The Making of a Villain

by Lena Hart

Some say no one’s born “bad” – they’re made. Maybe even pushed. But I’ve seen enough reality crime shows to believe that there’s a select group who are just downright rotten to the core.

And I could care less if they happen to stumble upon a dark pit and roast for all eternity.

But the evil-doers, who are shoved into a life of… evil-doing, tend to intrigue me. I love to hate them, and yet I hate to see them go. That’s because they make me feel something for them. Not only do they instill paralyzing fear, but they can sometimes pull at people’s empathy because they have that something or someone that they care about – and we realize that they too are capable of feelings.

We may not always agree with their actions, but we often understand what makes them who they are. Iconic villains such as Freddy Krueger, Hannibal Lecter, and even the Vampire Lestat, who have built a fan-base all to themselves, are some examples of “likable” villains. That’ because they all possess a strong character profile, which includes:

Purpose: What’s their motivation? Give your villain a reason for why they kill, maim, and/or torture. For Krueger it was killing the children of his persecutors as revenge for burning him and killing him and ultimately taking him away from his daughter.

Power: What’s their strength? Your villain should be powerful in the sense that they are almost undefeatable. They can’t be easy to beat else any secondary character can defeat them and we wouldn’t need the hero(ine) to defeat them. Krueger’s power is his ability to kill people in their dreams. Can’t get any powerful then that!

Identity: What’s their trademark? Almost every villain has a weapon of choice or something about them that make people’s skin crawl. And that identifiable mark or object is symbiotic to who that villain is and part of what makes them unique. Imagine brown fedora, a red and green striped sweater, and a clawed glove … it’s hard not to think of whose disfigured face that conjures up.

Flaw: What’s their weakness? No one can be too strong and powerful, especially not your villain. So they need to have a defect, something that the hero(ine) can use to ultimately save the day. Krueger’s Achilles’ heel: he is “mortal” in the real-world. Once he leaves the dream-world, he is rendered powerless.

These key elements will help add more to your villain’s core other than pure evil. And it will make for a great, more satisfying love-hate relationship.

Lena Hart is currently working on several literary projects, while obtaining her MA in English Language & Literacy. Her debut novella, BECAUSE YOU LOVE ME, is currently available through Secret Cravings Publishing. To learn more about Lena and her work, visit www.LenaHartSite.com or find her rambling at scatblogging.blogspot.com

Fears can take all kinds of forms.

by Dee Davis

There are those that are completely irrational. Like when I was a kid and the army ants on Tarzan picked a man clean to the bone in like five minutes. I was (and sort of still am) afraid of all ants after that, certain that they were going to follow me home and make me their next bistro meal. While ants like that do exist, they’re not all that fond of people and they don’t live in Oklahoma.

There are those that seem a little crazy but in retrospect actually make sense. At my grandmother’s house there was one of those open grate furnace vents between the living and dining room. It was actually the access panel to the furnace. And you could see the blue pilot light if you looked down into it. As a child for as long as I can remember, I either skirted it on the narrow frame of rug surrounding it or jumped over it. And my heart rate always ratcheted up accordingly as if something horrible would happen if I missed and stepped on the grate. Well, come to find out years later, as a toddler, I fell and burned my hand on the grate. So my fear, although not supported by my memory was based on solid fact.

Then there are the insanely silly fears that have absolutely no source and still terrify us silly. In my case…revolving doors. I have no idea what it is about a revolving door that scares me, but suffice it to say I will do most anything I can think of to avoid using one. For most of my life, this ridiculous fear of moving glass has gone unnoticed by my near and dear because, quite frankly, there aren’t a lot of revolving doors in the Southwest where I’ve lived most of my life.

Enter Manhattan—Land of the Revolving Doors. Practically everyday I find myself faced with faced with one of more of the darn things. And my fear hasn’t lessened one iota. To make it worse, I’m a people pleaser, and so I take the little signs saying “please use revolving doors” seriously. Which makes for a lot of sucking it up, saying a prayer and moving through as quickly as possible, heart threatening to break out of my chest.

And because I’m a writer—poor Vanessa in A Match Made on Madison sadly shares my fear of revolving doors, and so my fears found their way to the printed page.

How about you? Any irrational fears? Crazy things (like revolving doors) that aren’t really all that scary that set you off? Do tell!

When not sitting at the computer writing, award winning author Dee Davis spends her time exploring Manhattan with her husband, daughter, and Cardigan Welsh Corgi. Her newest book, Double Danger will hit shelves on December 18th. Visit her at www.deedavis.com

Photo Credit: Revolving Door - Keith Bloomfield (Flikr)

Fear of Crazy

by Kate McMurray

My running theory is that you have to be really crazy to be a writer. For example, I went to two conventions this month, and whenever anyone got talking about the voices in her head, there were a lot of knowing nods. In any other environment, that kind of talk would get you put in a straight jacket, right? Generally, I think some crazy is good for a writer. We’re creative people, after all. A little insanity serves to fuel the fire.

For me personally, a lot of my crazy is tied up with fear. I’m terrified of heights, for example. Like, the act of standing on a step stool has induced panic attacks, that kind of fear. It’s manageable if I stay away from ladders and ledges. The only time I ever really lost it in public was during a hike in the Berkshires with my then-boyfriend, who thought it would be a good idea to take me to the top of this rickety lookout tower at the top of one of the mountains. (It was not a good idea.)

I’m also kind of a Type A, so another of my fears is the loss of control. That’s a tough thing for a writer, because it means a) I’m a plotter, so I make outlines and charts and diagrams and maps and things before I even start to write, and then when my characters do SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY, as is their wont, I tend to freak out... and then make new outlines and charts and diagrams and whatever; and b) I have a tendency to write neurotic characters.

I try to keep the latter in check. I get some credit in reviews for writing “regular guys” and I want my characters to be accessible, be they actors or professional sports stars or ghost-hunting academics or dads with middle-management jobs in the suburbs. But I like thinky characters and smart characters and characters that tend to be all up in their own heads overthinking things. Probably this is because that’s basically how I operate.

Fear can be of scary things or they can be less tangible, and giving a character both kinds of fear rounds them out. Take, for example, Finn and Troy from my paranormal novel Across the East River Bridge. They have real things to fear, namely a pair of ghosts that haunt the museum where Troy is a curator. But they have other fears, too. Troy fears the past. He bulks up at the gym to overcompensate for being taunted as a child for being too frail and girly. Finn is afraid of failure, of never finishing his elusive PhD, of getting stuck in his thankless research assistant job. Finn blames others for his own shortcomings and fears facing responsibility.

Or take, for example, the fears of the characters in my latest book, Four Corners. Jake can’t let go of the past and in part still lives there because it’s safer than facing a future in which he has to move on from his love for his best friend Adam. He fears losing Adam for good. Adam is more savvy, more of a shark, and he fears losing credibility with his clients if they find out he’s gay. He fears letting himself love a man, putting his heart on the line, being left behind.

All of these fears make up these characters, make up their motivations. So be it fear of failure or fear of werewolves, fear is an essential component of a lot of good stories.

Kate McMurray is a Brooklyn-based writer of romance and editor of nonfiction. She’s the author of Out in the Field, a bestselling m/m novel about the romance between two Major League baseball players. In her off hours, she obsesses over baseball and fashion and cute animals. She’s only a little crazy. (...Right?) You can find her on the web at www.katemcmurray.com or on Twitter @katemcmwriter.

Fast Draft

By Carolyn Gibbs

One of the things that scares me the most about writing is just sitting down to do a first draft, throwing my cares to the wind and not looking back. Like most writers, I have a very strong inner critic who won’t shut up when I’m sitting down to write. Sending my inner critic on an all-expense paid vacation until I finished my first draft wasn’t an easy feat.

To help overcome the habit of writing with a rear view mirror, I took an online class called Fast Draft with author Candace Havens. In Fast Draft your goal is to write 20 pages a day for two weeks, without looking back.

I must admit I didn’t write that much each day, but I did make great progress and finished my novella quicker than plodding along as usual. I persisted, and learned during that short time to just let go and write, instead of over thinking or listening to the voice inside my head that said, what you’ve got to be kidding.

If I spend too much time editing while I write, the story spark fades and withers away. The Fast Draft method worked for me, and allowed me to get the words on the page quickly. I discovered that it was actually a freeing experience, to just quickly write what was in my head instead of debating about how it sounded while writing. After the first fast draft was complete, I went through the entire story re-writing and weeding out what I didn’t need, getting it ready to submit. There is a famous quote about writing which says the real work of writing is in the editing, and after going through the fast draft process, I definitely agree with it.

I’m glad I faced my inner critic and sent her packing once and for all. Now when I sit down to write I keep my mind on what the characters are doing in the scene, instead of analyzing it. The re-writing can come later. I’ve got a draft to complete.

Visit me at www.carolynwrites.blogspot.com to read about my WIP and check out the contemporary romance novella, Love and Economy from Secret Craving Publishing, available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

A Haunted House in an Unusual Place

by Tanya Goodwin

As a travelling physician, I’ve been to a variety of small towns, many filled with older houses. I’ve marveled at many of these on my walks or runs around the neighborhoods. But I never thought that one day I’d actually practice obstetrics and gynecology during one of my locum tenens assignments in a “haunted home.” That’s exactly what happened when I went to Dansville, New York.

As I entered the obstetric/gynecologic practice located inside a beautiful, classic house, I was blown away to find out that this house, one hundred years ago, was a funeral home! Needless to say, my interest in this historic fact was piqued. Stained glass windows and a fireplace in every room greeted me. Although the house was converted to accommodate a medical practice, including exam rooms, I couldn’t help envision how people used to come here to pay their respects to the dead decades ago.

Aged brown and beige framed photos of Grover’s Funeral Home lined the corridors. In between seeing patients, I could not stop staring at these. I had to learn more. The office nurses were more than happy to share the spooky details.

First we climbed a winding staircase to the second floor while sliding our hands up the polished mahogany banister. The nurse told me of a periodic apparition of a man in a suit who’d stand in between the two flights of stairs. I did not see him during my assignment, but I believe it! The nurses then pulled down the attic stairs and off we went to the dusty abode above us. Among office supplies, the old Grover’s Funeral Home signage sat so macabre upon velvet cushioned chair, as if it was taken down only recently. Wow! I couldn’t believe that sign was still housed in that attic for one hundred years. I, of course, whipped out my camera for a unique photo op.

So impressed by the whole historic feel of the house, now an obstetric and gynecologic practice, I couldn’t help but write about a house such as this in a novel I named, “The Embalmer”, the sequel to “If Memory Serves” by Mitchell Morris Publishing. I can’t wait for you to read it. Meanwhile, enjoy the following photos of the house now, and how it existed one hundred years ago.

Have you ever been inside a haunted house?

Tanya Goodwin writes romantic suspense with a twist of medicine and mystery. Her experiences as a physician are reflected in her characters and in her stories. Tanya is a graduate of the University of Miami School of Medicine and completed her specialty training as an obstetrician and gynecologist in Tampa, Florida. She now resides in New York. Her present life as a travelling doctor allows her to switch from stethoscope to keyboard. Tanya is a member of Romance Writers of America, Mystery Writers of America, and Sisters in Crime. You can visit her at her website, www.tanyagoodwin.com.

Peeking Through My Fingers Scary!

by Jerie Clowes

What frightens me?

This question has been on my mind for more than a month. Then two days ago I started reading Wendy Corsi-Staub’s Nightwatcher and suddenly I knew what frightens and scars me – knowing something’s coming, knowing someone’s going to get it and not knowing who or what it is. Or I know who but not what; or I know what but not who. It’s exciting, scary, white knuckle, edge-of-my-seat thrilling, and I’m freaking out. That’s what a thriller is isn’t it? Abject terror in a situation that’s just plausible enough to possibly really happen and maybe could happen to me.

It’s at this point in a movie that I clamp my hands over my face and peek between my fingers with one eye, while the other eye is squeezed tight shut behind the other protective hand shielding my poor sensibilities from the inevitable murder and mayhem. If it’s really scary I may just walk out of the room, let the horrible thing happen on screen, come back, rewind and watch the scene like a normal person.

That’s scary on screen.

But with a novel when the scary stuff begins I can’t put the book down. I can’t read fast enough or turn the pages quickly enough. The ultimate is hiding my iPhone under the desk at work while reading a book, that’s when I’m in heaven and completely transported to the world of the novel, real time fades away and I hardly know where I am. Hiding a book or e-reader under my desk, sneaking glances while trying to appear casual and busy only adds to the excitement. Taking the risk, knowing I could get caught, but feeding that guilty pleasure of being inside a thriller – that is the best.

Jerie Clowes is currently working on several projects. She is the Secretary of the RWA/NYC Chapter.

BIG SCREEN SCREAMS!

list compiled by Lise Horton

The Invasion of the Body Snatchers (original)
The Night of the Living Dead
Alien & Aliens
The Night of the Hunter
Poltergeist
The Last House on the Left
Exorcist
The Haunting of Hill House
The Blob (original with Steve McQueen & remake with Kevin Dillon)
Rosemary’s Baby
The Stepford Wives
Fatal Attraction
From Hell
Single White Female
Disturbia
The Skeleton Key
The Gift
Charlotte Gray
Psycho
The Birds
The Shining
The Amityville Horror
Nosferatu
Fallen
Panic Room
The Omen
Copycat
The Sixth Sense
A Clockwork Orange
The Devil’s Advocate
Marathon Man
The Silence of the Lambs
Night of the Living Dead
Midnight Express
Fall of the House of Usher
The Mummy
Seven


What films give you the heebie jeebies? Does your frightful film list include paranormal and supernatural titles? Or is it the psychopath and serial killer that makes you shiver? Add your favorite scary film and WATCH OUT BEHIND YOU!

Excerpt: "The Call of Cthulhu"

by horror master, H. P. Lovecraft


The aperture was black with a darkness almost material. That tenebrousness was indeed a positive quality; for it obscured such parts of the inner walls as ought to have been revealed, and actually burst forth like smoke from its aeon-long imprisonment, visibly darkening the sun as it slunk away into the shrunken and gibbous sky on flapping membraneous wings. The odour rising from the newly opened depths was intolerable, and at length the quick-eared Hawkins thought he heard a nasty, slopping sound down there. Everyone listened, and everyone was listening still when It lumbered slobberingly into sight and gropingly squeezed Its gelatinous green immensity through the black doorway into the tainted outside air of that poison city of madness.

Poor Johansen's handwriting almost gave out when he wrote of this. Of the six men who never reached the ship, he thinks two perished of pure fright in that accursed instant. The Thing cannot be described - there is no language for such abysms of shrieking and immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A mountain walked or stumbled. God! What wonder that across the earth a great architect went mad, and poor Wilcox raved with fever in that telepathic instant? The Thing of the idols, the green, sticky spawn of the stars, had awaked to claim his own. The stars were right again, and what an age-old cult had failed to do by design, a band of innocent sailors had done by accident. After vigintillions of years great Cthulhu was loose again, and ravening for delight.

Three men were swept up by the flabby claws before anybody turned. God rest them, if there be any rest in the universe. They were Donovan, Guerrera, and Angstrom. Parker slipped as the other three were plunging frenziedly over endless vistas of green-crusted rock to the boat, and Johansen swears he was swallowed up by an angle of masonry which shouldn't have been there; an angle which was acute, but behaved as if it were obtuse. So only Briden and Johansen reached the boat, and pulled desperately for the Alert as the mountainous monstrosity flopped down the slimy stones and hesitated, floundering at the edge of the water.

Steam had not been suffered to go down entirely, despite the departure of all hands for the shore; and it was the work of only a few moments of feverish rushing up and down between wheel and engines to get the Alert under way. Slowly, amidst the distorted horrors of that indescribable scene, she began to churn the lethal waters; whilst on the masonry of that charnel shore that was not of earth the titan Thing from the stars slavered and gibbered like Polypheme cursing the fleeing ship of Odysseus. Then, bolder than the storied Cyclops, great Cthulhu slid greasily into the water and began to pursue with vast wave-raising strokes of cosmic potency. Briden looked back and went mad, laughing shrilly as he kept on laughing at intervals till death found him one night in the cabin whilst Johansen was wandering deliriously.

But Johansen had not given out yet. Knowing that the Thing could surely overtake the Alert until steam was fully up, he resolved on a desperate chance; and, setting the engine for full speed, ran lightning-like on deck and reversed the wheel. There was a mighty eddying and foaming in the noisome brine, and as the steam mounted higher and higher the brave Norwegian drove his vessel head on against the pursuing jelly which rose above the unclean froth like the stern of a daemon galleon. The awful squid-head with writhing feelers came nearly up to the bowsprit of the sturdy yacht, but johansen drove on relentlessly. There was a bursting as of an exploding bladder, a slushy nastiness as of a cloven sunfish, a stench as of a thousand opened graves, and a sound that the chronicler could not put on paper. For an instant the ship was befouled by an acrid and blinding green cloud, and then there was only a venomous seething astern; where - God in heaven! - the scattered plasticity of that nameless sky-spawn was nebulously recombining in its hateful original form, whilst its distance widened every second as the Alert gained impetus from its mounting steam.

That was all. After that Johansen only brooded over the idol in the cabin and attended to a few matters of food for himself and the laughing maniac by his side. He did not try to navigate after the first bold flight, for the reaction had taken something out of his soul. Then came the storm of April 2nd, and a gathering of the clouds about his consciousness. There is a sense of spectral whirling through liquid gulfs of infinity, of dizzying rides through reeling universes on a comets tail, and of hysterical plunges from the pit to the moon and from the moon back again to the pit, all livened by a cachinnating chorus of the distorted, hilarious elder gods and the green, bat-winged mocking imps of Tartarus.

Out of that dream came rescue-the Vigilant, the vice-admiralty court, the streets of Dunedin, and the long voyage back home to the old house by the Egeberg. He could not tell - they would think him mad. He would write of what he knew before death came, but his wife must not guess. Death would be a boon if only it could blot out the memories.

That was the document I read, and now I have placed it in the tin box beside the bas-relief and the papers of Professor Angell. With it shall go this record of mine - this test of my own sanity, wherein is pieced together that which I hope may never be pieced together again. I have looked upon all that the universe has to hold of horror, and even the skies of spring and the flowers of summer must ever afterward be poison to me. But I do not think my life will be long. As my uncle went, as poor Johansen went, so I shall go. I know too much, and the cult still lives.

Cthulhu still lives, too, I suppose, again in that chasm of stone which has shielded him since the sun was young. His accursed city is sunken once more, for the Vigilant sailed over the spot after the April storm; but his ministers on earth still bellow and prance and slay around idol-capped monoliths in lonely places. He must have been trapped by the sinking whilst within his black abyss, or else the world would by now be screaming with fright and frenzy. Who knows the end? What has risen may sink, and what has sunk may rise. Loathsomeness waits and dreams in the deep, and decay spreads over the tottering cities of men. A time will come - but I must not and cannot think! Let me pray that, if I do not survive this manuscript, my executors may put caution before audacity and see that it meets no other eye.

Conquering Fear – One Step at a Time

by Karen Cino

Fear. Ha. I’m not afraid of anything. Who am I kidding. I have a fear of the ocean. When I see the waves down at the Jersey Shore, and the bigger waves at Rockaway Beach, it scares me tremendously.

This past summer, I spent most weekdays down at South Beach in Staten Island. Now for those of you that aren’t familiar with the beaches at Staten Island, the only surfboard you would be riding is the toy kind. South Beach is on the bay side of the Atlantic Ocean. Across the water are Seagate (Coney Island), Hoffman Island and Shore Road. Very rarely do you see waves except for a major storm. Otherwise the water is calm, like sitting on a lake.

The beginning of the summer, I would stroll down to the water, just wetting my toes. But as the summer continued and the heat becoming more intense, I took a couple of steps in, well…up to my ankles giving me an inch or two of water to splash myself with.

I’d sit and watch, instead of doing my revisions, everyone enjoying the ocean, while I sat in my beach chair drinking Gatorade trying to keep cool. I sat there day after day wanting to conquer my fear of the ocean instead of walking down to the sprinkler to cool off.

Then one day, it just happened. A man and his toddler daughter went kayaking. I watched the toddler who had to be around five years old run down to the waters edge and jump right into the water. That’s when I knew it was time for me to venture down. I walked into the water, just up to my thighs. I dunked up to my shoulders and proudly walked out of the water with a wet bathing suit. I’m on the right road. Hopefully next summer, I have the courage to take those first steps from the start.

Now here I am afraid of the water, and I set my books, Roses and The Boardwalk around summer and the beach. One thing both my heroines did was overcome their fears. My take is fear is something we let stand in our way. The best way to get over fear is to stand up to it and take it one step at a time.

Karen Cino is an author, poet and former journalist. She’d been writing since she was 14 years old. She started her career by writing poetry, short stories and articles for her high school newspaper and the Staten Island Register. After reading Jackie Collin’s LOVERS AND GAMBLERS, she knew she found her niche, writing women’s fiction. Her daily walk down at the boardwalk is what gets her muse going. It clears her mind and helps her find realistic plot ideas and characters. Karen loves writing about local places that people can relate to. Her debut novel Roses was released in April 2012 and The Boardwalk, July 2012. Coming in February and April 2013 is her Mystical Wonders Series. Karen is a single mom living in Staten Island, with her two adult children, Michael and Nicole, and three cats. Visit her at www.karencino.com and www.karencinobooks.blogspot.com.

The Fear Inside

by Addison Fox



The month of October abounds with scary things from knife-wielding psychopaths to hockey-masked villains, dark woods and ghoulish ghost stories. All are designed to assault the senses with a bloody mix of physical and mental torture.

But in real life, the things we fear are often far more subtle – and far more personal – than the monsters that live in the dark. And as authors, it’s our job to use those very real human fears to create a gripping read on the page.

None of us likes fear – the human emotion that simultaneously protects us and tortures us in the deepest recesses of our minds. But if you can create that feeling on the page - the one where you bring your characters’ deepest fears to life – you create an experience for the reader that’s touching and oh-so-real.

Writing romance allows us to tap into the deepest human fears – our secret doubts that question our ability to love and be loved, to live a fulfilling life and to share our lives with others.

Will I be enough for someone else?

Will my past prevent me from enjoying a happy present and future?

Can I reveal my true nature to the one I’m falling in love with?

These questions and so many others create a rich tapestry of emotions that we can weave into our characters’ lives. When we do this, we create a compelling story that keeps our readers with us to the very end of the book.

No matter what you write, from romantic suspense to erotica to historical and every sub genre in between, creating that emotion on the page will leave your readers satisfied long after the last word is read and the story is told. Taking your readers to those places – the ones that live deep inside the rich well of human emotions – will ensure they keep coming back for more.

Happy Writing!
Addison

Despite early ambitions of being a diver, a drummer or a doctor, Addison Fox happily discovered she was more suited to life as a writer. She lives in Dallas and - thankfully - doesn't have to operate on anyone. You can find her at her home on the web at www.addisonfox.com. Her next book, COME FLY WITH ME, will be out November 2012 from Signet Eclipse.

The Craziest of Fears

by Mageela Troche

I must admit I do have a few fears. I’m afraid of clowns and strippers (bad experience at a bridal shower). I don’t quite trust cats, yes, they freak me out a bit. But there is one fear I swore only I had. Until I watched Unzipped and the part where fashion designer Isaac Mizrahi is speaking to Naomi Campbell and he asks, what she fears more failure or success? Her answer was success and Isaac squealed me too. I raised my hand while yelling at the television, me three. Me three.

Yeah, crazy but I have a fear of success. This month, I signed my first contract for my Highland Romance. That is a success. I had written this book, submitted it to a contest and then got offered a contract.

That’s success.

I want to be successful. Truthfully, I have a crazy drive in me that makes me want to conquer everything in life. In some way, I’m a perfectionist but I know that nothing is perfect. But success can be an ugly beast.

You have to live up to that stage you developed and surpass it. People look at you differently, expecting more from you. Can you deliver it or be that one-hit wonder? Perhaps, it was just a fluke, a little angel who steered you down the right path. Thanks to sucky gravity, what goes up must come down, right?

Nothing in this world dazzles like the first time.

Then there are those people out in the world want to tear you down. Lena Dunham, creator and writer of HBO’s show Girls and who signed a book deal for more than three-point-five million dollars, has her detractors who spew comments just to spew them. People say just don’t listen. Sure one voice you can ignore but a thousand are deafening, surrounding you and not letting you go.

Stupid crazy fear.

Then I remembered a life lesson.

To hell with fear.

The world might have its own idea of success.

Well, it’s mine that matters.

So, did I give everything to my writing? Was I true with my emotions, my beliefs, the person I am? At the end of the day, can I pat myself on the back? If I can do all that then that’s a success and besides, tomorrow is another day and I can do it all over again.

Mageela Troche has been contracted by Secret Cravings. Highland Romance is scheduled for release in 2013. She serves as Vice President to RWA/NYC.

Chiller-Thriller: Getting In The Mood, Classical Style

list compiled by Lise Horton

There’s no better inspiration for writing chilling fiction – be it romantic suspense, horror, supernatural, paranormal, thriller, or mystery than powerful, classical music. Check out these compositions and see if you are not inspired to create spine-tingling tales! Want to hear my favorite? Check out the link at the right.

Begräbnisgesang, Brahms

Dance of the Furies, Gluck

Fist Walpurgis Night, Mendelssohn

Ride of the Valkyries, Richard Wagner

Peter and the Wolf, Prokofiev

Witches Dance, Paganini

Smatroid, Grieg

Funeral March, Chopin

Variations, Opus 27 (Ruhigliessend), Webern

Hungarian Dances (No.5 in G Minor), Brahms

Toccata & Fuge in d minor, Bach

In The Hall of the Mountain King, GriegThe Bells, Lento Lugubre, Rachmaninoff

Flight of the Bumblebee, Rimsky-Korsakov

Piano Quartet in g minor, Opus 25, Brahms

Requiem, Brahms

Devil’s Dance, John Williams

Sacrificial Dance (The Rite of Spring), Stravinsky

Prelude in c-sharp minor (Bells of Moscow), Rachmaninoff

Tubular Bells, Mike Oldfield

Music for String, Percussion & Celestra, Bartok

Requiem, “Dies Irae”, Mozart

Carmina Burana, O Fortuna, Orff

Robert Browning Overture, Ives

A Night on Bald Mountain, Mussorgsky

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, Dukas

Mephisto Waltz, No. 1, Liszt

The Noon Witch, Dvorak

Le Chasseur Maudit (The Accursed Hunter), Franck

Hobgoglin (Symphonic Sketches III), Chadwick

Baba Yaga, Op.56, Lyadov

Danse Macabre, Op. 40, Saint-Saëns

Requiem, “Dies Irae”, Verdi

Feste Romance (Roman Festivals), Respighi

Black Host, Bolcom

Symphonie Fantastique, Mvmt IV, Berlioz

Dance of Death, Liszt

Montagues and Capulets, Prokofiev

Imperial March, John Williams

Atmospheres, Ligeti

Hugo Wolf Quartet, Bartok

La Cathedrale engloutie (Engulfed Cathedral), Debussy

Fright

by Teresa C. Miñambres

With Halloween coming up I was asked to write about a frightening thing. I started by delving up scary moments from my past. (I was almost gored by a bull in a bull run in Spain. However, that was more exciting than scary.) (I pulled a 60° bank in a Cherokee 6 single engine plane and almost ripped the wings off. That too was merely exciting and helped to discourage a mild mannered gentleman from asking me out a second time. He was in the back seat turning green during my lesson.) What does scare me? The answer was right there behind me at Bed Bath and Beyond on the cashier line. The man had pulled his cart up behind me and in the middle of the cart was a dog. I am terrified of dogs.

I have been known to jump in front of an 18 wheeler to avoid being on the same sidewalk with a Bichon Frise. (This really happened and the driver of that truck jumped out of his cab to confront me and yell at me. I explained that there was a dog on the side walk and he looked over and screamed, “You are afraid of that!” With as much dignity as I could muster, I answered in the affirmative and walked in the street, against the traffic, to my home rather than share the side walk with the dog.)

When I see my neighbors walking their dogs, I break out in a cold sweat, my heat starts palpitating like crazy, my vision field narrows and I find it hard to breath. To me all dogs are Cujo and they are all waiting to take a bite out of me. How can I react this way?

Let me take you back to my childhood. I was eight years old and staying at my friends house in Astoria, Queens for a week. She and her family had lived in Chelsea before the great Greek migration from railroad room apartments to three family private houses.

My friend’s brother was much older and us. He has served his tour of duty in Viet Nam and was married and had children and had Cindy, the pregnant German shepherd from hell. At this point in time he co-owned the house with his older sister, her husband and his parents and my girlfriend (the baby of the family).

Cindy had always made me uncomfortable. She was very aggressive and always growled. I had never had pets; had never wanted pets. I had no points of reference to judge her behavior.

One day, I was brushing my hair with a silver handled brush and I heard Cindy growling behind me. I still remember freezing and looking in the mirror at her reflection. Cindy’s gums were pulled back and her teeth were bared. She was looking at me with an intent to kill me. I was not imagining this. As I turned to leave the room, she lunged at me and knocked me onto the bed. To this day I still remember her breath on my face, her saliva on my face and arm and her weight on me.

I also still do not know how I managed to save myself. Some instinct made me shove the brush which I was still clinging to down her throat. I screamed and held the brush in place. How? I do not know. My friend’s brother and her brother-in-law came running in and pulled the snarling animal off me.

I ran into the bathroom and locked the door. I am told that it took them over four hours to convince me to come out. All I still feel is the fear of that moment. As I write this, my heart is palpitating and my palms are moist.

I have a very very good memory and I remember things like a movie was recorded in my brain. I see the room, the sun coming in the window; I feel the heat of summer. I will never forget that moment in time.

Time has marched on. My friend and I grew apart. I have often wondered what happened to her. Mutual friends, with whom we both keep in touch, tell me that she is doing well and I am happy for her.

I found out that Cindy was finally shot when she jumped a fence and threatened two small boys playing in their yard. The father was a policeman and when he saw the dog attacking, he got his service revolver and the rest was history.

I was told years later that Cindy had been a point dog in the Viet Nam jungles and trained to attack and kill. Maybe she thought I had a knife in my hand and was a danger? This will always be a mystery. What I do know is that I learned never to trust dogs and never to go near them. I have faced guns, lawyers, landlords, drunkards, drug sellers and officers of the law. None of those have ever made me blanch and run the way a dog can.

I was standing at the front of 2 World Trade Center on September 11, 2001 as the plane attacked. I was covered in ashes. Not even that frightens me as much as a Bichon Frise.

One thing this has taught me is to respect other people’s fears. . .

Teresa C. Miñambres works for New York City Transit currently and, in her former life, she graduated with a Masters Degree in Spanish European History. She is currently working on two historical romances, one set in Texas and one set in Colorado. Both involve Spanish land grants which the heroines had inherited. Both my heroines and heroes are strong, opinionated and very sensual.

“My name is Flora and I suffer from netbookphobia.”

by Flora Vesna

When I was six years old, I woke up one night to find an alligator standing on my chest, its snout looking down into my face. I screamed bloody murder, and my mother came rushing into my bedroom to comfort me, and I saw the gator jump off my bed and scurry out the door, its tail swerving to and fro.

Now, of course, I know I was just dreaming. Since then, I have been deathly afraid of alligators and crocodiles. Yes, there are differences between the two, but that doesn’t matter to me because I consider both to be two of the scariest reptiles on the planet with the potential to kill me. There is no specific technical term for the fear of alligators, only a general one for all reptiles called “herpetophobia,” which is fine by me because I am afraid of snakes as well (yes, even the sweet garter kind).

And don’t even ask about the time my husband and I drove through the Everglades (twice!) between Miami and my family’s vacation home on the Gulf Coast side of Florida. He took sadistic glee in pointing out the alligators that were standing on the side of the road (behind a fence, of course), with me sitting in the front seat, my hands practically glued over my eyes.

Fear of alligators. That’s a legitimate fear.

Fear of netbooks? Not so much.

As a writer, I can carry a plotline in my head for a long time without forgetting it. I care for it, I feed it, I nurture it. It lives quite the glamorous life inside my mind.

Then comes the time when I actually need to put it down on paper, meaning into my netbook. And I panic. What if it doesn’t sound as good once I release it from its sanctuary in my head?

As I place my netbook on my lap desk and power it up, I’m always afraid I’ll lose the magic of the words. And of course, I have to write more beyond the plot that had been living inside my head for so long. But somehow, I always manage to continue the story. Eventually, a new plotline plants its seed in my head, and I tend to its growth until it’s time for it to leave the greenhouse of my mind to bloom. That’s the beauty of writing.

Flora Vesna is an aspiring author of erotic romance and paranormal romance. She grew up in the suburbs of New Jersey. She resides in New York City. She has an MFA in creative writing (fiction). She can be found on Twitter at her handle: @floravesna.

FROM HELL

by Lise Horton

Into the miasma of human misery that was 1888 Victorian London – a place of poverty and degradation rife with hardscrabble poverty, drug addiction and alcoholism, prostitution, child labor and rampant illness – came unimagined evil in human form. Even today, through the mists of time, he is the specter who continues to haunt the night. We still ponder the mystery of who he was, how many ill-fated women were really his victims, and . . . why did he disappear as stealthily as he came?

There is no agreement as to when the victims began to die at his hands or who was the first. Was it Ada Wilson, a “seamstress”, stabbed in the throat by a “sandy-haired man” in March of 1888? Or Martha Tabram who perhaps fell to the slice of his razor sharp blade on August 7, 1888? Could there have been other madmen at work in Whitechapel? Or was the villain merely perfecting his diabolical technique for satisfying his blood lust on women of the streets, before he sent Mary Ann Nichols to her grisly reward?

And who was his last victim? Young, pretty Mary Jane Kelly whose horrific disemboweling cannot be conceived of? Or were later murdered women additional notches on his blade, like Elizabeth “Lizzie” Jackson, part of whose corpse was found in the Thames? Might the headless, limbless torso that was found in the very depths of New Scotland Yard have been the cheeky calling card of a madman in a growing state of murderous frenzy?

Once begun, the murders crept into the consciousness of rich and poor alike, and fear permeated all of London as women continued to die ever more gruesome deaths:

Mary Ann Nichols

Annie Chapman

Elizabeth Stride

Catherine Eddowes

Mary Jane Kelly

Kelly’s death on November 9, 1888, marks the end of the accepted “canonical” victims of the man of many names and nightmares, including “Leather Apron”. But death continued to haunt Whitechapel and its environs for more than a year. Was it truly over or did officials despair and turn a willfully blind eye to the truth?

Suspects were sought by the dozens…

Was he the Jewish butcher whose attire had been the “leather apron” seen by witnesses? Was he one of the famous among London’s elite, like Lewis Carroll? Perhaps he was the handsome, mad, suicidal Montague John Druitt? Maybe “he” had really been a she – the posited “Jill”? One American fell under suspicion - the Machiavellian foreigner, Francis Tumblety caught many a lawman’s eye with his collection of specimens and hatred of women. Could he even have been a royal ensconced within the palace: Prince Albert Victor, son of beloved Queen Victoria herself? Or mayhap the perpetrator was the Prince’s physician who possessed the requisite knowledge for removing organs? How jolly to taunt the police with a bit of kidney by post! Or was he a man who never came to the attention of investigators, leaving no image, no name to add to the roster?

… none were brought before a magistrate for a reckoning.

Why did the crimes cease? Did the killer die? Was he driven mad by the unrelenting drive to torture and kill? Did he move away to continue ghastly assaults in another place, where he continued to perfect his deadly craft long after newspaper stories of the murders of Whitechapel yellowed with age?

All that is known is that the world’s most notorious killer slipped into history, leaving in his wake the echoes of screams and dying sighs.

Who can say?

A woman walks into the shadows, looking over her shoulder at the sound of measured steps on the cobblestones in the dark behind her.

She breathes faster in the gaslit night.

A whisper, a call, a flash beneath the flickering light of – what?

Is it a knife?

Is he back?

Will she be the next unfortunate soul left in gruesome display on the damp, fetid street, her life’s blood draining from her as she grows cold with death?

Until the harsh glare of day reveals another victim of . . .

Jack the Ripper.

Lise Horton is the President of RWA/NYC, a budding "Ripperologist", and at work editing her erotic time travel romance, Just In Time, wherein her heroine sets out to catch Jack. You can follow Lise at http://lisehorton.blogspot.com/

The Stuff of Nightmares: Classic Fright Fiction

compiled by Lise Horton

“Tobermory”, Saki (H. H. Munro)

“The Lottery”, Shirley Jackson

Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

Dracula, Bram Stoker

The Turn of the Screw, Henry James

The Complete Canon of Edgar Allen Poe

“The Monkey’s Paw”, W. W. Jacobs

Grimm’s Fairy Tales

“The Highwayman”, by Alfred Noyes

“Titus Andronicus”, William Shakespeare

“The Visit”, Friedrich Dürenmatt

“The Petrified Forest”, Robert E. Sherwood

In Cold Blood, Truman Capote

A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens

“Suddenly, Last Summer”, Tennessee Williams

“The Exorcist”, William Blatty

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Washington Irving

The Haunting of Hill House, Shirley Jackson

“Rosemary’s Baby”, Ira Levin

The Shining, Stephen King

Johnny Got His Gun, Dalton Trumbo

The War of the Worlds, H. G. Wells

The Canon of H. P. Lovecraft

Something Wicked This Way Comes, Ray Bradbury

The Monk, Matthew Lewis

Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde, Robert Louis Stevenson

The Hound of the Baskervilles, Arthur Conan Doyle

Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier

The Day of the Triffids, John Wyndham

“The Damned Thing”, Ambrose Bierce

The Mysteries of Udolpho, Anne Radcliffe

The Ghost Stories, Edith Wharton

Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut

“Carmilla”, J. Sheridan le Fanu

“The Willows”, Algernon Blackwood

“The Minister’s Black Veil”, Nathanial Hawthorne

“The Canterville Ghost”, Oscar Wilde

“The Overcoat”, Nikoli Gogol

1984, George Orwell

"The Goblin Market", Christina Rossetti


… but for this author, the scariest book of all time? Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury.


What's YOUR favorite novel of chills and terror?

"THE RAVEN"

by Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door--
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my sour within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpour
Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered: "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!

For more information about Edgar Allen Poe and his macabre and chilling fiction & poems, visit the Poe Museum at www.poemuseum.org

MY SCARIEST VILLAIN, REX FROM NOW AND FOREVER 3, BLIND LOVE

by Jean Joachim

Evil villains add depth to romance. I have a few romances with evil villains. My baddest bad guy, Rex Vesson, grew up deprived. He was born into a household with two big sisters who both hated him. Their father deserted the family when Rex was born and they blamed him.

A skinny kid, Rex was knocked around continually until he went into the military. He worked out, built his body up and learned how to defend himself. From there he launched a career as a blackmailer, working as a bouncer in a nightclub. When he picked the wrong people to threaten, he was forced to flee for his life. Rex moved in with his cousin, Alan, in small town, Willow Falls.

In Willow Falls, Rex was sniffing around, looking to start up another blackmailing business. He zeroed in on his cousin as having something to hide. Before pursuing Alan’s secret, he hooked up with Deena, a topless dancer. Though Rex’s heart had hardened over the years, Deena wormed her way into his psyche. They were a couple, working together at The Wet Tee Shirt, making love and blackmailing Willow Falls folks.

Life gets complicated when Rex goes for a big score against my hero, Mac Caldwell through his young son, Jason. A nicely oiled blackmail machine pops a spring and spins out of control as jealousy coupled with fear crowd out affection in Rex’s heart. Deena has to go. Rex easily slips into more serious crime, then cover-up, framing my hero in Now and Forever 3, Blind Love.

While I was writing Rex, I developed a grudging respect for his wily ways. But when it came time for him to get caught, he refused! Damn, outright refusal! For several chapters he managed to slip under the radar of the police as well as sharp-eyed Callie, my heroine, Mac’s wife. I got pretty frustrated not to mention a little scared a character I created could take on such a potent, evil life of his own, preventing me from bringing him to justice. It was more than a little weird!

It turned out the only person sharp enough to bring down Rex, was Rex himself! Yes, I let him get caught in one of his own traps. What was Alan up to? You’re simply going to have to read the book to find out and to discover how Rex brought himself down. Evil must be avenged!

Can a handsome, charming, womanizing professor win the heart of a temporarily blind ballerina? Love comes to the university as Peter Caldwell, dashing Art History professor and accomplished pianist meets Lara Stewart, ballerina. Peter can’t seduce with her with his devastating good looks because Lara can’t see. Obsessed with the one woman he can’t have, Peter has to learn how to love.

Sam Caldwell joins Peter, Mac, Callie and his grandchildren. Witty and attractive, Sam isn’t looking for a woman but finds love isn’t only for the young but the young at heart as well.

Small town secrets feed a blackmailer and blackmail on campus is paid with sexual favors. Blind Love is a roller coaster ride of twists and turns. This full length novel is three parts love and passion mixed with one part intrigue, stirred up with a twist of mystery and heated up to three flames.

Jean Joachim is an author, married, a mother of two boys and owner of a rescued pug named Homer. She writes contemporary romance and has twelve contemporary romance books published with one more scheduled to be release within the coming months. Jean has been writing non-fiction for over twenty years and fiction for three. Her review column, "Movie Choices for Kids" has been syndicated on parenting newspapers websites for the past 12 years. A native New Yorker, she still lives in New York City.


Visit Jean and read more about her books on her Website and blog:

BLANK FEAR

By Maria C. Ferrer


The scariest thing I’ve ever faced is the blank page.

It doesn’t matter how many “what if” scenarios are running through my head, how eager I am to get the story outline down on paper, sometimes just looking at that span of white paralyzes me. The lines run across the page taunting me, daring me to dirty them with ink, and so my pen hovers, scared to mar that glaring perfection.

But I do, and the relief is awesome. Fear has been conquered. Procrastination has been postponed. Creativity has triumphed. It doesn’t always happen easily or effortlessly, but it does happen.

I fill line after line of that blank page with my outline, my characters, my plots. I am mistress now. I rule. I even go so far as to cross things out on that prim canvas, and have been known to add arrows here and there, write sideways and squeeze in more words between the lines. I feel powerful. I am a Writer, with a capital W.

But I don’t get too cocky, because there is always another blank page to face tomorrow. And maybe that time I won’t triumph. I’ve been known to stare at a blank page for hours, if not days. It’s frightening when the creative well is dry. I can’t sit still; I blast my music; and I run my hands through my hair until even my loved ones run from me; and still nothing springs forth but fears and frustration.

What is a writer to do?!

Well, I take a deep breath. I doodle on the page. (If I can’t give it words, maybe flowers and stars will satisfy.) But I keep going back to that blank canvas, until my hovering pen finally makes a landing, and it’s my ideas, my characters that are running across the lines once again.

I can’t let fear of that blank page cripple me; otherwise, I’d never write a thing. So with determination and courage I persevere, and ready my thoughts and my pens to conquer again. ♥



Maria C. Ferrer writes contemporary romances under her real name, and erotica under the name of Del Carmen. She has sold erotica stories to Cleis Press and Ravenous Romance; and, her short fiction has appeared in Star, Penthouse and Cosmopolitan for Latinas magazines. Visit her at www.mydelcarmen.com, and follow her on twitter @mydelcarmen.

Writing Fear

by Lisbeth Eng

As a fiction writer, I look for inspiration from within, as well as from without. If I want real emotions to come through on the page, I try to generate those emotions in my own mind and heart. When the scene requires that a character exhibit fear, I try to imagine a fearful experience — what might make my heart thump in my chest, my breath catch and perhaps a tightness rise in my throat?

An incident happened to me some time ago — I suppose similar experiences have occurred at one time or another to most of us. Lying in bed in my apartment, I heard a noise, and for some reason believed that this time, it was coming from inside my apartment. I often hear things — people arguing, doors slamming — this is common for life in an apartment building. But this time, a semi-conscious, primal fear took hold of my body and mind. It seized and momentarily paralyzed me as my heart pounded in my chest. From time to time I have contemplated what I would do if someone actually broke into my home in the middle of the night. I pictured myself grabbing the phone, diving under the bed, dialing 911, and whispering into the receiver that I had an intruder. But during this terrifying, tangible incident, when I believed the imagined horror was actually occurring, I did not grab the phone or jump under the bed. Instead, I froze. What if he entered my bedroom? I did not allow my mind to dwell on that, but convinced myself instead that this was just another apartment building noise — nothing to worry about. Slowly my body unclenched and normal breathing resumed.

The heroine in my World War II romance, In the Arms of the Enemy, has a similar experience, but she has the presence of mind to act, not to freeze. She succeeds in jumping, not a under a bed but a desk, to hide from a deadly threat:

“For a half-second she froze, but her instinct for survival prevailed. She heard the jingling of a key in the door, then dove under Major Gerhardt’s desk, grabbing the supply log, lock box, dictionary and notebook as quickly and silently as she could.

“Before she could make sense of what was happening, the men were there inside the room. She wanted to scream, to flee, but knew the slightest movement could be her undoing. She shook and her eyes filled with tears. But she discovered that if she concentrated on each breath, her lips tightly sealed, no sounds would escape. She crouched beneath the desk and pressed her hands and feet against the floor to keep them from knocking against anything.”

In order to write this scene from my heroine’s point of view I recalled what I had experienced during my thankfully false home invasion. I gave her my emotions and physical reactions, but with more courage than I had had. If the need should ever arise, I dearly hope that I will be able to channel her spirit and do what is necessary to protect myself. At the very least, she has set a good example for me to follow.

You’ll find this courageous heroine — along with a dashing hero — in Lisbeth Eng’s World War II romance novel, In the Arms of the Enemy, available online at Amazon, Barnes & Nobel and The Wild Rose Press. Please visit her at www.lisbetheng.com.

The Specter I Dread

by Michael Molloy

I recently read a contemporary romance novel called AN AFFINITY FOR SHADOWS, written by fellow Gypsy Shadow Publishing author Liz R. Newman. It was a very entertaining book, which followed the exploits and loves of heroine Kate Theodore, and even garnered good reviews from places such as the Huffington Post. And while I would recommend Liz’s book to anyone, there was a glaring page I saw at the back end. It concerned itself with questions readers had for Liz about Kate that were left unanswered, at least from their viewpoint. I think it’s a matter of being too picayune with the comments, and I am usually quick to defend a writer I know personally. But they are assertions nonetheless. And it’s these biting barbs of bluster that taunt every writer to no end.

I can get into my car, turn on my GPS navigational system, and get step-by-step directions to my destination. But when it comes to writing, there is no such device to help me. Where’s that seductive female voice to lead me? I am out there alone to figure which way my characters go, and that can be daunting. In the work I’m writing now, SADISTIC PATTERN, I am at a crossroads in what to do with one of my secondary characters, Siobhan O’Mara. To what degree do I keep her entangled with the main character Roger Lavoie? To what extent do I make her just as sinister as Roger? These are agonizing questions that pitchfork me. And then if I decide where to direct Siobhan, will I get criticized for what I did to the character? Does anybody have any bromide out there?

There are many of us who fall prey to the behemoth that lurks to carve us up, that ogre that wishes to devour our brains thus rendering us helpless. We can turn to friends, family members, and even other writers for advice, but ultimately it comes down to us. I can’t read you’re your mind any better than you can read mine. We created these characters and must learn to deal with them. If you bring the ingredients for the meal, you’d better know how to make it. And then there’s a follow-up question to this madness: How well do we really know our characters? Oh, tell me I didn’t ask that question!

Outlines help, but there will always be that lingering what if moment you can leave out there. There is no solid answer to this dilemma. We writers must forge on and say to heck with the critics out there, and learn to cope with his muddled conundrum that continues to eat at us from the inside out. But this will always remain my personal bugaboo.


A graduate of St. John's University, Michael's writing career was influenced by one of his former high school English teachers, Pulitzer Prize-winning author Frank McCourt. With a self-published book to credit, Michael's latest mainstream romance novel THE DIAMOND MAN is slated to be released this fall via Gypsy Shadow Publishing (www.gypsyshadow.com). Not resting on his laurels, Michael is well into his next book, a suspense novel called SADISTIC PATTERN, with other planned romance works and thrillers down the road.

SCARE YOURSELF SILLY!

by Isabo Kelly

I love this topic and this month! Halloween is my favorite holiday. And there’s nothing like a good scare for the season. Some of the earliest fiction I ever read was spooky stuff. Vampire and ghost stories? Couldn’t get enough. Edgar Allen Poe—read him for pleasure. Stephen King kept me up much too late, much too often. My TV favorites were Tales from the Crypt, Friday the 13th the series (anybody else remember that one?), Twilight Zone, Creepshow, and any scary movie I could manage to watch (Poltergist can still freak me out—that clown doll? Sheer. Terror.).

Now, all of this scary input was coming into my little imagination when I was a teenager. And while I loved it, there were nights I couldn’t just climb into bed. I had to leap from two feet out in case a monster tried to reach out from underneath and grab me. I know a lot of other kids have that fear. But thanks to my writer’s imagination, I could literally see that clawed, hairy hand reaching out from the blackness.

On top of that, I started to become quite critical of the horror on TV—I was a connoisseur, and if the spooky factor wasn’t up to snuff, I didn’t hesitate to gripe about it. One night, I was watching a story about a vampire and thinking, “This is not scary. Who would be afraid of that vampire? Stake him and be done. Now I could write a really scary vampire.” I went to bed and let my imagination work on a scarier vampire. And then I couldn’t sleep. I had SCARED my own damned self with my creation.

At that point, I decided maybe I shouldn’t write horror. I did actually need to sleep sometime in my life. So I started reading fantasy and science fiction, and eventually romance, and found a whole new niche to let my imagination run around in. I focused on action, adventure and magic, still satisfying my craving for fun and the unusual, but without actually scaring myself into staying up all night.

Fast forward twenty years later, I was contemplating working on a paranormal romance. I had a vague idea for the world. And after reading a book that had elements in it that irritated me, I decided to take the plunge with this story. But I wanted it to be scary. I wanted it to recall my horror roots and include real monsters. Not just vampires and werewolves. Those weren’t as scary to me as they used to be because they’d been romanticized—and I’m fine with that. I even like it! But I was looking for the “keep me up at night” scary.

After more than twenty years, I decided I could face those horror story monsters again—the slimy, slithery things that sneak around in shadows, hide in dark corners or under the bed, making noises that raise the hair on the nap of your neck, and jump out suddenly to grab and eat you!

Fun, huh?

Actually, it really was. I had such a great time inventing monsters! I even wrote one of the scariest scenes in the first book late at night—and yes, I did have trouble getting into bed afterward because the monster was hiding under the heroine’s bed. But it was exciting this time. I’d faced my kid fears and wrote some really fun fiction.

Every year in October, I start jonesing for that chill again, to read or watch stories that make me look just a little closer in the shadowed corners. This month, I say, go out and scare yourself silly. Whatever that means to you. Take a chance, face a fear, embrace the terror. Because doing things that scare you (like facing the monsters you haven’t been able to consider for twenty years) gives you a kind of release and freedom you won’t regret.

Happy October! And Happy Halloween 

Isabo Kelly is a multi-published author of science fiction, fantasy and paranormal romances and erotic romances. Her latest release, THE SECRET OF NARAVA, is the science fiction romance sequel to her first published novel (published 13 years ago!). She also has a spin-off story, INTERFACE, re-releasing this month and a Christmas novella due out at the beginning of November. Additionally, Isabo is hoping to bring her spooky, monster-filled paranormal romance series to readers starting in late 2013. For more on Isabo and her books, visit her at www.isabokelly.com, follow her on Twitter @IsaboKelly, or friend her on Facebook www.facebook.com/IsaboKelly

Scaring the Pants Off My Heroine

By Cathy Greenfeder

It’s not easy to scare the pants off my heroines. They’re tough and stand up for themselves. As strong women with strong wills, they deserve their strong heroes. Whether it’s a pioneering missionary woman, a journalist out for a story which will further her career, a psychic artist solving the mystery of her parents’ murder, or a teenage girl using her gifts as a medium to protect herself and those she loves and to release an innocent ghost from another century, they are all strong .

So how do you terrify your heroines and heroes?

Although it’s not easy to scare them, they are human after all and have terrifying moments. In Sacred Fires my heroine Casey is tied up, gagged, and kidnapped by a band of crazed cult members in Mexico; in Wildflowers, Johanna is abducted and assaulted by a crazed mountain man; in Angels Among Us, Kay is tied up, chloroformed, and left in a musty basement.

My hero Miguel in Sacred Fires goes undercover as a cult member and risks being stabbed, shot, and tortured; Ryan in Wildflowers deals with the untamed wilderness, captures a runaway wagon, risks life and limb rescuing a child during a buffalo stampede on the prairie, and gets into mortal combat with the crazed mountain man when he tries to compromise the heroine’s virtue. Eviance, Kay’s guardian angel in Angels Among Us uses his angelic powers to overcome Kay’s mortal opponents. Jake, a young college student, uses his mind to outwit the spirits who threaten the life and happiness of Georgina in Kiss Out of Time, and proving himself worthy of more than her friendship.

What is the hardest fear to create in your stories?

The hardest fear to create in one of my stories is risking one’s life to save another. In Sacred Fires, Casey stands up to the leader of a crazed cult bent on destroying her and puts herself in harm’s way to save her beloved Miguel. In Angels Among Us, my soon-to-be-released paranormal from Sweet Cravings Publishing, Kay defies a gun-wielding madman who escorts her off a train and later his mad accomplice who holds her captive in a basement in order to bring justice and retribution for their crimes against her and her family.

What story made the hair on the back of your neck stand up and require keeping
all the lights on until sunup?

I think Sacred Fires creeped me out the most when writing it because of the use of ancient ritual sacrifice and the bloodlust of the cult group leader. It didn’t make me keep all the lights on, but it is loosely based on a nightmare I had long ago with an ancient Aztec setting. I did tremendous amount of research, visited museums, and drew on my trips to Mexico for ideas and inspiration

What kind of frights do you enjoy?

I’m a fan of Alfred Hitchcock’s movies, classic horror films, and ghost stories. My maternal grandfather came from Ireland and enjoyed telling stories of the old country. A psychic friend took me on tours of cemeteries where she told about the spirits who roamed the plots. One in particular chilled me. It involved a man whom she claimed murdered two of his wives and had them buried in the same plot of land along with their newborn children. Another time she told me of the shadow people. That really had me checking over my shoulder.

I’ve also experienced a stay in a haunted castle in Carmona, Spain, witnessed a ghostly apparition of a couple dressed in what appeared to be Civil War era garments during a stay at a relative’s home in Port Deposit, Maryland, and toured Loch Ness, home of the legendary Loch Ness monster, in Scotland.
Why would I enjoy a good fright? I guess it makes me wonder about the mysteries of the universe, the great beyond, and the plot of another book.

Catherine Greenfeder is the author of three published romance novels including Wildflowers, Sacred Fires, and Angels Among Us. She recently completed her first young adult paranormal romance, Kiss Out of Time, which she hopes to publish soon, and is hard at work on another paranormal romance featuring a werewolf and a witch.
www.catherinegreenfeder.vpweb.com