Samhain Publishing

Is everyone enjoying the end of winter? We experienced a thirteen inch April Fool’s Day snowstorm. Nor’easters and Maine are synonymous, so a foot of snow in April packs no more surprise than watching news about Charlie Sheen snorting coke and shouting “Winner!” on YouTube.

We’ve seen some quick peeks of Spring in my part of Maine. Instead of braking for snowmobiles zipping across the road, I dodge wild turkeys and deer.

I now skip the cup of morning coffee and indulge in a Dramamine for my morning commute. The paved roads look like the aftermath of an earthquake. Tip: Never buy a used car from Maine. The town warns unsuspecting motorists with bright orange “Bump” signs. Out where I live, some enterprising local replaced a sign with a creative one of his own. “Six Deep Crevices Ahead.” A much more accurate description.

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I struggle on a daily basis with communicating with the younger generation. I don’t text, but the texting language has spilled over into emails and chats. I’m really slow catching on and for some time thought emails from my granddaughters with GM in the subject line meant General Motors, which totally confused me. They complain because my emails take so long to read. Huh? Believe me it would take me a lot longer to write one if I had to use the new jargon.

Watching people text on phones with two thumbs is fascinating. It has to be an acquired skill. Maybe someday, it will be part of a test to get a job. The faster you text, the better shot you have of being hired. Good thing I’m nearing retirement.

I worry about this generation and the ones to follow. Will anyone be able to spell fifty years from now? Or will the English language as we know it vanish? This new lingo would make for an interesting dictionary. Actually, if there isn’t one already published, an author could write a texting dictionary. I think it’d sell well. I’d sure buy one.

Did this all start with TGIF or TLC?

I’m now comfortable with IMHO and LOL, although ROTFLMAO, took me a while. And what’s this BRB? Here we have “B” representing “be”, as well as “back.” The words “you” and “are” are now “u” and “r”. The once slang term OK is now K. What is so difficult or time consuming about typing ok?

How about “idk”, which means “I don’t know.” What if a person did know, would they use they same code? Could get confusing.

I can only assume that kids constantly come up with new codes to confuse their parents. I’m grateful I don’t have to deal with that and my sympathies are with parents who do, like my kids.

CULTR. I’ll leave you to figure it out.

1. Staying in bed until 7 a.m. on weekends – I’ve always been an early riser and feel like I’ve lost half the day if I’m not up and about by 5 a.m.

2. Sneaking a nap on a Sunday – My conscience screams at me that I’m wasting valuable time.

3. Eating a fried seafood platter – Living near the ocean makes this treat all too available. I seldom indulge, but when I do, I see my cholesterol shoot through the ceiling.

4. Taking a mental health day from my day job – Calling in unexpectedly some morning because I simply need the day to myself…and facing co-workers the next day who all want to know what was wrong.

5. Spending money on a full body massage – I can’t afford it, but gosh does it feel good!

How about you? Share something you do on occasion that makes you feel guilty.

Pam Champagne
Where Passion Meets Danger
www.pamchampagne.net

As with everyone, my childhood shaped me into the person I am today… a solitary individual who enjoys my own company more than being with others. Large crowds and gatherings make me uncomfortable. I get claustrophobic so it’s difficult for me to attend writing conferences.

I grew up a loner in a rural area of Maine during a period when much of the country started to merge into the fast lane. I drank raw milk and never went to the doctor. My Dad, a terrific woodsman, provided all our meat and fish. We ate vegetables grown in our garden and canned by my Mom for the winter months. I attended a one room schoolhouse for the first five grades. I watched Ozzie and Harriet at someone’s house once and wondered if families like that really existed. We had no television and no phone. My mother washed clothes a wringer washing machine.

Lest you think I’m complaining, let me assure you, I’m not. I loved my childhood. Unfortunately, my mother didn’t share my contentedness. She divorced my father when I was twelve and dragged me, kicking and screaming, to civilization. My best friend in those twelve years was my imagination, and I know it set the stage for my writing career.

Here are a few of my fondness childhood memories.

1. Running on the lawn in my bathing suit when it rained—even during thunderstorms. I had no fear of lightning strikes.

2. The sweet scent of wild strawberries in the fields.

3. Sinking my teeth into warm ripe plums from my backyard. I can remember the juice running down my chin as if it were yesterday.

4. Catching frogs. I bet I spent twenty-five hours a week doing this in the summer. They were all so tame by September, they didn’t bother jumping, so I just picked them up.

5. Two weeks of bible school every summer presented by a traveling minister. I learned the song Jesus Loves Me.

6. Winter days with my Dad in the woods and the smell of an open fire heating up wild rabbit stew for our lunch.

7. Racing down Pony King’s hill in the winter on my wooden sled.

8. Our once a year summer trip to eat lobsters on the rocky coast. I loved the pungent odor of seaweed and used to “pop” it in my mouth.

9. Pretending our beagle was a horse, his leash the reins. I’d chase him everywhere as if I were galloping on a big, black stallion.

10. Reading, except there were never enough books to keep me satisfied. Thank God for Mrs. Jackson, my teacher, who supplied me with many interesting stories.

What is my point to this blog? I’m wondering that myself. I guess my childhood explains the settings of my books…usually rural or wilderness as in Bed of Lies and Alaskan Heat.

As an adult I returned to my beloved Maine and have no desire to live anywhere else.

I’ve been told I torture my characters, especially the heroine. Since I’d never given it much thought, I spent a few days mulling it over. I had to admit I inflict burden after burden on my leading lady, both in physical and emotional ways.

I’m pragmatic. I think I was born that way. Like most people, I’ve experienced pain and survived to talk about it. There’ve been times in my life I kept going only because I had no choice. I believe hardships build strong character and instill empathy in a person, something that might otherwise be lacking. Overcoming life’s storms gives people strength, courage and hope, all of the qualities a fictional character needs to grow and change during the story.

Thanks to my father, I learned about self-reliance. He taught me early on that no one, except me, was responsible for my happiness. True love is born of self-reliance. Bingo! The birth of my tough, independent heroines.

I’m a firm believer that, as a rule, love requires bumps and dings to grow strong enough to survive. Some sweethearts may walk a paved road and find happiness from the beginning, but the majority of lovers stumble down a rocky trail to reach their goal. Perhaps I make the route a bit rougher than need be, but I listen to my muse. The more dimensions I can weave into a character, the better.

One of those character facets is a softer side. Who likes a charcoaled black marshmallow? But how about a lightly browned crust with a warm, gooey center? The redeeming quality of a tough character is the warmth and compassion curled inside, waiting for the right person to set it free.

How about anger? Does your character keep his/her anger hidden? Does he/she have thirty years of ire ready to explode? Sounds like a villain to me.

If I come across a wimpy heroine in a book who does nothing but whine, cry and cower in her bed, she’d best become a woman with a backbone. If I sense it’s not going to happen, I stop reading.

Characters must develop and evolve into better human beings by the end of the story. Perhaps readers don’t realize this growth is the reason they like and remember characters, but the author does.

Last week, my brother, Andy, and his partner, Judy, lost a very special friend. Moose lived a life most dogs (and many people, too) only dream about. A cross between a Brittany and a Golden Retriever, Moose received the best qualities from both breeds. He proved to be a fantastic bird dog and loved the water as if he were born there.

I remember Moose as a puppy. He overcame many health problems, and this tenacity showed us what a super dog he’d become.

This is a bit embarrassing to admit…I envied Moose’s lifestyle. Andy, a Master Maine Registered Guide, spends the majority of his time in the woods or in a boat. Many summer days at work, my mind wandered to Andy and Moose trolling around a wilderness lake fishing. I could picture Moose sleeping in the bottom of the boat, soaking up the sun or standing in the bow, enjoying the wind in his face. Yeah, that’s where I wanted to be. Now I know the true meaning of “lucky dog.” What dog wouldn’t give up his special toy to trade places?

Moose enjoyed a long life where he brought joy and love into Andy and Judy’s lives. In turn, they adored him and made his time on earth a special one. Right now there’s a hole in their hearts, but in time, Moose will sit gently in their minds, and his memory will bring smiles to their faces. Moose’s spirit now runs free. He’ll hunt birds, sit on a peaceful lakeshore and swim a few laps to cool off in the summer’s heat. I’m sure he’ll also find something smelly to roll in.

By now you’re wondering what this has to do with writing. I find one of the best ways to hone my craft is through emotional experiences. Once I have lived “pain” or “joy” or “sorrow”, I can express those emotions through my characters. Actually feeling any of the above is a stronger learning tool for me than a workshop on the same subject.

BLURB
She’ll make him finish what he started—if they live through the night.

Framed and on the run, FBI agent Joe “Hawk” Hawkins has only one chance to clear his name: hit the road for Eagle, Alaska. Things can’t get much worse, until a woman from his past steps into his path. Sophie’s a brilliant statistician, pissed off about their disastrous one-night stand—and offering him a deal.

This is Sophie’s first field assignment, and the fact that it involves Hawk doesn’t make it any easier. She’s never forgotten or forgiven the night Hawk found his way to her bed and left her wanting more. Now she’s on a double mission to make Hawk finish what he started, and get them both to Eagle alive.

The long Alaska Highway stretches before them, and long nights of sexual fireworks that rival the Northern Lights. Caution turns to trust, and then to a love neither of them bargained for.

With two rogue agents in hot pursuit, though, the end of the road may be closer than they think.

EXCERPT

Sophie forced a casual smile even though her body thrummed with the need to leap on Hawk. She didn’t want foreplay. Already the insides of her thighs were wet and sticky. She cleared her throat and reached for the robe hanging on the outside hook of the bathroom door. “Sounds tempting. As soon as I get back.”
The man of her dreams sat up and bumped his skull again. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Where are you going?”
Two steps brought her to the door. “To put Rueger in the cab for the night. Be right back.”

Sophie forced a casual smile even though her body thrummed with the need to leap on Hawk. She didn’t want foreplay. Already the insides of her thighs were wet and sticky. She cleared her throat and reached for the robe hanging on the outside hook of the bathroom door. “Sounds tempting. As soon as I get back.”
The man of her dreams sat up and bumped his skull again. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Where are you going?”
Two steps brought her to the door. “To put Rueger in the cab for the night. Be right back.”
Once outside, Sophie breathed in the nippy air. More than likely there’d be a frost tomorrow morning. Unlocking the truck, she fished around the seat until her hand curled around her cell. The hard, packed gravel hid the sound of her footsteps as she sprinted toward the woods. As soon as she’d run far enough for privacy, she punched five on the speed dial.
“Clements here.”
“It’s Sophie.”
“Sophie, why haven’t you called? I told you—”
“Be quiet and listen. I only have a minute. Hawk’s with me. Call off your hounds.”
“What hounds?” Stan’s confusion sent a shard of fear through her.
She gripped the slim cell hard enough to break it. “Some feds stayed on our tail for several miles. I turned into a picnic area and they sped by.”
“Damn it. Has to be Blair and Reed. I had to put them on administrative leave, but I can’t restrict their movements. They’re on to us.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“Not this far from Eagle.”
Sophie whirled. The camper rocked. “Got to go.” She disconnected and slipped the phone in her robe pocket, making sure to shut if off in case Stan decided to call back. She whistled for Rueger and jogged back to the truck. “Up.” Once he jumped inside, she slammed and locked the door. Taking a deep breath, she prepared to face Hawk’s inquisition.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded the moment she stepped inside. He stood buck naked at the side of the bed.
More moisture lubed her thighs.
“Who’d you call?” He held up his hand. “No lies. I heard you talking.”
Christ. The man must have the ears of a wild animal. “Stan. Those weren’t his men following us.”
“Damn! Blair and Reed then.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted? A confrontation?”
Her lower belly cramped at Hawk’s face tight with lust.
“Sure is,” he purred. “But at a place and time of my choosing. There’s not much they’ll try tonight so close to the highway. You and I have unfinished business. I always pay my debts.”
Sophie trembled, imagining the pleasure she’d discover in Hawk’s bed tonight. Ever since she’d met Hawk, she’d waited for this moment. She wanted everything to be perfect. As she wiggled out of her robe, the fleece material slipped off her shoulders to pool at her feet. If only she owned a sexy, silk negligee.
Several moments passed before she realized Hawk wouldn’t make the first move. At least he’d given her the opportunity to change her mind. As if that would happen. She closed the short distance and stepped into his open arms. “This is only the first installment, you know. I’ll let you know when I’m totally satisfied.”
“You do that.” Callused fingers trailing across her nipples sent a jolt of desire to her core. Her stomach clenched when those same fingers dipped into her bellybutton only to slide lower. One finger, then two slid between her swollen folds. Reality was hotter than her imagination. She hadn’t burned with such need last Christmas. Now she had to keep her emotions under wraps. Hawk wanted hot sex, not love. She slumped and clung to his shoulders to keep from falling. Her groan came out of nowhere. “I’m on fire.” Was that her voice, hoarse with need?

Last month I received an invitation to attend Brenda Novak’s virtual Christmas party. Totally psyched, blood sang through my veins. The attendees included best-selling authors, New York agents and publishers. I thought how cool to be able to “chat” with these people. In addition, the prizes Brenda planned to give away floored me. Critiques, manuscript reads, autographed books, just to mention a few. Not even the late hour (9 p.m. to 11 p.m. EST) deterred me, although I knew I’d be bleary eyed at work the next day.

Then reality set in. Virtual? I knew it had something to do with computers…like something I’ve avoided because I’m computer illiterate. I checked out Brenda’s site and the directions sounded easy. Attendees were encouraged to “try it out”. I did and found it wasn’t as intimidating as I’d feared. I could do this!

My joy was short lived. Another e-mail arrived. Brenda’s “virtual” room could not accommodate her guest list. She’d moved the party to Second Life. Yikes. My intimidation increased two-fold, but I was determined to try it. I really wanted to attend.

Knees shaking, I joined Second Life and picked my avatar. Now it was up to me to do justice to Pamela Tigerfish who stood in an empty courtyard…waiting…and waiting. The avatar came fully clothed, but instead of leaving well enough alone, I got the not so brilliant idea to dress her for a party. I figured it couldn’t be more difficult than dressing the paper dolls I played with as a child. I managed to undress her and there Pamela Tigerfish stood in her bra and panties.

Frantically, I tried to get some clothes on the poor girl, but nothing worked. Out of nowhere, a Bulgarian man showed up and started chatting with Pamela. Wait a minute. Perhaps he could tell me how to get Pamela dressed. When I explained my problem, he said, “She look nice now.” Sheesh! Even in Second Life, men think with their second head. I ignored him and after a few minutes he went away.

After a few more tries to make Pamela presentable, I admitted defeat. Before I could quit the program, Pamela jumped over a stonewall and disappeared. So somewhere in Second Life, there’s a poor girl standing in her underwear, lost forever.

I extended my regrets to Brenda. I felt frustrated and old, but I wasn’t alone. I saw a note on Brenda’s website from Beatrice Small. Her message read, “Sorry, Brenda. Too complicated for this old gal.” I’m with you Beatrice.

During my short stay in Second Life, I discovered astounding facts about this virtual game, although I’m not sure participants think of it as a game. It appears some players take this very seriously, making me wonder if their own lives are so miserable they have to escape to a new one. Did you know a second lifer can buy property or rent property? For only one hundred dollars a month you can live in a 500 sq. ft. apartment. Not big enough? Try $1,000 a month to own an island. They’ve got to be kidding. I have a difficult enough time paying my mortgage in my first life. And then you have to buy furniture. Or I guess you can become a furniture maker and make your own. Since I couldn’t even dress Pamela Tigerfish, I think I’ll pass on any attempts to become a craftsman.

Anyone joining Second Life looking for an escape from his or her first one is likely to be disappointed. I understand murder and mayhem happen there, so it’s no Shangri-La. Who knows? Maybe someday someone will stumble upon Pamela Tigerfish lying on a beach, done in by a serial killer. I swear I don’t know what made her jump over that stonewall.

Recently, I found an article on the internet about Peter Mark Roget. I’m embarrassed to say I knew nothing of the man other than he wrote Roget’s Thesaurus. It seems his entire family was plagued with mental illnesses, from simple depression to possible schizophrenia and paranoia. An uncle slit his own throat while Roget struggled to take the razor away.

To hold onto his own sanity, Roget wrote long lists of synonyms. He found solace in words. I can understand this. When I’m restless, can’t write, or even settle down with a good book, I pick up the dictionary to find interesting, previously unknown words. Words fascinate me.

I’d be lost without my copy of Roget’s Thesaurus. Not only does it offer many choices, but sometimes one of the synonyms sparks my imagination, enabling me to write a better sentence.

Words make the world go round. They allow us to communicate, albeit not so well at times. It’s not just a good story that sells a book, but how it’s written. Think about how your words will flow into a reader’s mind.

Pick a random sentence from one of your manuscripts and spend time improving it. The more often I do this, the faster I get. Now I take all my weak sentences when I complete a chapter and make them stronger. And, of course, Roget is my bedside companion.

For anyone interested in reading the entire article on Roget, it can be found at:

http://thestar.com.my/lifestyle/story.asp?file=/2008/4/15/lifebookshelf/20786566&sec=lifebookshelf

I’m also looking forward to reading The Man Who Made Lists by Joshua Kendall. Discovering more about Roget’s unhappy life might be great research for anyone wanting to know more about the darker side of mental illness.

My mother always told me, “Choose your words wisely.” Of course, she wasn’t referring to my writing, but the idiom holds true whatever way you look at it.

Happy word hunting!

Pam Champagne
Alaskan Heat, Coming March, 2009

Recently I received an e-mail from a friend telling me how sorry she was that I’d broken my ankle and couldn’t work this summer. She ended her e-mail with “at least you have your “hobby” to keep you occupied.”

HOBBY? I’ve never looked at my writing career as a hobby and it shocked me that others did. The dictionary definition of a hobby – an activity engaged in for pleasure and relaxation during spare time.

Okay. I get pleasure from writing. When I’m working full time I have to write in my spare time. Still, the implication that my writting is a hobby didn’t sit well with me. I look at writing as a second career. I want to succeed and aim to make it my full time job.

Moving on. I had a milestone birthday this past weekend. I mean a BIG ONE. If it had been up to me, I’d have crawled under my down comforter (yes, this summer is cold enough to do that) and slept through it.

Instead, my entire family arrived to celebrate. I wondered what we were celebrating? The fact I was getting old? The fact I had managed to stay alive this long? Anyway, I soon forgot why they’d actually come and enjoyed each and every one of them. My son, wife and granddaughters. My daughter and her husband. My 87 year old mother, who even went for a ride on the ATV. It’s seldom we have the opportunity to be together and I enjoyed every minute of it.

One of the major highlights of my birthday? I received an e-mail from an agent requesting a full of one of my manuscripts! Woo Hoo!