along the white picket fence by the cow pond.

“Your ma made hollyhock dolls like this, Priscilla,” Old Sylvia said. She took the beauteous pink flower in her gnarled brown hands, pushed and pulled it into shape, set it sail on the cow pond. I watched my flower dolly float and felt my mother’s smile.

Six years I played like any child. The cow pond was my home, the cows my family. I could turn a hollyhock blossom into a pretty lady in no time flat. Then I was put to the work for which Master said I had been born.

“Work hard and keep still,” Old Sylvia told me. She put a dust rag in my hands.

My first days in the Big House, I felt the weight of Master’s rules. I played invisible, silent as the walls, and hoped no one would pay me no mind. I learnt not to jump when Master hollered, but my insides was aquiverin’. Late at night, as I lay on a quilt in the attic, alone, I ’membered the sound of other slaves’ screams as Master beat them.

My poundin’ heart echoed the blows Master struck against black bodies.

Sundays I fled to the hollyhocks. I watched my dollies float, dance, cross the pond.

My smile escaped at the joy of it.

One mornin’ when I served First Master his porridge, his hand stung my cheek.

“Tarnation, you’re slow, gal!” He jumped up, knocked over the chair, stormed out with a slammed door curse. I clutched the unspilled bowl in my warm, tremblin’ hands, took it back to the kitchen.

“Might as well eat,” Cook said, and added a dollop of sugar to the porridge.

I grinned, picked up a spoon.

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Welcome, everyone! Please answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of PRISCELLA AND THE HOLLYHOCKS, or drop by and chat with Anne!
...the cows my family. If Anne could name the cows in her family, what would they be called? Give at least two names.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Thursday's Special Is...Eternal!

ETERNAL by Cynthia Leitich Smith


Buy ETERNAL from Amazon


At last Miranda is the life of the party: all she had to do was die. Elevated and adopted by none other than the reigning King of the Mantle of Dracul, Miranda goes from high-school theatre wannabe to glamorous royal fiend overnight. Her reckless and adoring guardian angel, meanwhile—fighting in guise as the princess’s personal assistant—has his work cut out for him with the Master’s Death Day gala fast approaching. Can Zachary save his girl’s soul and redeem himself before all hell arrives, quite literally, on their doorstep? Here, with diabolical wit, Cynthia Leitich Smith revisits the deliciously dark parallel world of her novel TANTALIZE, this time with a breathtaking new cast.








Excerpt from ETERNAL:


/Zachary’s point of view /

I’m Miranda’s guardian angel (GA for short). A newbie created after the first atomic blast in 1945. Miranda is my second assignment and my reason for being. Not that she has clue one. She can’t even see me. Nobody can unless I choose to show myself. That’s a no- no.


We GAs have our limits. Sure, we help out when we can, but not in any way that’s clearly detectable . . . or at least traceable (I’m known to push the limits now and then).

Night after night, I watch her sleep. She’s restless. Always restless. I’m forever rearranging the sheets so her legs don’t get tangled. Otherwise, she’ll wake up.

She doesn’t get enough rest as it is. She worries about little mistakes. Or what she frets are mistakes. What other people think of her. What will happen next. All humans do. I wish they could glimpse infinity. It would make glitches like a C in algebra or a nitpicking parent or being ignored by The Guy feel a whole lot less fatal.

I would love to talk to Miranda. To tell her that.


*****


/Miranda’s point of view /


I debate telling Lucy that my dad is in Alaska (or at least floating on a boat around it) with some mysterious woman who’s forging his postcards, that my mom is in the midst of one of her trademark needy phases because of it, and that she may sign off on sending me to a shrink after I tell her about today’s audition.

“My beanbag is possessed,” I reply instead.

“Interesting.” At HORROR, Lucy holds up The Grudge. “What do you think?”

We’ve seen it before. That said, I love movies. Lucy and I have been watching films and munching popcorn — with real butter — on her L-shaped sectional almost every weekend for as long as I can remember, and last summer, my job was working concession at the mall multiplex. “I think —”

“Can I help you ladies fi nd something spooky?” It’s Lucy’s crush, “Kurt,” a fact we deduced early on due to the helpful plastic name tag on his red polo- style shirt.

He’s tall, taller than Lucy — which, for her, is key — a sandy blond, and looks a couple of years older than us. Despite the safety pin stuck through his right nostril, he’s remarkably cute for a DVD rental guy.
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Answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of ETERNAL, or pop in and chat with Cynthia! Ask questions, talk books...

Monster Day Death Gala may be one name for your high school prom. Give us another name.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Wednesday's Special Is...Orange Mint and Honey!

ORANGE MINT and HONEY by Carleen Brice


Carleen's debut novel Orange Mint and Honey (2008, Random House) — an Essence “Recommended Read” and a Target “Bookmarked Breakout Book” — was optioned for a movie by Lifetime Television. For this novel, she received the Breakout Author of the Year Award from the African American Literary Awards Show and the First Novelist Award from the Black Caucus of the American Library Association.


Shay Dixon, evicted and about to flunk out of grad school, has no choice but to go back to Denver. There, she’s shocked to find her mother, Nona, is now sober, raising a pre-schooler, and growing an amazing garden. What else will take root and blossom in Nona’s garden? Orange Mint and Honey is a haunting, exquisitely written story about mothers and daughters—and the power of healing and forgiveness.





http://www.pajamagardener.blogspot.com/ (Where Carleen blogs about writing & gardening & stuff)
http://www.welcomewhitefolks.blogspot.com/ (Where Carleen promotes black authors to a diverse readership)


Excerpt from ORANGE MINT and HONEY

I should have known things were getting bad when Nina Simone showed up. Don't get me wrong. I love Nina. I've been listening to her since History of Jazz sophomore year. The professor taught us to worship the great men of jazz, but it was the women who drew me in: Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughn, Dinah Washington, Bessie Smith, Mildred Bailey. They were queens, priestesses, goddesses—encouraging me, pointing me away from danger, schooling me in the ways of life. Especially Nina Simone.

I listened to Nina Simone a thousand times, and I always got something from her music. But the night she came to me for the first time she must have known I needed more than a song could offer. I knew a famous singer, and a dead one at that, shouldn't have been in my bedroom, but somehow I wasn't surprised to see her because I had been wishing she were there. Wishing she would tell me what to do.

Usually when I was down I could keep going. But this time I bumped up against something that I couldn't get over, a wall as hard and cold and impossible to see through as frosted glass. I had lost my job writing grant proposals for an indigent-care clinic, stopped going to class, and received an eviction notice from my landlord. But still all I could do was listen to music, hanging on to the life preserver of Nina Simone's eerie, regal voice.

That night, I was listening to the fast version of “House of the Rising Sun.” It’s a live recording, seven minutes long. Nina gets so into it, you can’t make out what she’s singing. Behind her, the band chants “rising sun,” “rising sun” over and over, and the audience claps to the fast beat. The piano, the clapping hands, and tambourine sound like church and juke joints, like sweat and heat, free and alive. I started dancing. I hadn’t had the energy to get out of my pajamas for a week, but “House of the Rising Sun” had me shaking my head back and forth, twirling in circles, and pumping my arms and legs up and down like I was performing a tribal ritual, like I was one of Alvin Ailey’s dancers. I danced through the song three times until all thoughts of jobs and grad school and unpaid bills were erased from my mind and I could sleep.

At 3:33 a.m. I opened my eyes and Nina Simone was there, as if I had conjured her, standing in front of my bedroom window, blue moonlight spotlighting her features — thick lips, proud nose, slanted eyes rimmed in kohl like Cleopatra’s. I had been asking myself for days WWNSD (What would Nina Simone do?) and now she had come to tell me. I didn’t know if she was a ghost or a hallucination, and I didn’t care. Eyes wide, heart thumping like the speakers in the car of a teenaged boy, I sat up and waited for Nina Simone to say something wise, to tell me how to fix the mess I’d made of my life, to comfort me, and convince me that I had inside me everything I needed to move forward.

“You’ve really screwed up now,” she said.
*****************************************************
Please answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of ORANGE MINT and HONEY. And be sure to drop by and wave hello!!
If Carleen could conjure up a famous actor to stand beside her bedroom window, who would it be?

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Tuesday's Special Is...Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts!

CALLING MR. LONELY HEARTS by Laura Benedict


He gives a woman everything she could want, answers her deepest unspoken needs, her hidden thoughts, her darkest desires. But Varick isn't just too good to be true, he is hell-sent.

Roxanne, Del, and Alice were girls together at Our Lady of the Hills School, where they met and came to adore their teacher, Father Romero, a Cuban refugee. For one of the girls, Father Romero was far more than a crush, and as a result of her lies he is driven away from his faith and his home and into an empty spiritual darkness that makes him easy prey for true evil.

Years later, Romero takes his merciless revenge—revenge that is terrifying, sexually-charged and surreal as a fever dream. No one in the women's lives is safe. Not even an unborn child.


Order from Amazon





Excerpt from CALLING MR. LONELY HEARTS
She was just plain Alice, and they never let her forget.


Roxanne and Delilah, who was called Del, knelt close to Alice by the light of a candle, the skirts of their stiff blue school uniforms crumpling against her. Del rested a hand on Alice's shoulder as though she might try to get up from the leaf-strewn ground and run away. But they all knew she wouldn't. Roxanne used a twig to stir some pungent concoction in a shell-thin African bowl she had brought from home. The odor suffused the copse like the fug from an ancient outhouse. To Alice, it smelled suspiciously like a baby's dirty diaper. There was something else, though. Something caustic and chemical-smelling that made her eyes water.


"I don't have to eat it, do I?" Alice said.


"Oh God," Del said. She hadn't wanted to go along with this whole thing in the first place. She was nervous enough about being in the park after dark. And there was something deeply wrong with what they were doing, she knew. Witchcraft on television was fine, but this was something else.


"Of course not," Roxanne said, her voice patient. The bowl was heavy in her hands, though it hardly contained anything at all. If she were a few years older than thirteen, she would know it was heavy with her own desire—a desire that she could, at that moment, identify only as dimly sexual.


"Get her coat off," she told Del.


"Come on," Del said. "Don't be a baby, Alice."


She reached for the buttons on the front of Alice's pea coat, which was exactly like the ones she and Roxanne were wearing, though Roxanne's had a black velvet scarf tucked beneath the collar. Alice didn't help with the coat, but she didn't resist, either. Del flung the coat and the blue cardigan sweater with its Our Lady of the Hills crest onto the dormant grass.


Alice shivered in her blouse, hoping that she would be able to leave on at least her skirt and socks.


Roxanne nodded. Del's cold-numbed fingers tugged at the buttons of Alice's blouse.


"For pity's sake," Roxanne said. "Alice, you need to unbutton your blouse. You don't have to undo it all the way. Then you need to lie down."


Alice did as she was told. Roxanne put down the bowl and tucked the discarded coat beneath Alice's head. She brushed her fingertips over Alice's brow and smiled. Sweet, tender Alice. Though perhaps not so sweet—she whined sometimes. But at least she was Pure Alice, who had never been kissed—a virgin, as they all were.


"Now. Everyone be quiet," she said, picking up the bowl. Her hands shook a bit with the excitement of it all. She closed her eyes.


The words she spoke—seemingly to the sky, or the air in front of her—were unintelligible to the others. Her tone was one of supplication: a petition or a prayer, not so different from the prayers the priests said at mass. She tried for the same singsong in her voice, the same careful cadence. She's added a few thoughts and words of her own to the spell she took from the satanic witchcraft book she stole from the public library, thinking that they would make it more effective.


The herbs in the mash were ones she remembered being used in a joyful Santeria rite that her mother had taken her to, when her mother was on one of her "spiritual quests." It was this blending of dark magic and the divine that she believed would give them what they wanted.
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Please answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of CALLING MR. LONELY HEARTS. Or pop in and chat! Laura isn't as scary as her books...
:-)
What would Laura's kids say about her cooking?

Monday, February 16, 2009

Uncover Me

Ms. Spitfire is in a secret bunker and will return next Monday.


This week, I'd like to share some book marketing tips I've learned since the launch of the Book Roast blog.


Marketing books is hard work because there are no sexy models posing with books on television or in magazines.






(Note: There are many more lovelies out there, including our own Antonio. We'll talk more about that in a bit. But honestly, I do have your attention, no?)


Tips for marketing books:

1) Take Risks

A couple of authors took a chance early on with this whole roasting idea. (nod to Sara Palin for that sentence construction) Patricia Wood and John Elder Robison supported this concept from the beginning. I think their willingness to try new things is one ingredient for their well-deserved success. Thank you to both!


2) Spread Good Will

Author Erica Orloff has published multiple books in multiple genres, but maintains a daily blog in which she shares writing advice and invites readers to share their thoughts. Down-to-earth and easily approachable, a big Thank you!


Author Stephanie Bodeen is an award-winning author who has taken time out of her busy schedule to post about Book Roast on writing boards and blogs. Friendly and charismatic, she is always upbeat and positive. Thank you!


3) Reach and Exposure

Writer Travis Erwin has a large and popular blog following. His weekly series, "My Town Monday," has literally put him on the map all over the world. This kind of electronic connectivity is valuable in today's world. Thank you!

Author Laurel Snyder is everywhere. She's a marketing dynamo, with a vibrant presence in the blogosphere, as well as Twitter, Facebook, and even Wikipedia! This is smart. Period. Thank you!


4) Sense of Humor

Author Dennis Cass has a sense of humor and knows how to use it. Remember that YouTube video? It was more than fifteen minutes of fame. Thousands of people watched it. He is also a cross-over author because he spreads good will with his site "Dennis Cass Wants You to be More Awesome." Thank you!


5) Antonio
Having Antonio on the cover of your book, or giving your book to his lunch dates is a great way to increase your visibility. For a small fee, we can rent him out. If you can't afford our rates, try the squirrel. His rates are much lower.
((A very special thank you to each and every author on our side bar! Your support is the reason we do this. It's been a pleasure learning from so many different kinds of books, styles, and genres!))
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Sometimes it's helpful to look at examples of what not to do.

Examples of Bad Marketing:

**McDonald's Arch Deluxe Burger**

The Arch Deluxe was a hamburger created and marketed by McDonald's with the intent of capturing the adult fast food consumer market, presented as a more sophisticated burger for an adult palate. It failed to catch on and is seen as one of the most expensive flops of all time.
(Wikipedia)


Why it didn't catch on: Adults weren't going to pay more for a slightly better burger.

Plus a scary chef dude in an elevator (this commercial) didn't help.



**New Coca Cola**

On April 23, 1985, Coca-Cola, amid much publicity, attempted to change the formula of the drink with "New Coke." Follow-up taste tests revealed that most consumers preferred the taste of New Coke to both Coke and Pepsi. Coca-Cola management was unprepared, however, for the nostalgic sentiments the drink aroused in the American public. The new Coca-Cola formula caused a public backlash. Protests caused the company to return to the old formula under the name Coca-Cola Classic on July 10, 1985.
(Wikipedia)


Lesson Learned: People can base buying decisions on emotion. Plus, make sure you get good focus groups.


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Can you think of other examples of good marketing and bad marketing? Does any of this pertain to marketing books?

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Thursday's Special...StarQuest!

STARQUEST by Hywela Lyn


When Jestine Darnell is rescued from her sabotaged starship by the crew of the Destiny her only objective is to complete her mission and keep her promise to save a world from slavery. Love is the last thing on her mind. However, she has not counted on losing her heart to Kerry Marchant the ship’s second in command, who makes his distrust of her painfully obvious, despite the chemistry between them. The completion of her mission has consequences that neither of them could have foreseen.


Enter Dahll Tarron, who becomes involved in a long and dangerous quest to find the Destiny. Fates become intertwined, perils shared, culminating in the realization that sometimes love may be so close that there is a danger it will not be recognized until it is too late…


To buy StarQuest from The Wild Rose Press, CLICK HERE

Click to visit, Lyn's website or her blog.


Excerpt from STARQUEST


Kerry turned and looked at her. "Something on scan that should not be there?" he asked, the brusque tone of his voice breaking into her musings.

"No, it's just...so beautiful out there—and so vast," she replied. How could he fail to be moved by the stars she loved so much? "It makes me think of something my mother told me when I was a child back on Earth."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You wouldn't be interested. It's just a story." She rose from her seat.

"Try me."

"Well..." Noting the cold skepticism in his eyes, Jess wished fervently she had not mentioned it, but it was too late now. Reluctantly she seated herself again.

"I used to spend hours watching the stars, dreaming of one day exploring them," she told him softly. "My mother and I would often watch the night sky together. I loved to see falling stars, and she told me they were the souls of young girls who had died for love. For a long time I believed it."

Kerry regarded her witheringly. "Presumably you do not need me to give you a lecture on meteors and astrophysics?"

"I did say I was just a child. I knew you'd think it ridiculous." She tossed back her hair and looked at him steadily. "But even when I was old enough to know falling stars were merely specks of cosmic dust igniting in the Earth's atmosphere, I still loved watching for them and imagining—"

She broke off with a slight shrug, and gestured toward the scanner. "I'm sure it sounds absurd to you, but I would never be afraid to die if I thought I might become part of all that, even if just for a moment."

"Are you not a little old for such fanciful ideas?"

Jess ignored the scorn in his voice. "Perhaps, but I can't help thinking how fragile life is. I've already cheated death once. My escape module wasn't equipped with interstellar drive. I couldn't have made it to another planetary system before the life support units gave out. If the Destiny hadn't picked me up."

She studied him pensively for a moment. He behaved like part of the ship itself...cold, calculating and unfeeling. Why had he suddenly decided to strike up a conversation with her? What thoughts were going through his head to make him stare at her so fixedly? "Kerry, don't you believe in anything?"

"Oh, yes," he replied, giving her a very direct look. "Myself and this ship, and the technology that enabled us to design and build her."

"And there's no room in your life for the concept of the Universal Spirit...you think this whole universe was created by accident?"

"I know it goes against all the rulings of the Union, with their insistence on blind obedience to the 'Universal Spirit,' but I trust only in the things I know and can control. I do not waste my time on fantasy or myths."

"It must be very gratifying to be so self-sufficient you need no one and nothing but yourself," Jess said, without trying to suppress the note of scornful resignation in her voice.

"It avoids disappointment."

She shook her head disparagingly and rose to leave the flight deck, taking one last look at the observation panel. To her consternation, Kerry caught hold of her by the shoulder and pushed her firmly back into her seat, standing over her with an attitude of grim resolve.

"Not so fast, you have some explaining to do."

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Please answer the following question for a chance to win a free copy of STARQUEST. Or, pop in and chat with Lyn!!
What’s the first thing Jess explains to Kerry?



Hywela Lyn (usually known by her second name ‘Lyn’, which is easier to pronounce, is intensely proud of being Welsh, although she currently lives in England with her husband Dave and rescued Jack Russell, Bouncer. She has made up stories in her head for as long as she can remember, inspired by the beautiful Welsh scenery and its legends, and acting out her characters' roles in her mind. She is passionately fond of all animals and the outdoors. She has two horses, Harry and T’pau and usually manages to have a horse somewhere in her stories.

‘Starquest’ is her first novel, a romantic SF/Fantasy. It is available in print or as an Ebook from The Wild Rose Press, and the sequel ‘Children Of The Mist’ is due to be released on 19th June this year. She is also one of nine authors collaborating The Wild Rose Press’s ‘Song Of The Muses’ series about the nine Greek Muses. Her Muse is ‘Terpsichore’ and Lyn sent her to 5th Century Wales. The book is also a tribute to her old endurance mare, Sally, ‘Dancing With Fate’ is available now from The Wild Rose Press.