Interview with Author April M Reign

Here's an interview with the prolific and popular April M Reign by M Joseph Murphy. April commented on this interview afterwards on her blog: "I’m partial to this interview because Joseph took the time to ask me personal questions that relate to ME, MY KIDS, MY WRITING and MY BOOK PROMOTIONS!" (Emphasis is hers.)

April M. Reign is the author of several fan-favorite series (e.g. Dhellia Series, Mancini Saga, Disciples of the Damned Series, etc.) I met her on Twitter. However, after following her on Facebook I became a huge fan. Not just of her writing, but of the way she interacts with her fans.

And her fans love her. I wanted to find out how she was so prolific and how she managed her brand. I was fortunate enough to be granted an interview.

1. You are very prolific. From the looks of it, you have 5 series (including HASH, book 1 in the Imprint Trilogy), several standalone books and you’re also branching out into horror. What’s your secret for getting so much work done?

My secret is consistency. Every day, I sit in front of my laptop and I write. I may only write 200 words (on a bad day) or 3000 words (on a good day) but there is never a day that goes by when I don’t write. Consistency combined with my overly active imagination gives me the foundation to create new storylines and constantly provide new books for my readers.

2. With so many projects on the go, is it difficult keeping your stories straight? Have you ever mistakenly put a character into the wrong series?

I don’t usually put a character into the wrong series but I do have a tendency to mix 3rd and 1st person narrative. I’ve written three of my series in 1st person and two in 3rd person. At times, it gets confusing. (smile)

As far as keeping my stories straight, (Laugh) I have to reread each book in a series before I can write the next one, so that I keep the voice of my characters the same. With so many series going at once, I find this is the best way to keep it all straight in the chaos that I call my…creative mind. 

3. You are a very proud mother. What do you think is the greatest lesson you’ve been able to teach your sons? What’s the greatest lesson they have taught you?

Yes, I am a very proud mother of two amazing sons. Although, I’ve taught my boys many lessons in life, I’d have to say one in particular stands out above the rest… Finding and following their dreams.  Hard work, perseverance and determination are important factors in achieving their dreams and making them reality.  I’ve tried to lead them by example. 

They have taught me a thousand different things. But if I had to choose one, I’d say they’ve taught me the importance of being patient.

4. You also have very devoted fans: almost 25,000 on Twitter, over 3,000 on Facebook, and you have comments on all your blog posts. Does that put more pressure on you creatively or does it inspire you to work harder?

Both! I have supportive, amazing readers. They’ve watched me grow as an author. I can honestly say that my readers inspire me to work harder, and create different worlds where they can truly get lost. 

Of course, that also puts creative pressure on me, but I thrive in the midst of pressure.


 

5. “The Dhellia Series Fun Video” is a superb video. Very simple and yet highly polished and professional. Who did the video and what was the process like for you? What do you think makes for good video promotion?

Well, I’m not an expert on video promotion. One day, I was browsing the internet, and I saw this cool thing called a whiteboard video used as advertisement. I searched high and low for someone to create this video, but every company I researched had prices that ranged from $1500.00 to $10,000.00. That was certainly out of my price range for promotional tools. Then I found a person on a discount website that could do the video for me at a reasonable price. 

I love the video and it gives The Dhellia Series a thirty-second opportunity to shine. 

6. Lastly, if you could give fellow writers one piece of advice on how to promote their products, what would it be?

Be consistent with writing. One published story is an accomplishment, but a reader who enjoys your work will want to read more than one story. Are you giving them a selection? Sometimes individuals will wrap themselves up in promoting one story and they will forget to write the next. Your name is your brand, write the next story and your fans/readers will follow you.

Links:

April M. Reign's Website
April M. Reign's Amazon Author Page
April M. Reign's Goodread Page
April M. Reign on Smashwords
April M. Reign on Twitter
April M. Reign on Facebook

Fiction Writer Spotlight: Steven Ramirez

I'm considering starting an 'occasional series,' to borrow a newspaper term, in which I help you get to know the writers mentioned in my New Year's Day post "Fiction Writers to Watch."

So I'm starting with Steven Ramirez because his short story "Walker" is going to be free this week.

Among Steven's works are a screenplay, Killers, and several short stories. His short story "Walker" will be free on Thursday and Friday (January 10th and 11th) in the US.

You can connect with Steven on Twitter (@GrimBlazer) or Facebook (www.Facebook.com/GrimBlazer), or through his blog, Glass Highway.

Guest Post: The Bones of Little Dolls

Help me welcome today's guest blogger, Errihu. Her short story is a delightful bit of horror:

Photo: bigsheepcommunications.wordpress.com

Christabel sat in the large armchair in her stuffy Sunday finery, her little legs dangling from the edge of the chair, and tried not to fidget. It was hard, because the armchair was not that comfortable. It was a stiff, old fashioned chair, covered in a taut white fabric heavily brocaded with large, magenta and green roses. It smelled like dust and old flowers, just like everything else in Miss Ellis’s house.
She didn’t want to be at Miss Ellis’s house. Miss Ellis was tall, pinch-faced, and wore such old fashioned, high necked dresses all the time. Her iron gray hair was always pulled in a tight bun at the top of her head. Christabel thought she was an old hag. But Mother liked Miss Ellis. Mother wanted to be Miss Ellis’s friend. Miss Ellis was rich, filthy rich, and she lived all alone up here in this stuffy old mansion, filled full of ancient, ugly, and expensive bric-a-brac. Miss Ellis had no children, and she was old.

The girl pulled at the hem of her dress. She liked dresses, but this one was uncomfortable. It was old fashioned too, with a petticoat that made the skirt billow out from her legs like a pile of clouds. A pile of itchy clouds. Her white-stockinged feet were encased in little shiny black patent leather mary janes. There were poufy piles of fabric gathered at her shoulders, and the sleeves were long. There were barrettes in her hair, and her buttery long locks were curled into loopy spirals Mother had called “ringlets”. The clothes were stiff and itchy, and she felt like a doll on display.

Mother and Miss Ellis sat nearby, drinking tea and chatting about some grown-up nonsense. They weren’t paying attention to her at all. She kicked her legs sulkily. They didn’t so much as glance over. A flash of white caught her attention. It was a cat, pure white with blue, blue eyes, its fur long and silky. It had the fluffiest tail she had ever seen on a cat. Briefly, she wondered what it would be like to pull that tail, to give it a good hard yank, if it would come off and leave her with a fluffy plaything. She smiled at the thought. The cat turned its head towards her and sniffed contemptuously, then wandered towards Miss Ellis with its tail in the air, flicking. Well, it was just a stupid cat anyway.

The two women continued to ignore her. Finally, Christabel decided to go do something. They probably wouldn’t notice anyway. She slipped off the chair as quietly as she could, then looked to see if anyone had noticed. They were still talking away. Only the cat, curled in Miss Ellis’s lap, looked her way, with its inscrutable blue-eyed cat-gaze. She ignored it.

Sneaking behind the chair, she gazed about, looking for something to do. There was a hallway; she would not be seen in there. The little girl made her way to it, taking a few moments to touch some ugly porcelain figurines with curious fingers before continuing into the hall. She glanced back, the adults and that hateful cat were out of sight.

The hallway had thick cream-coloured carpet, and was lined with closed doors. There were pictures on the wall, too high up for her to really see what was on them. By some of the doors were little tables with scrolled legs, meticulously polished and topped with lace doilies and vases of dried flowers. At the end of the hall was a door with a mirror. She wandered down the hall, leaving little-girl-shoe-shaped imprints in the plush carpet.

Photo: oohmyfavorite.com

She stopped at the end of the hall, in front of the door with the mirror. Her hand came up, touching the old fashioned cut-crystal doorknob. It turned, the door opening inward. It was dark, and she pawed beside the doorjamb, the experience of her short life indicating this was where a switch would be. She found one and clicked it on, and gasped.

The room was filled with dolls.

Dolls, porcelain dolls, with bright glass eyes, the kind that can close and open. Dolls, sitting, standing, perched on shelves, encased behind glass cabinet doors, on tables. Dolls, with shining, perfect hair and perfect outfits, little Asian dolls, Black dolls, Native dolls, Caucasian dolls, dolls of every race and colour, with dresses and garb from all over the world and from many different time periods. She took a few steps into the room, pudgy child hands outstretched for the closest one. The door slammed shut behind her with a thump. She jumped, startled, and whirled. After a few tense heartbeats, she turned to the door and tried the knob. It was stuck, or locked. She gave it another tug, then froze as she heard a voice.

“Well look what the cat dragged in,” it sneered, with the voice of another little girl. Christabel whirled, looking for the source of the voice. She saw only dolls.

“What an ugly little girl!” came another girl’s snide voice.

“Who said that?” Christabel snapped, little brows puckered in anger. She had never been called ugly before. And she knew the tones in those voices; she’d used them before on other little girls at school, the ones who weren’t as special or as pretty as she was. “You take that back.”

“Oh, did we hurt its little feelings? Oh no, whatever shall we do?” the high pitched voice was sarcastic, dripping with mockery.

“We don’t need to do anything. Its stupid, and stupid things deserve their fate,” another voice hissed maliciously.

“Shut up!” squeaked Christabel, glancing around desperately to identify her tormenters. Her eyes fixed on the dolls with a new sense of horror as realization swept through her. “Shut up, you’re nothing but stupid dolls!” she said, hiding her fear in contempt.

“Foolish little girl, you’re going to get it…” another taunted. “You’re going to get it, you’re going to get it!” a chorus of voices sang, joining in.

“I’ll show you, you’re just dolls.” The child sneered, and reached out, swiping a hand at a pretty, black haired thing sitting on the edge of a table. It flew a short distance before colliding with the mahogany leg of an upholstered chair. There was a cracking noise. Christabel heard the sound of a collectively indrawn breath.

Eyes wide with fear, the girl gazed in horror as the doll rolled back, broken porcelain shattered away to reveal white bone skull, spider-webbed with desiccated veins and arteries, dark brown and long dried. There was silence. Then, pandemonium.

“You killed LeAnn! Look, the little bitch killed LeAnn!” the dolls hissed. Christabel could no longer make out individual voices, instead, it sounded like the dolls were speaking as one. She whirled in horror, grabbing the crystal doorknob violently. It would not give.

“Now you have to take her place…Take her place! Take her place! Take her place!” the dolls chanted, their voices like thunder in Christabel’s ears.

“No!” cried the girl, tugging desperately on the door, to no avail. The crystal knob suddenly gave, coming loose from the door, the other side’s knob and spindle falling to the ground with a muffled thud. Christabel started to fall backwards. As she fell, the world seemed to enlarge and take on a strange clarity. She landed on her bottom, legs outstretched, arms at her side.

She heard laughter, echoing in her ears. “One of us now,” hissed a voice. She tried to get up, and found she couldn’t. She couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink, couldn’t move her lips. In her field of vision she saw her legs, looking pudgy and short, and realized with horror that they were porcelain.

“Ooo, here comes Mr. Clancey, everybody be quiet now,” said one of the dolls, and the chorus of jeers of laughter cut off. The door in front of her opened, the knob on the floor flying back up to mate with its partner and turn the deadlatch in one smooth, silent motion. The white cat from before entered the room.

Photo: rubylane.com

“What’s all this, ladies? I heard a ruckus coming from the room.” A male voice sounded in her mind. Christabel realized it was the cat. He looked around the room, spotted the broken doll, and the new addition. “So. The gold-digger’s daughter found the doll room, I see. I shall have to tell Miss Ellis. She will be pleased at the new addition to her collection.”

“And she hasn’t learned to talk back yet either,” crowed one of the other dolls. Torn between rage and despair, all Christabel could do was seethe silently.

“Indeed. Well, I wish you fun of her while it lasts.” Mr. Clancey, the cat, took one long look around the room and then exited with a flirt of his fluffy white tail, the door closing behind him.

The light went out. As the darkness enveloped her, the jeering of the dolls resumed.

Guest Bloggers Wanted: Fiction Stories

Yup, it's a shameless Google Ranking scheme, but a legit one. This is how Google Ranking is supposed to work: relevant content linking to relevant content, links that become popular by virtue or their quality, and all of that.

What I'm looking for is fiction stories, especially seasonal, humor and horror, since I don't write many of those myself. I'd love to liven this place up with a Christmas story, or Hanukkah or anything else December-ish.

I'm open to entire short stories, poems that tell stories, or excerpts of longer works as long as they can stand alone. If your piece fits, I'll post it here and provide a link to your site, blog or whatever, and ask that you provide a link to the post as well.

Guidelines:

1. The work needs to be your own or you need to have license to it.
2. It needs to be tame enough that I won't run into any trouble. I've promised Blogger and the search engines that there's "no mature content" here, and I need to stick to that. 
3. Start with a hook. Readers tend to move on if the first line doesn't grab them.
4. I'm looking for narrative that flows like music.
5. Please don't send teasers; that will only frustrate the readers and make them mad at me. I'm looking for whole stories, even if they are parts of longer ones.
6. How to contact: if your story is already posted online, you're welcome to post the URL in the comments section below. Then, even if I can't use it, people can still check it out. If you'd rather more privacy or there's no URL to post, go ahead and send me an email.