Guest Blogger Marcy Italiano

Where It Comes From...

Some things in our lives command attention.

When we are sick, our health becomes serious. When we find out we have a disease, we take account of our lives. When we have children, the entire world looks unsafe. If the bank is empty, worry and survival come to the forefront.

But for writers (and other artists), there is something else. Deep inside there resides feelings and ideas that must be communicated and shared. The art is in figuring out a way to show it to the public. So, we grasp. A certain image could have come from a nightmare. The hero was a person or a combination of people we knew as a child. The villain is a teacher, coach, and movie monster packed into one. We take the pieces we have gathered in life and make them fit into the puzzle that makes the most sense and creates the clearest picture.

And while we do that, we go absolutely crazy.

The world’s largest jigsaw puzzle consisted of 551,232 pieces (at the time of this blogging). As human beings, we have billions of pieces to draw from. An old dentist’s office, the way someone once smirked, or the big red furry thing from a Bugs Bunny episode. They all swim around in our heads and we have to pluck the perfect one at the right time. And when we can’t find the piece we want for a story, we hit writer’s block, or go to writing groups, or, quit.

Strange thing is, I’ve tried to quit writing before. I thought I could find peace of mind, psychological solitude, a little more sanity if I could just cut out all of the things running around in my head. Perhaps if I didn’t feel the need to write it all down, the circus would stop.

That was not the case. It got worse. Even if it wasn’t all important, or nowhere close to lit-tra-chure, I had to write. When a short story isn’t popping up, I work on a book. When I need a break, I blog. And most importantly, when I get spare time, I read as much as I possibly can.

Reading is a way of life, fuel, giving to oneself. I have met many adults who could not read, or could not read well. The level of frustration is constant, and the feeling of being taken advantage of or duped is always there. Reading is a wonderful skill, to me, the most essential skill to get by these days. To read, to be able to spell words properly, and to wield the power of communication is awesome.

I have four year old twin boys. I watched them and their friends struggle to speak. There is a huge difference between a screaming and pointing toddler, anger rising and final realization by parent, and the child saying, “I, water.” Say it clearly, loud enough to be heard. Make your words matter, and remember that words you read matter, too.

And if I can contribute to the world of reading while I do my humble writing thing, well... count me in.

Marcy Italiano lives in Waterloo, Ontario with her husband Giasone and twin boys. Books available: KATRINA AND THE FRENCHMAN: A JOURNAL FROM THE STREET – 2009, SPIRITS AND DEATH IN NIAGARA –2008, PAIN MACHINE - 2003. Marcy has also written many dark fiction stories, the most recent publication is “Dance at My Funeral” in the Magazine of Bizarro Fiction, Issue 4. She has published poetry in both magazines and online. She also works on songwriting with “G”. To find out more please visit www.marcyitaliano.com.

 

Interview with Marcy Italiano

Welcome to my first interview guest of 2013, Marcy Italiano! Marcy is an aspiring writer from Waterloo, Ontario. She lives there with her husband and twin boys. (Something we have in common...twin boys!) Her current works include KATRINA AND THE FRENCHMAN: A JOURNAL FROM THE STREET – 2009, SPIRITS AND DEATH IN NIAGARA –2008, PAIN MACHINE - 2003. Marcy has also written many dark fiction stories, the most recent publication is “Dance at My Funeral” in the Magazine of Bizarro Fiction, Issue 4. She has published poetry in both magazines and online. She also works on songwriting with “G”. She has also just finished her work on THE STARVING QUEEN.

Anorexia is a monster and her name is the Queen. Jasmine tries to be tough and in control. When depression creeps in, her parents, new boyfriend Jason and best friend Allison, don’t recognize the signs. But the Queen does, and she wants Jasmine.

 

Marcy is presently looking for agent representation.She hassome new short stories to shop around this year, and "they seem to have become stranger than anything I’ve written before," she says. Please welcome Marcy Italiano.

Are you a plotter or a pantser?

I’m a pantser for the most part. I usually have the concept for the story with major plot points, but getting from A to B is a journey, and the C-end is rarely anything I would expect to write when I start the book. My characters always surprise me as they evolve. I figure if the characters can keep me entertained, the readers will like them, too.

What do you hope readers take with them after reading one of your stories?

I want people to feel something, not just put the story down with a “huh” and never think of it again. When readers come up to me and say things like, “That is exactly what happened to me” or “I’m not alone feeling/thinking that” I know I’ve succeeded at reaching out. If I can create an alternate reality that people can not only believe in, but feel that it personally reflects them in some way, I have done my job.

Are any of your characters based on real people or events?

Absolutely. My characters are usually a combination of many people. Or at least a few. So far I have written no characters that are one person only, I have not dropped a real person into my fiction. I have taken my favourite or least favourite traits from many people in my life and match them up to make amalgamations that become very flexible.

As for events, this one is a little more slippery. I have taken real events, real times in my life and squeezed them through a warped, Marcy-mirror and what I get is a strange reflection of those times. Occasionally, there is a moment that is extremely true, and so specific to the story that I could not possibly change a detail. I have been asked many times about the “animal scene” in Pain Machine, and yes, that moment did happen. But the book is not a chronicling of my story, it’s a version that opens up for all people who live with that kind of extreme pain. In the novel I just finished, The Starving Queen, I imagine readers will be able to pinpoint the all-too-real moments as well.

What’s something fans would find fascinating about you?

It’s always hard to know what others might find interesting. There are a lot of quirky things about me, like having feet that have two sizes difference. I have interesting stories to tell about travels and disasters along the way, such as being caught in Katrina in New Orleans. Or, I could talk about strange life events like having Fibromyalgia for twenty years, not being able to smell for half my life, and the cherry on top, having identical twins. Ask me anything! I’ve always got a story to tell.

When not writing, how do you relax?

I like to read, paint, exercise, write songs with my husband, sing, I have been caught knitting, along with many other hobbies I can’t keep up with. When the boys are not fighting, we play some of the most awesome games. There are a handful of TV shows I like and will tape, but they have to be awesome. That’s right I said I “tape” shows, because I am old, and we used to use video tapes. I also say converter. The first video game I ever played was Pong, and my Dad was stunned that we were controlling something on the TV. I also like wine. And, Chocolate Mint Martinis on a special occasion.

Visit Marcy!

Website: http://www.marcyitaliano.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/LizardTwits

Google+: https://plus.google.com/s/Marcy Italiano

Release Day for Denise Moncrief's Crisis of Identity

I would like to welcome you to my release day blog for Denise Moncrief's Crisis of Identity. Denise is a fellow 5 Prince Publishing author who's first release with the company looks like a sure fire winner.  Please take a moment to check her out.

Release Day

For

Crisis of Identity

Denise Moncrief

Available from 5 Prince Publishing www.5princebooks.com  books@5princebooks.com

Genre: Romance Suspense

Release Date: January 25, 2013

Digital ISBN 13: 978-1-939217-28-8 ISBN 10: 1939217288

Print ISBN 13: 978-1-939217-30-1 ISBN 13: 193921730x

Purchase link : www.5princebooks.com/buy.htm

Crisis of Identity:

Tess Copeland is an operator. Her motto? Necessity is the mother of a good a con. When Hurricane Irving slams into the Texas Gulf coast, Tess seizes the opportunity to escape her past by hijacking a dead woman’s life, but Shelby Coleman’s was the wrong identity to steal. And the cop that trails her? He’s a U.S. Marshall with the Fugitive Task Force for the northern district of Illinois. Tess left Chicago because the criminal justice system gave her no choice. Now she’s on the run from ghosts of misdeeds past—both hers and Shelby’s.

Enter Trevor Smith, a pseudo-cowboy from Houston, Texas, with good looks, a quick tongue, and testosterone poisoning. Will Tess succumb to his questionable charms and become his damsel in distress? She doesn’t have to faint at his feet—she’s capable of handling just about anything. But will she choose to let Trevor be the man? When Tess kidnaps her niece, her life changes. She must make some hard decisions. Does she trust the lawman that promises her redemption, or does she trust the cowboy that promises her nothing but himself?

Bio for Denise Moncrief

Denise wrote her first story when she was in high school—seventeen hand-written pages on school-ruled paper and an obvious rip-off of the last romance novel she read. She earned a degree in accounting, giving her some nice skills to earn a little money, but her passion has always been writing. She has written numerous short stories and more than a few full-length novels. Her favorite pastimes when she’s not writing are spending time with her family, traveling, reading, and scrapbooking. She lives in Louisiana with her husband, two children, and one very chubby dog.

How to contact Denise Moncrief:

Twitter: @dmoncrief0131

Blogger: www.denisemoncrief.blogspot.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/DeniseMoncriefAuthor

EXCERPT from Crisis of Identity:

The room had already filled five times with sea-soaked bodies. The dead lay head-to-foot, column-by-column, row-by-row, ten by twenty. Victim 973 had scrawled her Social Security number down her left arm just as she’d been instructed. I noted the number on my log and moved on, trying hard not to think about the person, concentrating only on the morbid job some pushy cop forced on me.

Across the high school gymnasium, a man worked the other end of the column. As his stealthy glances trailed me around the gym, the acid in my overwrought stomach churned every time our eyes met.

“Want to take a break?” His sudden question reverberated throughout the cavernous space.

I curled one tendril of hair around my left ear. “Sure.”

I followed him into the locker room, grabbing a foam cup and filling it with tepid coffee. The man did the same from another urn. The burnt brew left traces of bitterness in my mouth. I rubbed my tongue over my teeth in a vain attempt to remove the acrid leftovers.

My mind turned off for a few precious moments as I ignored the makeshift morgue on the other side of the wall. The man’s strong, masculine bass invaded my mental hideaway. “They’re starting to smell ripe.” He gulped down another ounce of artificial stimulant, staring at me over the rim of his cup.

My insides flipped. “It’s been four days.”

He nodded. “Most of these don’t have numbers.”

“Makes it harder to identify them.”

He leaned against a locker. “This group must have thought they were invincible.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” I tossed my cup into the overflowing trash. “Think they’re invincible, I mean."

“Certain death. How do you interpret that? I think it means, ‘I stay. I die.’ Must not have sunk in until it was too late.” His sarcastic attitude unsettled me, made me want to defend the dead.

“They’ve been warned before and nothing happened.” When the locals ordered an evacuation two years before, it proved to be a false alarm. The residents of the Texas Gulf coast weren’t so easy to convince this time. It seemed no one learned a lesson from Hurricane Katrina. “And…we’re not dead.” Our eyes locked.

Someone’s presence warmed my back. The site supervisor stood over my shoulder and repeated his prerecorded rant for the millionth time. “Mandatory is mandatory. The dead ignored the warning to their own peril. If they wanted to stay put, the least they could do is write their soc number on their arms...just like they were told to do. How many times did the news people make that announcement? Write your number on your arm if you plan to stay. How hard is that?”

I shifted away from him. I didn’t dare write my number on my arm.

“Suppose the two of you take a few. You look wasted, and these guys…” He waved his hand toward the gym. “Aren’t going anywhere.”

Launch Day for Sara Barnard

A Heart Broken

By

Sara Barnard

            

Available from 5 Prince Publishing www.5princebooks.com  books@5princebooks.com

Genre: Fiction/Historical/Romance

Release Date: January 11, 2013

Digital ISBN 13:978-1-939217-24-0

Print ISBN 13: 978-1-939217-25-7

Purchase link : www.5princebooks.com/buy.htm

A Heart Broken

How much grief can a heart bear before being tested to the ultimate limit?  The War is over, Charlotte and Sanderson are reunited, and life is good … until the Army comes knocking.  They have charged Sanderson with the murder of his former captor, the despicable Lieutenant Lantz who swore to kill him and Jackson. After a make-believe trial, Sanderson is sentenced to “hang by the neck until dead” – unless he can track down and kill the notorious outlaw William Quantrill with the help of SGT Jerry Thomas, who still may be in love with Charlotte.  While Sanderson is on his blood mission, Charlotte miscarries the baby he wasn’t even aware existed.  In addition to battling her grief over the loss of their unborn baby, Charlotte must also battle a rash of hydrophobia that threatens the countryside –Sanderson included.

Bio for Sara Barnard:

Sara Barnard, author of the historical fiction series, An Everlasting Heart, has been reading children’s books her whole life. First, she read then as a child then she read them to her four beautiful children! Sara has her Bachelor’s degree in history, has had her work included in numerous anthologies, and has written several other books to date. Sara and her family make their home in the historic hills of Oklahoma along with their three dogs, three cats, and eight chickens.

Author Contact Info:

www.sarabarnardbooks.com is Sara’s website

sarathreesuns.blogspot.com is where she occasionally blogs about life as a Mommy of four and wife to a Drill Sergeant.

@TheSaraBarnard on Twitter

www.facebook.com/sara.barnard6 on Facebook

sarathreesuns@gmail.com

Excerpt from A Heart Broken:

“Don’t die till we get to have some fun, girl.” Samuel’s whiskey-ruined voice was hot in Charlotte’s ear. Somewhere behind her, Dean’s maniacal laughter pulsated with cruelty. The Bowie knife grew closer to her face, but with her arms lashed behind her, Charlotte could only watch in helpless terror as the promise of death drew nearer.

“Sanderson!” she screamed, just before the icy blade met the skin of her neck.

“I’m here. I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” Sanderson murmured into her hair. His arm, muscled and tanned, tightened around her middle. His voice was thick with sleep. “Was it that dream again?”

She sat up and traced the knife scar at the base of her neck. The air was crisp in their loft and a rash of goose bumps immediately cropped up on her exposed skin. “It was one of them. The knife one. I always wake up before they kill me, but I swear,” Charlotte shook her head to clear the nightmare from her mind, “it gets scarier every time.”

“They’ll get worse before they get better.” Sanderson propped himself up on an elbow and ran his hand down her thigh before continuing, “Mine are pretty bad right now, too. But when I wake up and look at you, I know I’m home.”

She returned his mischievous smile.

“We’ve been through a lot these past few years. Figure it’ll take our brains a little while to catch up with our bodies. The bad dreams are just our way of getting there, as I see it.” He twined his fingers through hers. “You know how I know that I’m really home?” He tugged her down close.

“How’s that?”

“I can do this.” With his free hand, he cupped the side of her face. That familiar spark blazed to life within her chest before their lips met. She closed her eyes. Softly, his kiss found her cheek, then her lips. Trembling, she let herself be taken over by her husband’s sensual caress.

“Wait, what about Minerva? Won’t she hear us?” Charlotte’s eyes were still closed. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if they’d been right to offer Minerva and baby Jay Jay their extra room. Certainly, having an empty house in moments such as these would be optimal. She pushed the thought away as quickly as it had come. Minerva was her sister-in-law, and she couldn’t imagine everyday life without tiny Jay Jay. After all, she had brought him into the world and only Aunt Charlotte could calm him down deep in those colicky nights.

Sanderson’s breath was warm in her ear, “They went out early this morning.”

Satisfied that they were alone and talk time was over, Charlotte met Sanderson’s kiss with passionate ferocity. His skin, roughened by time spent in Alton Confederate Prison, glided against hers naturally, like water over smooth river pebbles.

Finally, my love is home. I’m complete as long as he is near.

The front door squeaked open, and Minerva’s voice wafted upstairs. “Jay Jay, such a fussy boy today. Come, I’ll feed you in our room.”

Quietly, Sanderson tucked the rose-patterned quilt up over their heads as Charlotte stifled a giggle. “We were alone,” she mouthed.

He kissed the tip of her nose.

Minerva’s door clunked shut, and baby Jay Jay’s threatening whimpers ceased a moment later.

Charlotte flung back the covers. “Maybe we can continue this tonight?”

“As you wish, Mrs. Redding.”

A pounding at the door tore their gazes from each other.

“Who in the world would come calling this early in the morning?” Charlotte wondered aloud.

“I’ll get it,” Sanderson called, pulling on his britches. His voice echoed in their quaint, stone cottage.

“I’m closer,” Minerva answered. “Jay Jay is too tired to sleep.” She clomped across the floor with the infant nestled in the crook of her arm.

Charlotte peered over the edge of the loft. “Good morning, Minerva. Is Jay Jay ready for his Aunt Charlotte?”

“Si, he is.” Minerva smiled and rested her hand on the doorknob. “We picked some carrots this morning. Let’s make a stew tonight.” She hefted the door open.

An unfamiliar voice boomed, “Captain Sanderson Redding!” 

Sanderson froze, his shirt only half buttoned. The cold fingers of fear squeezed Charlotte’s stomach until bile rose into her throat.  

“Um, ah, um,” Minerva stammered. Jay Jay began to wail again.

Charlotte dashed to the window. “Soldiers! They’re everywhere Sanderson!” She whirled, eyes wide. “Can we make it to the cave underneath Sunshine Rock where I hid from the Yankees?”

He inched to the wall and peeked out the window. Reaching out to Charlotte, he pulled her close. “There’s no way. They’re even in the trees. Every rifle out there is trained on our house, just waiting for me to make a run for it.”

“We know he’s in there, so cough him up before we come in and search the place!”

Sanderson started toward the ladder.

“No! Please, we have to try!” Hysteria was threatening to overwhelm Charlotte to such an extent that she didn’t feel like herself at all. “Please!”

“I have to turn myself in, for all our sakes. We don’t know who pointed them our way, or even why they’re here.” He began to climb down, so Charlotte started after him. She grasped the rungs and rested her head against them. Her stomach lurched and her knees threatened to give way.

Sanderson plucked her from the ladder. She clasped his hand, and they stepped to the door together. Minerva moved behind them, the baby whimpering in her arms. Their eyes met for a moment.

“Captain Sanderson Redding?” An Army officer in blue stepped forward, a scroll in his hands.

“Good morning, gentlemen. How can I help you?” Sanderson’s voice was cool and ever polite, but his grip tightened on her hand. Charlotte tried to count the soldiers, but more kept appearing from the woods.

“Captain Redding, on behalf of the United States of America, I hereby charge you with the murder of Lieutenant Robbinson Lantz.” Sanderson’s eyes widened. “Also got a list of other lesser crimes, but they don’t really matter since you gonna hang for murder anyway.”