Wednesday, July 31, 2013

My Hybrid Life, Meet Lois Winston / Emma Carlyle

I'm so pleased to bring you this post by Lois Winston also writing as Emma Carlyle. It has candid  insights into indie publishing.
Please welcome Lois, and don't forget the excerpt on Saturday of Hooking Mr. Right
My Hybrid Life

Publishing is changing at the speed of light. With all the changes over the past few years comes a new type of author—the hybrid. No, we don’t run on both gasoline and electricity. We’re authors who have published both traditionally and independently. I’m a relative hybrid newbie. I published my first indie novel, Hooking Mr. Right, a little over a year ago. I’ll be the first to admit I won’t be retiring any time soon from my indie sales.

Still, I’m glad I jumped into the indie pool. Each month Amazon, and occasionally one of the other online retailers, electronically deposits a modest sum into my bank account. Do I wish it were more? Heck, yes! But something is better than nothing, right?

So why are my indie books not selling like gangbusters? Well, some of it is my own fault, and some of it is circumstances beyond my control. First, in hindsight I’m convinced I made a huge mistake by taking a pen name for my five original indie ebooks. These were older manuscripts that had *almost* sold but never did, mostly because publishing houses merged, lines folded, or the editors who loved the books changed jobs or couldn’t convince their editorial boards to take a chance on them.
Because I’ve been building my mystery name and the indie books were romance, romantic suspense, and chick lit, I was advised to put them out under a different name. Thus, Emma Carlyle was born. But Emma is an unknown in the world of publishing. Lois Winston may not be a household name, but as Lois Winston, I’ve been published traditional since 2006, and I do have my share of fans and name recognition.

If I had it to do all over again, I’d stick with Lois Winston. There are five Emma Carlyle books available: Hooking Mr. Right, Finding Hope, Lost in Manhattan, Someone to Watch Over Me, and Four Uncles and a Wedding. There won’t be anymore, and at some point, I plan to have my covers redesigned to read “by Lois Winston, writing as Emma Carlyle.” Hopefully, that will help spur sales.
I’ve since also indie published several books under my own name. Crewel Intentions and Mosaic Mayhem (available soon) are mini-mysteries connected to my Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series. Elementary, My Dear Gertie is a novella sequel to Talk Gertie to Me, my first traditionally published novel and also now available as an indie ebook. Once Upon a Romance is a collection of previously published short stories. Top Ten Reasons Your Novel is Rejected is a writing advice book based on my experiences as a writing instructor and literary agent. In addition, Love, Lies and a Double Shot of Deception, another of my previously published traditional books, is also now available as an indie ebook.

The second mistake I believe I made was waiting too long to begin my indie career. My unscientific research tells me that erotica, erotic romance, and super sexy romances do very well, no matter when the author first begins her indie career and whether or not she was previously traditionally published. But I don’t write in those genres. For other genres, it seems those cutting edge authors who jumped in a few years ago are the ones who have built huge followings. I wish I’d had their foresight, but for a long time the stigma of “self-published” kept me away. I’d worked too hard for too long to become traditionally published. That stigma blinded me to the potential others saw and were capitalizing on.
This isn’t sour grapes; it is what it is. However, who among us hasn’t wished she could turn back the clock and make some changes to her life?
I also mentioned circumstances beyond my control working against me, and the big one there is the enormous volume of indie books now flooding the market. Some days it seems  like everyone in the country, whether they can write or not, is indie publishing. How on earth are readers supposed to find my books? Blog posts, interviews, websites, and social media often feel like shouting into a tsunami.
There are places to advertise indie books where some authors have had great success, but they’re very costly, and there are no guarantees. For every author I know who has sold thousands of books because of these ads, there are many more who don’t even recoup the cost of the ad. In addition, most of these sites require you to have anywhere from 10-25 Amazon reviews with an average 4.5 rating before they’ll consider accepting your book. Even if I wanted to gamble my hard-earned dollars, my books wouldn’t make the cut. I don’t have the requisite number of reviews.
What I’m doing to help my indie career is following the same advice I’ve given my students and clients: the best way to grow your career is write the next book. Hopefully, eventually enough people will read and like my books that word-of-mouth will take over and create more sales. The only problem is that it’s very hard to type when your fingers are crossed!
So what’s the moral to this story? If you’re thinking of indie publishing, go ahead. You really have nothing to lose, especially if you have the skills to format your own books and make your own covers. And you might have a lot to gain. Just be aware that the vast majority of indie published authors are like me, selling a book or two a day at most. That still adds up over time, though. And you might be one of the luckier ones who breaks out and strike it rich in indie publishing. You’ll never know unless you try.

BIO: Lois Winston is both an agent with the Ashley Grayson Literary Agency and the author of the critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series. Assault With a Deadly Glue Gun, the first book in the series, received starred reviews from both Publishers Weekly and Booklist. Other books in the series include Death By Killer Mop Doll, Revenge of the Crafty Corpse, and the ebook novelettes Crewel Intentions and Mosaic Mayhem. Lois is also published in romance, romantic suspense, women’s fiction, and non-fiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name.

Visit Lois  at,

Visit Emma at

Visit Anastasia at the Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers blog:

Follow Lois on Twitter @anasleuth.

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Excerpt From The Exceptional Polly Iyer's New Release ~ Threads

I'm so pleased to bring you an excerpt from Polly Iyer's latest release, Threads. It has an interesting history.

Here is Polly to explain,

Every writer has a first manuscript. Some tuck the failed masterpiece in a drawer or under the bed. Others may think it’s good enough to begin their quest for publication. The hard copy of my first book has been in a chest in my living room, but it’s also been transferred from one dying computer to another, at the mercy of my tinkering for years. 

Thirteen to be exact.

Every year or two, I’d rewrite it. It’s a complicated story with time shifts and stories within the main story. I switched the time shifts, changed the structure, divided the story into Books to try to make it clearer, switched the time periods again, then went back and started over. 

And over and over.
This year I got serious and promised myself that I would finally get the book into shape. I created the cover so I wouldn’t quit on the book. Oddly enough I had more trouble with that cover than with any of my others. Was that a sign? Was this book doomed? 
After thirteen years, my very first book is out there for people to read. It’s a hard book to explain without giving away something crucial to the story, which is why my blurb is more a tease than anything definitive about the story. 

Bottom line - don't give up if you think you have a good story. Pull the book out of the dustbin and critique it anew with an objective eye. You might be surprised.  


Think about the worst moment in your life. A moment that changed irrevocably everything you’ve ever known. Would you take that moment back?

What if that moment offers you a different life, allows you to do things you would never do otherwise? Meet people you would never know?

Think again.

That one moment transforms the lives of a dozen people, each keeping a secret they can never expose. A single thread ties them together. Inextricably and forever. Cut it, and someone dies.

Now, would you take that moment back?


“Abstract Expressionism.” Miranda wrinkled her nose. Monet, Degas, Renoir―they were artists she appreciated. Nothing abstract about them. So why was she going to the gallery opening of some no-name Canadian abstract expressionist? Simple. Because accepting Alan’s last-minute invitation seemed like a better idea than what she had planned for a Friday night. Absolutely nothing.

After rummaging through her wardrobe, she plucked a hanger from the closet. “You again. A girl can never go wrong with the little black dress.” She paused. “And you,” she said to the beaded jacket, a sale purchase from a shop on Newbury Street, “will add some pizzazz.”

Ten minutes later, the buzzer rang, and she scooted out the door. Alan leaned against the iron railing, looking, as always, like something off a Paris fashion runway.

“Breathtaking.” He latched on to her arm. “Love the jacket.”

“Do you? First time I’ve had a place to wear it.”

“I don’t understand why men aren’t flocking to you like groupies to rock stars. What’s wrong with these straight guys anyway?” He tapped his finger on what he always called her goyishe nose. “Men are afraid to ask beautiful women out because they think you’ll shoo them away like nasty flies.”

Miranda snorted. “Right. Poor guys. I’m so beautiful they’re afraid of me. That’s bullshit, Alan, and you know it.”

“Stop your damn swearing. Mr. Stanford is one of those holier-than-thou types. He might be a friend of your father’s, but one F-bomb and you’ll be out on your ass without a job.”

“Gee, and that’s my favorite swearword.” She flashed a teasing smile, and he punched her arm.

“You’re too much. Come on. There should be champagne at the gallery. After this week, we both could use a glass.”

“What would I do without you, BFF? You’re my ticket to all the trendy events in town.”

“And what would I do without you? You’re my cover. Selma would jump off the frigging Tobin Bridge if she found out I was gay. That’d be more Jewish guilt than I could handle.”

Miranda broke up. Poor Alan. He had the mother from hell, always prodding him to find a nice Jewish girl and give her grandchildren. That was never going to happen.

They walked the few blocks to Newbury Street, bracing against the late March wind, typical of Boston. She shivered. “Maybe I should have worn my winter coat. We might have passed into spring on the calendar, but spring didn’t get the memo.”

“Come here, girlfriend.” Alan wrapped his arm around her. “Would you look at this? Not a parking space in sight. I’d have torn out my hair if we’d driven.”

The artsy crowd packed the gallery’s opening night. Once inside, Alan grabbed two champagne flutes off the tray of a roaming waiter, giving him the eye and getting one back.

“Half the city’s here. Hey, check out that couple,” he whispered in Miranda’s ear. “I’ll tell you all about those two tomorrow. Scandalous. Clue―that’s not his wife. In fact,” Alan cupped his hand around her ear, “she’s not a she.”

“Huh? You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Oh, there’s Jeffrey. Mind if I go over and thank him for cluing us in on this?”

Miranda waved him on. “I’m a big girl, Alan. I can take care of myself.”

“Be right back.”

She stole another peek at the object of Alan’s gossip―sheesh, who’d’ve thought? After stopping to chat with a few acquaintances, she continued her stroll around the gallery, listening to varying reviews of the art.

The paintings, displayed on white walls with halogen spots, hung in three different abstract groups―figuratives, landscapes, and paintings the art world might describe as “what the fuck.” The artist had wielded his brush with thick, vibrant color, creating an impression of movement and energy. Miranda stood back, sipped her champagne, and squinted at each one. The portraits were easy to distinguish as were the landscapes, but she couldn’t for the life of her define the subject matter of the third category, and their titles didn’t help. Dream #1 was anything but dreamy. More like a nightmare.

“Well, what do you think?” a deep, slightly accented voice from behind her asked. “Do you like them?”

She turned to the tall, exotically handsome man who asked her opinion. He wore his dark brown hair long enough to partially cover a small diamond stud, and his smile revealed unnaturally white teeth. But his most riveting feature was his eyes―black and piercing and intensely focused on her. Heat rose on her face as those same eyes flashed with amusement at the obvious impact he had on her. She couldn’t help herself. The man could have been a movie-star idol.

“I haven’t had a chance to study them all,” she said, “but I like a few.”

“And the others?”

She stood back, deliberating, then faced him square on. “Suck.”

Gorgeous burst out laughing. People turned to see what happened. “I love it. A breath of fresh air.”

“Well, I mean, take that one.” She pointed to a large canvas with a black figure embracing a red figure. “Who are they supposed to be? Fred and Ginger?”

“The black figure is Medea.”

“What’s she doing? Is she―” Miranda stopped when she figured out the action in the painting. She shuddered. “Now I know I don’t like it. The artist―what’s his name, I forgot―must be a whackjob.”

“Hmm, could be.”

“Where is he anyway? Point him out.”

A subtle bow accompanied his offered hand. “Stephen Baltraine, at your service,” he said with a playful smile. His gaze remained on her face, exactly where it had been throughout their conversation.

Miranda’s cheeks flamed. “My father always said anyone asking my opinion better be ready for it.” She forced a smile. “I should learn to keep my mouth shut until I know who I’m talking to.”

“I’m just glad you spoke softly.”

“I don’t suppose I could start over and say it’s fabulously frenetic and original, could I?”

He leaned into her. “Not a chance. Anyway, I appreciate honesty. I’m not insulted. My work is an acquired taste.”

His total concentration and the scent of his spicy cologne as he neared caused Miranda to lose her train of thought. She secretly blessed the few admirers who stopped to shake his hand and praise his work, forcing him to release his visual hold, but not her arm. He charmed the patrons with smooth repartee, switching from slick to slicker. Was he phony or real? Miranda couldn’t decide.

When his fans departed, Stephen picked up where he left off. “Now to serious business. You haven’t told me your name.”

The respite from his intensity gave her time to collect herself. “Miranda Seaton.”

“Mir-an-da,” he repeated, extending the syllables as if he were contemplating them. “Pretty name for a pretty lady. Let me get you another glass of champagne.” He didn’t wait for her answer, snatching the half-empty glass from her hand and exchanging it for a fresh one.

“Since you insist.”

If Stephen noticed the sarcasm, he didn’t let on. Instead, he hooked her arm through his and proceeded to walk her around the gallery.

“Come on. I’ll give you a play-by-play of my work to help you understand it better.” He winked. “Maybe I can change your mind.”

Miranda caught the envious glares of the young women waiting their turn to approach him. He ignored them, focused entirely on her and his paintings. She listened, stretching her imagination to match his commentary. Some had pleasing compositions that teemed with energy, but she’d be lying if she said she liked them. She let him rattle on and kept her mouth shut.

In the middle of his explanation, Alan popped up in front of them, eyes wide with enthusiasm. “Miranda, I do believe you’ve captured Best in Show.” He thrust out his hand. “I’m Alan Gold, Mr. Baltraine. I think your work is fantastic.”

Stephen arched a brow at Alan, followed by a head-to-toe examination, while ignoring his outstretched hand.

“Alan is my escort for the evening, Stephen,” she said, explaining her friend’s abrupt presence. “It was his idea to come tonight.”

“I see.” Stephen backed up a step. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know Miranda was with a date.” Another bow to Miranda. “It’s been a pleasure. Maybe we can continue this another time, Miranda Seaton.” He turned, and within seconds a bevy of young female art groupies descended upon him as if he were the reincarnation of Rembrandt.



Polly Iyer writes suspense, mysteries, and thrillers, all with a touch of romance and characters who sometimes tread ethical lines. She grew up on the Massachusetts coast and studied at Massachusetts College of Art and Design in Boston. After pursuing careers in fashion, art, and business in Italy, Boston, and Atlanta, she settled in the beautiful Piedmont region of South Carolina where she devises ways for life to be complicated for her characters. Better them than her.




Twitter:  @PollyIyer

Friday, July 26, 2013

Last Friday of the Month Recipe From Edie Hart & Her Excerpt from One Bad Day

Cherry Shortbread Squares
Hi L.A.
Thanks for giving me the chance to share this recipe, my mother-in-law makes it, and it's one of my favs. I hope everyone enjoys the shortbread and the excerpt from One Bad Day.


1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 teaspoon lemon extract (or 1 Tbs lemon juice)
1 tsp lemon zest
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
1/2 tsp salt
4 eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 can cherry pie filling or berry pie filling
Powdered sugar, for dusting

Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease and flour a half-sheet pan (about 12×17 inches) with a 1-inch rim, or spray it with baking cooking spray (with flour).

In the bowl of an electric mixer, beat together the butter and sugar until very light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Beat in the lemon extract, lemon zest, vanilla and salt. Beat in the eggs one at a time. Scrape down the bowl. On the lowest speed, stir in the flour until just barely mixed.

Spread the batter onto the sheet pan and smooth it into an even layer. Score the batter into 24-30 squares with a toothpick (don’t worry about perfectly even squares as the lines will disappear during baking; it just makes placing the cherries easier). Place 3 cherries in the center of each square.

Bake for 20-25 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool completely in the pan on a wire rack. Just before serving, cut into 24 squares and dust lightly with powdered sugar.

Makes 24 3-inch squares

Tessa is having one seriously bad day. After agreeing to dress as a cheesy mascot at a convention for her boss, her clothes get stolen, she gets chased through a sinister parking garage, and her apartment gets broken into and turned upside down.

Gray, an off-duty police officer, can’t resist the sexy legs he sees in costume at a hotel convention. When he catches sight of her running for her life through a dark car lot, he's determined to find out what her story is and ends up promising to keep Tessa safe...even if that means taking her home with him.

Gray stepped outside of the hotel ballroom hoping the air would be cooler out there. He hated stuffy gatherings. Hell, he hated weddings. How two people could think they'd love each other forever was beyond him. Gray didn't do love. Which was why he was stag at a co-worker's wedding. He'd originally planned to invite Monique, but several months back she'd become demanding and talked about moving into his place with hearts and flowers in her eyes. So he'd ended it. Deep down, he'd known that she didn't really want him. She wanted any warm body that would take care of her. She had slowly been trying to mold him into some GQ tycoon, telling him what to wear, how to act, and even going as far as telling him what he needed to do career-wise.

A loud crash on the other side of the hall caught Gray's attention. In the open ballroom across the way he saw legs. Glorious legs in strappy high heels. The beautiful legs were tangled on the floor and attached to an ass that was just as gorgeous. After taking a closer look, Gray realized that above the amazing ass was an enormous, white light bulb-shaped head with blue googly eyes. It had blonde hair and wore a glittery purple hat. The tangled-up legs and heels were flailing around in a pile of what looked like empty light bulb boxes. Several gentlemen nearby were quick to help Legs get her feet beneath her. From their smiles and laughter he could tell that they were all quite happy to be of assistance. Gray didn't blame them.

He watched Legs find her balance in those high heels, and with a little wiggle and tug of her skirt she went on her way. 
Book Links:

About The Author:
Edie Hart was born in the Northwest suburbs of Chicago, where she now resides with her husband, two children, dog, and three cats. After spending her childhood making up stories in her head, she finally decided to put them on paper. What came of it was her first novella, One Bad Day. Edie is a die-hard romantic and believes that everyone deserves to be loved unconditionally—both in print and real life.

Edie also admits that "Edie Hart" is a pen name and an alter ego to an otherwise boring wife and mother. Edie is 20 pounds lighter, loves to skydive, travels to foreign places, and is a total sex kitten as compared to the uninteresting other half who is none of those things.

In reality the counterpart of Edie is a lackluster 40-something-year-old, whose main goal is to keep The Big One (The Boy) from torturing The Little One (The Girl). This week he hit her in the head with a 12-pack of Juicy Juice. Last week he left ravioli handprints on the back of her white T-shirt. The week before that he told her she was adopted and she believed him.

To learn more about her, and find out what The Big One and The Little One are up to, visit her via her website, Facebook, or Twitter:


Saturday, July 20, 2013

Excerpt from Grey's Hidden Fire by Draven St. James

Draven St. James, at my request, sent me a PG version for an excerpt as My Story, My Way is a pretty much a PG site. She is published by Loose Id and they publish some hot, hot books.

This excerpt shows the tension and confusion in chaos of a fire as the heroes act with strength and compassion. 



  A loud siren buzzed through the firehouse, severing their conversation. All the men leaped from their spots and booked it over to slide down the pole to the garage. They stepped into their boots and pants, pulled them up quickly, and slipped into the rest of their gear. Out of the corner of his eye, Grey caught the angry glare Jefferies shot in Mica’s direction. Not good.
  “All right, boys.” Their lieutenant, Michael, shouted over the shrill siren. “We have a structure fire at Fifteenth and Blair. You all know what that means. It could be a meth lab, so be careful about possible chemicals. Let’s ride!” 
  Grey cringed. That was about the worst neighborhood they could go into. There’d been a number of fires in that area over the years, and he had no doubt there would be more. Half the buildings should have been condemned but instead housed mostly the homeless or drug dealers. He’d also seen his fair share of hookers running from them, barely clothed and refusing to stop and let his men ask them who might still be trapped inside. None of the residents wanted to be involved with anyone official, even if it saved a life. 
  The only reason the city left the crumbling structures standing was because an old building looked better than a slew of homeless people and hookers walking the streets. 
  It took ten minutes before the fire truck pulled up to a building engulfed in flames. Any civilian would see the fire and think there was no way to save those who might be trapped inside, but Grey and his fellow firefighters knew better. The building’s state of disrepair could be misleading. A deserted structure didn’t mean that people weren’t finding safety within its deteriorating walls.
  Grey got out of the rig with the rest of the guys just as the ambulances pulled up next to them. He breathed a sigh of relief. Now the whole team was here.
  “Jeff, you’re with Mica. Simon and Dale, follow behind. Grey, cover the rig with me,” Michael roared over the crackling fire and chaos. 
  “I want to go with Dale,” Jefferies yelled. 
  “I don’t care what you want. Get your ass in that building,” Michael bellowed.
  Grey shook his head. Now wasn’t the time for petty in-house issues. Jefferies was going to get his ass handed to him by Michael when they got back to the firehouse.  
  The guys disappeared into the fiery building. To anyone else it would appear that the fire had swallowed them, but Grey knew Michael would never send his men in if it were a lost cause. With no one around to ask whether there were people inside, they had no choice but to assume there might be. After all, someone had actually called this one in.
  Grey worked on hooking up the hose to the plug, checking the discharge flow, and charging the line.
  “Grey, are we okay to go?” Michael asked.
  “Yes. The flow is good. Let’s do this,” Grey replied. 
  The minutes ticked by. Grey and Michael operated the pump to blanket the fire in water from the outside. It always amazed Grey that at first it looked as though the flames simply absorbed the water and mocked their attempts to defeat it. Even if winning wasn’t in the cards, quitting wasn’t an option. There was always a chance they wouldn’t salvage the building, but it was their primary job to give those inside a chance to get out.
  “What’s it look like in there?” Michael asked through the mic system. 
  There was a crackle before Jefferies responded, “It’s fucking hot as hell, and we’re not seeing proof of anyone crashing here so far.”
  “What about you, Simon?” Grey asked.
  “The structure is close to being fully involved. We’re coming out plus two,” Simon shouted into the mic. 
  Grey exchanged a shocked look with Michael. He was surprised anyone lived in the damn place.  
  True to his word, Simon appeared with Dale at the side door on the opposite end of the building; one carried a woman and the other directed a man. The paramedics immediately moved to assist them. 
  “The fire killed the path we took. No way back in,” Dale yelled at Michael. 
  Grey hoped Jefferies and Mica weren’t blocked in on their side. The fierce roar of the fire was growing more intense by the minute. They were running short on time. Sweat lined Grey’s forehead as the heat rolled off the building in waves. The structure groaned and began to collapse on the left side. 
  “Jeff? Mica? Where the hell are you? Get your asses moving. The building is coming down on your heads,” Michael hollered into the mic.  
  Grey felt the beginnings of fear filter through. The guys were cutting it pretty close. 
  A rig pulled up from station ten. Grey nodded in their direction as they piled out and set up their gear. Now at least they all had a chance of controlling the fire. The lieutenant came over to get a rundown of the situation before returning to his company. All Grey heard was that they wouldn’t be sending anyone else inside. As soon as Jefferies and Mica came out, station ten would help establish a defensive fire attack.  
  There was a crackling over the system before Jefferies responded, “I’m on my way out.” 
  Grey frowned at Michael as Jefferies barged out the front door. Mica wasn’t behind him. 
  “Where the hell is Mica?” More than a hint of anger colored Michael’s shout. Grey knew that tone to mean Jefferies was royally screwed.
  “Idiot thought he heard someone crying. I couldn’t hear shit, and I didn’t want to risk it. He wouldn’t listen to me.”  
  “You ass,” Grey hollered. “You never leave a man behind.” He pushed past Jefferies toward the building, but Michael grabbed his arm. 
  “Mica?” Grey shouted into the mic. When he couldn’t discern anything but the buzz over the airways, he jerked his arm away from Michael and took off toward the building again. In horror, he heard the building groan, the sound of a dying structure as it starts to slowly crumble. Large chunks of burning rubble smashed to the earth and shook the ground.
  Michael clasped Grey’s jacket and hauled him back.
  A confused Dale and Simon ran up to the group. “We couldn’t find anyone else,” Simon said. 
  A paramedic jogged up. “The man said no one lived here except for the occasional hooker. The woman thought a crackhead might be staying here with her kid.”  
  A sharp splintering of wood echoed around them. They turned to see Mica shoulder his way through what remained of the side exit. The door crashed to the ground. Mica had a small child cradled in his arms, his mask over her face. His whole body looked like it had been dipped in ash. He took a few steps forward before he collapsed to his knees. The paramedic approached him and took possession of the little girl.
  Grey hurried to Mica and held out his hand to pull the other man to his feet. “You okay there, man?” he asked, his gaze riveted to Mica’s face. 

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I've always been a writer. I've really just spent most of my life doing everything but seriously writing. It was something I would do for fun without any intention of people actually reading what I wrote. Finally I decided that if I was going to spend all my time penning words perhaps I should be open to sharing those. So here I am. My first book, Grey's Hidden Fire was released on July 9th!!
Find Draven at: