Saturday, January 28, 2012


Welcome to the Young Adult Giveaway Hop.  

Thanks to Amber from Down the Rabbit Hole for co-hosting.

Dates for this hop are January 27th to 31st. Enter to win a free copy of The Demon Side and be sure to check out Over 200 blogs below that are each hosting a giveaway for a young adult book.


Yay! I’d like to thank Lorelei Bell for joining us today on The Demon Side!

Before we get to the nitty-gritty, tell us a little about yourself?

I am not a demon, or a vampire--unfortunately, but so happy to be here on your blog, Heaven! After having struggled at trying to get an agent, and failing, I self-published my first book, "Spell of the Black Unicorn". I went on to re-write my vampire novel after that hopeful to get someone's attention. I finally got myself a small publisher who has published both of my novels in a series.

I have a full-time job and work on my writing when I have free time. My husband is my biggest fan and supporter. I hope that by the time I retire I have at least 8 or 10 books out so that I can enjoy my time writing and not at some other job.

Did you wake up one morning and say “Hey, I think I’ll write a book today!” or has writing always been a passion for you?

I have been writing for a very long time (over 30 years). In the beginning I thought it would be easy to get published, but I eventually realized this wasn't the easiest gig to get. I am a writer. I do not go by any other description. I eat and sleep with some scene in my head. I can't stop writing even if you pointed a gun at me and told me to stop.

Can you tell us what Vampire's Trill is about?

Sabrina Strong, a Touch Clairvoyant, parries with demons and vampires alike, while saving her boss, Bjorn Tremayne (vampire magnate of eastern half of the US) who awaits trial for killing a human in the first book.

Dante Badheart, her partner, puts himself at risk in order to obtain information on what Ilona is up to, as she reinstates hunting humans. Sabrina finally learns Vasyl's role in finding her through his recounting of his human life and vampire life and how the past and the future will come together. Sabrina learns why newcomer, Bill Gannon is so interested in her. Sabrina's past finally catches up to her as she uncovers an evil plot afoot.

What inspired you to write Vampire's Trill?

The first book took me about 4 years to write. The second one was in my head before I was finished with it.

When you write do you draw from your personal life or experiences?

Sometimess I do. For instance I use the house I live in and the area for backdrop of the book. Many people who live in nearby towns might recognize many buildings, streets, and businesses I use in the book. I try to use other real life experiences for certain parts of the book. I happened to have lost my mother at a young age and Sabrina has lost her mother--but I changed that she was turned into a vampire, instead of dying of cancer. Things like that are good to use and change.

I know I can write a word without my IPod, a Pepsi and a bag of Hershey kisses. What must you have while writing?

Oh, probably a hot or cold drink (depending upon the weather). I don't usually snack while I eat, unless it's in the middle of the day or morning. If I could just write all the time I'd never eat much—and maybe I'd lose some weight! But my 2 glasses of wine in the evening before dinner is a must!

How do you manage your writing career and life outside of the computer desk?

It's always been difficult, but with my husband doing laundry, and taking care of other segments of life, I'm able to spend time in my office when there is free time. I've sort of gotten into the habit of getting up earlier than I need to get a few things done—sometimes it's blogging and answering email, and sometimes it's writing something that came to me in the night.

Can you give the readers a little taste of Vampire's Trill?


I knew I wasn't asleep but in a fog—or rather deep in a vampire's thrall. I recognized that when I opened my eyes as the thrall lifted. The aroma of straw and horses caught in my nose. I realized that I lay in a bed of straw in the second floor of a barn. Most importantly, my Knowing also told me that I wasn't alone. He was here with me.

My movements set in motion the male form across from me. Vasyl slowly turned around. His dark silhouette bisected silver moonlight framed in the open haymow door in the upper section of the barn. His white silk shirt almost glowed against the ebony of his long, wavy hair. The wings were gone, now. Invisible, or whatever it was master vampires could do with them.

Vasyl slowly, sinuously stepped toward me, cutting the distance in half. Unable to avoid my fear — because he had lifted his thrall — I sat up and scooted further back into the pile of straw. As I did, I felt tightness and pain over my right shoulder. I grimaced, trying to stifle a groan, but it gushed out. My mind replayed vague, swirling scenes of being in a car, going way too fast, and someone shooting at me.

Oh. Right. Shot in the back – I had been with Leif. The moments of the car chase and wreck replayed in my mind's eye in a quick flash, stunning me briefly. How had this happened? It was all like a blurry half-remembered dream. “Where am I?” Now there's an original question to ask your abductor.

“Where you are safe, Cherie,” he answered in a chilly, quiet voice, almost as though he were in a church, or monastery. Still, his voice seemed magnified, although he did not use it to full volume.
“Why did you—” I stopped myself when the blanket fell away, and I realized I was nude from the waist up. “Hey! What's the idea?” I said, frantically pulling the blanket up to hide behind—as if he hadn't already seen everything he'd wanted to.

“Sabrina, you were shot,” he said slightly louder this time, his accent not quite as heavy as I remembered it the last time we'd met.

“I had to find the bullet. You were bleeding heavily, and I had to remove the bullet from your shoulder. You've lost a lot of blood,” he added.

“Uh—okay...” I fumbled with the horse blanket. It was wool and itched. “I gave you some of my blood to replace yours that you'd lost. And it helps with the healing. The wound — it was very deep — to the bone. I feared that had I done nothing, you would have died.” He made the universal shrug sign, hands out. I couldn't see it, but I imagined his luscious lower lip had pushed out.

“Maybe I was meant to die,” I squeezed from my lungs, surprised at my sudden depressed feelings, tears sliding out of my eyes.

“Absoluement non!” he barked so sharply that I jumped.

“Sabrina, I am not your enemy. I am your sworn protector. Forever. Tonight you would have died had I not pulled you from that car. You are the sibyl. You must live. The whole world depends upon it.”

Heart hammering against my chest, I took him in. “The whole world?” I said and made a little scoff. “Let's stick with maybe a radius of a few miles, okay?”

He remained stoic. I took in his tight-fitting jeans along with the glowing white shirt that hung open and was not of a style men wore today, it was more like something they might have worn in, say, the fifteenth century. He strode bare footed, closing in on me. Vasyl was not one to wear shoes. At the moment, his face was shadowed because he was facing away from the moonlight. It was good that he was, because if I saw his eyes I would have no control over my actions.

“You remember?” he asked. “I did not take the memory from you.”

Squinting with concentration, I said, “Someone was shooting at us.”

“Yes,” he said as he knelt beside me. “They were following you. I tried to stop them. Then, when I realized that the car you were in went out of control, I came to save you.”

“What happened to Leif?”

“Does it matter?”

I couldn't answer that. I didn't care for Leif much. If it had been
Heath, I would care. “I'm just...curious.”

“The car crashed, after I lifted you out. I am certain the vampire, Leif, saved himself.” He sat back on his heels. Now his face was in partial light, and my gaze slid to his saucy lips. I was doing my best not to look into his eyes. I knew he was kicking off pheromones that were keeping me calm, plus, he'd had my blood, and I'd had his, now. A two-way blood bond was the strongest. It was what tied a scion or a donor/paramour to the vampire. I was now his. If he'd wanted to, he could kick the pheromones up a notch and do whatever he wanted with me at this point. He was the most beautiful vampire I'd ever seen, and if he were merely a mortal man I'd still have trouble remembering to keep my hands to myself, wounded or not.

How can we get more of you and Vampire's Trill? 

My Blog:

Facebook fan page:


Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Monday, January 23, 2012


Yay! I’d like to thank Athanasios for joining us today on The Demon Side! 

Apropos website for interviewing the Antichrist’s biographer.

Before we get to the nitty-gritty, tell us a little about yourself? 

I’m a 47 year old graphic/video artist who works in dvd/film production in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. It’s now the dead of winter and I’m up at my customary 5 AM to write and take care of my promotion for my Occult/Horror Thriller series Predatory Ethics.

Did you wake up one morning and say “Hey, I think I’ll write a book today!” or has writing always been a passion for you?

It’s always been a passion but a recurring one, nothing that burned and extinguished but like a BBQ I had to keep refilling the propane tank. It’s gone through stops and spurts over the years.

Can you tell us what Predatory Ethics, Mad Gods and Commitment are about?

It’s about Adam, the son of Satan’s refusal to follow his destiny and enslave the world as is prophesied in Bible Revelation. He not only has to contend with his father and His minions efforts to make him do as he is told but every other religion’s interest in him. His refusal makes him both Antichrist and Christ of every religion. Commitment deals with his rejection of paganism and the upcoming sequel In Whom To Trust his rejection of Buddhism.

What inspired you to write Predatory Ethics?

Dealing with my own fears of evil and the doom and gloom of apocalypse, and the end of the world.  I can’t believe that, given the choice, anybody human, including the Antichrist would want to go through with causing so much pain and misery.

When you write do you draw from your personal life or experiences?

Absolutely. Every character is based on people I’ve known or met in my life. It’s the best way to be able to write realistically and to imbue your characters with real mannerisms and believable characteristics.

I know I can write a word without my IPod, a Pepsi and a bag of Hershey kisses. What must you have while writing? 

Quiet, especially when I’m transposing from my first draft. In my day work I like to have a documentary playing in a small, minimized screen on my computer, love conspiracy theories and alternate histories.

How do you manage your writing career and life outside of the computer desk?

I don’t think of it as management so much as living by the seat of my pants. I put in a lot of hours promoting, writing and doing covers for other indie writers and things happen so quickly online, I just react to whatever is thrown at me and keep hoping for the best outcome. It’s all I can do. I can’t plan ahead with methodical detail to what I’ll do I parcel out my time for whatever will come.

Give the readers a little taste of Predatory Ethics 2: Commitment, Chapter 7, A Newer Darkness.

A Newer Darkness
Time: March 23rd, 1974, Buenos Aires, Argentina.
Today was always special in the Hess family.  All the transplanted Reichians celebrated it in the same way because it commemorated the Ermachtigungsgesetz of 1933 when the Reichstag gave power to the National Socialists in Deutschland.  They passed the Enabling Act, which went on to dissolve the Reichstag and start the Third Reich.  Everyone wore their best uniforms accessorized with family heirlooms worn in the Fuhrer's ranks. 
Rolf Hess arched his heavy brows down and felt a surge of pride looking through the ordered ranks of the faithful.  Tight, square phalanxes of four men deep, four across stood at attention.  The damp cavern that they gathered in was illuminated by many a bare bulb reflecting off of their polished jack boots.
They stood before a massive portrait of Adolph Hitler who looked on in what Rolf swore was profound approval.  On either side of the portrait and before a massive podium were long banners of a field of red and white stripes with an updated swastika.  The hall grew silent save for Rolf’s boots going closer to the podium at the center of the raised dais.  He was so like his father that most gasped when they met him thinking the former Reichsfuhrer was come again.  He had the thinning hair and heavy brows that met over startling blue eyes when he was confused or angry.  The long aquiline nose seemed harsh, for his lips were thin and near slit of a mouth. 
Everyone in the hall, including Rolf was dressed in updated SS black.  He was a man of rippled proportions whose lean, muscled form was rigid in rider’s pants with a thin blood stripe down both sides.  He was clean-shaven, his dirty blonde, crew cut hair in stark contrast to the high collar of his immaculately tailored jacket.  Blood piping trimmed its edges and four pockets.  Cold blue eyes scanned the crowd and clasping his hands behind his back he launched into his sermon.
“Fellow Reichians.  We commemorate the hour of our deliverance with the Ermachtigungsgesetz of 1933 but we also commemorate the acquisition of the holy relics of 1956.  The Fuhrer’s remains were in the hands of the Bolsheviks and jealously guarded.  With His guidance, His old Reichsfuhrer, my father, Rudolf Hess entered the KGB Headquarters and liberated them for their return to us, their rightful keepers.”  This was an update of the usual rehashing of the events of 1933 when the Nazi party had taken over the German Parliament and ended the Weimar Republic.  Many in the audience became excited at the new stories their esteemed leader was sharing with them.
“My father did not stay in Spandau Prison as the world long believed.  He was not without his own allies and within a decade of his imprisonment he came to our holdings here in Argentina.”  He looked on through the crowd and saw nothing but attentive faces.  “He was then responsible for the continuation of our movement and from the ashes of the Third Reich came our present, Final Reich.  We have an exalted name to carry and we will not be found lacking.  The First Reich lasted for a thousand years under the Teutonic Order and their Holy Roman Empire.  The Second Reich burned brightly yet only for a short time with the Prussian Empire.  The Third burned the brightest and would’ve eclipsed them had it succeeded.”  At every mention of their near success Rolf fought back tears of frustration.  They had been so close. 
“We honor their achievements every time we congregate with more than one of our number or when we show pride in our race and heritage.  The world does not share our beliefs.  In the Americas, the United Kingdoms, and even in our Deutschland wherever our kind come together we are persecuted like schvartze or juden.”  Coiled rage shook Rolf’s face as he continued.  “Yet we still come together.  We cannot be stopped.  Even The Lords of Hell admired our resolve to go on in the face of this overwhelming opposition.” 
Many in the audience turned to one another in confused discomfort but were quieted by steely stares that did not tolerate weakness.  They didn't understand this infernal reference.  Rolf was familiar with this intolerance of weakness, and it had made him the man he was today.  “These Lords of Hell, Nephilim, came to my father when I was but four and bade him sacrifice to them.  They were Dark Nobility and wanted to recruit Third Reich survivors to their ranks.  He refused to bow down before anyone but the Fuhrer.  This adamant faith in the face of doom beyond mortal death gave them pause.”  Those uncomfortable had mostly settled into their seats and began to be swayed by his sermon. “At their indecision Rudolf Hess, our Prophet, offered up this consideration to them.  If they wanted to capture the hearts of evil men in the modern age, they should give them a newer evil.”   
Rolf looked about the crowd and saw a few had gotten up and were heading to the doors; he nodded to a few hidden brown-shirt security men and went on.  “As they had not taken his soul my father continued to entrĂ©e them.  Who else in recent history had even approached the brilliant evil of Adolph Hitler?”  Some in the hall were insulted at the idea of their Fuhrer being evil.  Whatever he’d done had been to sub-humans, hardly more than the animals they ate.
“Do you know what they answered? Joseph Stalin.“  A shockwave went through the assembled: the Bolshevik, communist brute.  What an insult. 
Still others stood, not liking this turn of their little social club.  Getting together and beating a few natives, juden, or schwartzs was a communal bonding experience; this talk of evil was very discomforting, very gauche.
“They were answered by a cry straight out of Hell’s black ninth ring.” 
“Stalin’s not good enough to throw pebbles at my shit!  He killed out of greed and lust for power.  His successes were nothing more than an over-achieving mobster.  Mine were out of pure hate!  I couldn’t abide living with those filthy vermin.  If the Third Reich had gone for a thousand years, I could have rid this world of every sub-human.”  More brown-shirts had come to the exits blocking them.  Those that tried to leave were protesting their detainment and were met with fascist argument of fist or cudgel across the face and head.  Protest soon stopped.
“What audacity, who else could have struck out from Hell’s own heart like that?  My father dropped to his knees in dread worship of his Fuhrer’s voice.  He remembered its shrill command and was overjoyed to hear it once more.”  He motioned for more brown-shirts to come through the ranks and take over vacated seats.  “The Dark Nobility were justly impressed and summoned him forth like we will today.” 
There was further shock going through the crowd, but none got up to leave.  They were all captivated by the sermon and only reacted to its excitement.  Those who did were removed by the brown-shirts who then closed ranks by filling the vacated seats.
“When our Prophet beheld his Fuhrer once more he kissed his feet.  Among the Dark Nobility had been an Arch-Nephilim, Melusine Rothschild, who pronounced my father elevated from damned to favored apostle for his unflinching dedication.  He would go forth and establish His Fuhrer's worship.”  Rolf continued intent on his missioned sermon.
“His remains are enshrined in a gold cabinet beneath this podium.  He is exulted like no other.  There has never been a man damned by his life’s work who was then elevated to predator, a carnivore from cattle.” 
Some of the still seated black-shirts looked contemptuously at those that tried to leave.  Rolf was happy with the night’s progress.  He thought there would’ve been more dissenters but was pleased that they had just enough.  Someone was looking out for them.
“All who have kept their seats through this Revelation are Reichians of the first order.  All true Teutonic Knights.  Everyone of you has been tested, their lineage investigated and found to be of purest Aryan stock.  Those who tried to leave showed their treachery at their refusal to listen to our most revered lessons.  Pity.  They will, however, be fitting sacrifices to the rebirth of our Fuhrer.”  Silence met Rolf’s pronouncement.  He had expected this and had allotted some pause in his sermon hoping for the help that came.  He left some of his plans up to faith and was not disappointed.
A voice that moved a nation to monstrous, collective acts on innocent and guilty rose from beneath the podium.  None who earlier had doubted their senses clung to further skepticism.  They threw it out when his unmistakable voice and charismatic power grabbed their attention and squeezed.
“Who among you would not willingly give your life for our race?  I did, and it has put me at the top of Hell itself!  I stand beside fallen angels and contribute to the Great Plan with Azazel, Ba-al, and Lucifer.”
Unnoticed by the rapt assemblage, three brown-shirts brought one of the dissenting black-shirts bound to his knees at Rolf’s feet.  Two held the man down while the third handed Rolf a ceremonial SS dagger.  Rolf sliced the man’s throat left to right, ear to ear, in an elegant arc ending dagger-point first directed at the crowd.  The action was reflected and frozen forever in the victim’s eyes while the blood flowed like a fountain to soak the platform.
He was left to flop onto his back while Rolf straddled his body and sliced the thorax from his pelvis to the earlier cut.  Dipping his hands into the open cavity they come out holding the heart, kidney, and liver he placed reverently aside.  He returned to the now unmoving form and with a few deft cuts removed the colon.
The body was then taken out of view leaving a gory trail as mute evidence of what was done.  A bloody altar heaped with similar gore was wheeled out and left just behind him.  Rolf placed the still warm heart and organs on the altar.  He sliced each in two while intoning an incantation.
With these sacrifices we summon forth the newest of the Nephilim, the fiend Adolph Hitler. 
He is summoned to his faithful. 
The blood and souls of these pure Aryans call him forth. 
The blood and souls of the sub-humans, the cows call forth the newest carnivore. 
Our reverence is here to sustain him. 
We long to feel his dread approval for our loyal devotion. 
We call him to this hall upon the very stage from which he commanded the Ermachtigungsgesetz in 1933.
Rolf was then lost in a trance.  He chanted the incantation over and over and didn’t notice the change in the silence around him.  There was only the sound of hundreds of rapt breaths before, but now it was the collective silence of those breaths held.  He came out of his trance when he felt the weight of an approving hand fall on his shoulder.
The Fuhrer had come to stand beside him.  In his life Adolph Hitler wore the grey unadorned officer’s jacket, but in his rebirth there were rider’s pants and jackboots of the Final Reich replacing the older plain black slacks.  The face was as the massive portrait behind him but on closer scrutiny seemed colder, with more venom, barely leashed hatred and intolerance.
He cared only about the Final Reich and its members.
He stood before the altar and breathed in the souls that were held in the organs upon it.  Once finished, he was lost in its rapture until it came back to the souls still here.  He was lost further in the terror and betrayal the dead felt just before their sacrifice.  It was good to be the Fuhrer and to have such faithful souls.
His souls.
Promised and marked for him in Hell.  Every one of these fine young men and women would be his to enjoy in eternity.  There would be even more now that the Redeemer, The One had come.
The Storm.
It would make the Great War and its sequel, the Third Reich War seem like a bloody nose.
The Second Coming but not for the Son of God.
The Second Coming was evil’s chance.
Fair was fair.  This was their turn.
“The pure men and women who for a brief time followed me and made the earth tremble would be proud of their sons and daughters here today.  You are all Teutons strong and pure.  I salute you!”
At that utterance, his right hand rigidly flew up and out in a heil.  It was answered instantly by the entire assembly with a booming…
Siege Heil!
It dwarfed any remembered from Nuremburg.
The salute promised the renewed majesty of the First Reich when the Teutonic Knights ruled under the Holy Roman Empire.  It hearkened back to the time when Rome was more than just the political machinations and intrigues of today’s Catholic Church.  When Rome ruled and meant its Legions and its knights.  The might of Rome now would return in the Legion of Hell and the knight would be reborn with the new Teutons of the Final Reich.
Rolf felt this in his almost bursting, prideful heart.  His father was one of the few Teutonic Knights who survived the Templar’s near annihilation.  He taught him the mysteries and secrets of the mystical men at arms.  They had taken much of their strength from the pure, clean Christianity the filthy Catholics put down in the French Southlands centuries before.
The Catharae had not relied on a worship of a Jew, no matter how extraordinary He may have been.  A talking dog is still a dog.  The Teutons flourished in the First Reich and had gone on to be part of the Templars when their first Messiah had come.  The Fuhrer had almost achieved the return of the Holy Roman Empire and came so close that its end was all more tragic when it failed.
Now as the portrait behind His God rose to reveal the rest of the waiting sacrifices Rolf knew they would have another chance to avenge the injustices committed upon them. 
About the cringing black-shirts were many brown-shirts, men and women, hands behind their backs.  Upon sight of Him and the Reichsfuhrer, they clicked their heels and salute with an arrogant snap of their arms.  The Fuhrer and deputy jutted their chins forward in response and forgetting the crowd in the hall walked to the assembled victims.
The first person they came to was moving his head about trying to discern what was going on.  He had been beaten so unmercifully his eyes were covered in blood from bruises and cuts.  On his right upper arm was a concentration camp tattoo.  Rolf saw it and chuckled.  He'd been told there was a Nazi hunter trying to find him and his father but did not know he had penetrated this far.  It was too rich an irony to have come so far and meet a more horrible end than he survived decades before.
Rolf motioned for one of the Reichians to clean the fellow’s eyes.  He wanted him to know who was before him and to let his Fuhrer have his fill of the desperate horror to come.  Once his eyes were whipped clean he squinted and blinked to see an unmistakably familiar face.  He still saw it in nightmares and horrible memory yet he saw it now, with his eyes, not memory or nightmare, and he screamed.
“I’m in Hell!”
“No, Juden, Hell has come to you,” Rolf Hess pleasantly replied and gave his Fuhrer a ceremonial dagger to begin the feast whetted by this delicious appetizer.  Adolph Hitler’s rapturous face thanked the Reichsfuhrer for this succulent preparation.

How can we get more of you and Predatory Ethics?

Mad Gods:
Main Mad Gods        
MadGods-Volume I   
MadGods-Volume II  
MadGods-Volume III
MadGods-Volume IV
MadGods-Volume V  

Main Mad Gods                
MadGods-Volume I           
MadGods-Volume II        
MadGods-Volume III       
MadGods-Volume IV       
MadGods-Volume V         



Tuesday, January 17, 2012


~~~~~~Dreaming of Books Giveaway Blog Hop, Interview & Sneak Peek~~~~~~

Welcome to the Second Annual Dreaming of Books Giveaway Hop.

The dates for this hop are Friday, January 13th to Wednesday the 18th. 

Thanks to Reviews by Martha's Bookshelf for co-hosting.

Nearly 200 blogs are each hosting a giveaway for something a reader, author or blogger would enjoy! Just click the Dreaming of Books Giveaway Picture on the right hand side of your screen for a list of all the wonderful authors, bloggers, readers, reviewers and more that are giving away some awesome prizes!!

Yay! I’d like to thank Davee Jones for joining us today on The Demon Side! I'm so excited to hear from her and her upcoming novel On Ellicott Street!

Before we get to the nitty-gritty, tell us a little about yourself? 

First, I must say Heaven, thank you very much for having me here with you today. I will be 42 years young in 2012. I decided I could live the last half of my life achieving goals I honestly never dreamed possible. I have my children who look up to me, and it’s important to me that I show them they must continue evolving. I stay active, and began participating in triathlons last year with my husband, now, I’m hooked. I coach little league softball for my daughter. I love to cook and collect cookbooks. I recently began learning about wines and enjoy a good red blend on occasion and I absolutely love sharing martinis with family and friends when we get together. I have a deep Christian faith, and it gets me through the rough times. There is no box that can classify me. 

Did you wake up one morning and say “Hey, I think I’ll write a book today!” or has writing always been a passion for you? 

I’ve always written in one form or another. I wrote poetry in college, one poem made it into our college art forum publication. I kept a journal, especially during the most difficult times in my life. I didn’t really believe I could write a book, because it seemed so daunting. One day, probably after a workout when my endorphins were spinning, I decided to begin writing the first chapter of an honest to goodness book. I haven’t stopped writing since and that was about two years ago. Ironically, my first book published, On Ellicott Street, is not the first book I wrote. The first book I wrote, Finless, started it all and is scheduled for release in April 2012.

Can you tell us what On Ellicott Street is about? 

This story is about the stereotypical older woman/younger man. However, although age is an integral part of the story line, it isn’t the main focus. The story is about a man recognizing the beauty of one woman, and becoming attracted to her because of her life experiences. In turn, this gives her the confidence to accept who she is, as well as appreciate the comfort and true romantic love she deserves.

What inspired you to write On Ellicott Street

It’s actually a “who”-One of my best friends, we’ve known each other almost 40 years! She decided not to accept the status quo of working mom going through the motions of life, and instead started living joyfully. She radiates now, it’s awesome.

When you write do you draw from your personal life or experiences? 

The characters I create hold traits of people close to me-both the positive and negative. However, I do not reveal enough or make it so personal that it would embarrass either me or my family and friends. There are times the story line involves deeply held feelings. I hope to make my characters genuine and believable and the best way is to re-create the roller coaster of emotional experiences in life. I also like to write about places I’ve been or would like to go. I also recently wrote a story about an era I enjoy - the 1930’s.

I know I can’t write a word without my IPod, a Pepsi and a bag of Hershey kisses. What must you have while writing? 

I must have a beverage, usually water, but, sometimes coffee, a cherry-lime diet Dr. Pepper, Throwback Pepsi, or wine. The beverage depends on the scene I’m writing. ;) I also must have music for inspiration; either my Mp3 or I’m also a Rhapsody junkie and just turn on a playlist. My faves are Muse, Phoenix, Pink, SiA, Kings of Leon, and several soundtracks to my favorite movies.

At least you had a Pepsi somewhere in there even though it's a Pepsi Throwback. I didn't want to have to kick you out of my office.  They call it a Throwback for a reason. *shudders*  :P

How do you manage your writing career and life outside of the computer desk? 

I have lists everywhere, and keep pencils sharpened to add to and take away from those lists. I also tell myself I must get _______ done before I can write. Writing is my reward for getting housekeeping and other tasks finished. I also work full time away from the writing scene, so, my time for writing is sometimes quite limited. I also explained to my family that in order for me to be successful, I would need to be unavailable at times to take care of writing business, networking, blogging, etc. They understand and are so far very supportive. I multi-task extremely well, that helps tremendously.

Can you give the readers a little taste of On Ellicott Street?
They arrived at the shop and Eli held his hand against Cassie’s forearm to signal her to remain seated. He got out of the passenger side and smoothly arrived at the driver’s side door to open it for her. Some feminists might take offense to chivalry, but Cassie’s opinion held fast that gallantry needed reviving. She felt secure and beautiful when Eli followed through on those small courteous nuances.

They ordered chai tea and found a spot at the back of the shop. They sat next to each other on an oversized love seat and began talking once again. Eli and Cassie talked for four more hours. The topics ranged from world politics to Feng Shui to American history. Where one was deficient in knowledge about something, the other explained happily. They also moved closer together as the night blossomed into pre-dawn until they snuggled cozily in the overstuffed loveseat, dozing occasionally.
“I guess I should take you home now, it’s almost six a.m.!” Cassie giggled, astonished at the time.
Eli sheepishly grinned in return. 

“Yes, I suppose we have almost worn out our welcome here.” Once seated safely in Cassie’s car, Eli gave her directions to his home. 

When they pulled into the driveway, Cassie did not know what to do next. She truly wanted to crawl in bed next to Eli and breathe in his warm, masculine scent until it lulled her to sleep. She wondered if he thought the same thing.

“Look, I don’t want you to leave yet. Is that too forward for me to say?” Eli implored. 

Cassie shook her head and softly vocalized her assurance. “No.”

“Good, then, it’s settled, I’ll come let you out and welcome you to my humble abode.” Eli once again exited the vehicle and came around to open her door. He grabbed Cassie’s hand as they walked up to the front door, stroking the softness of her hand with his thumb. Eli took out his key and unlocked the door with almost a single motion. He opened the door wide, and extended it for Cassie’s entrance.

Eli did not flip on a light immediately. Instead, he drew Cassie near and breathed in the scent from the top of her hair. He pulled her close to him, holding her frame tightly against his. Eli smelled her skin and freshly washed hair, and he inhaled deeply as quickly and often as he could before he moved away from her.

He used his foot to push the front door closed, without moving away from her. “Oh, wow, you smell amazing and you feel even better. Do you know what you have done to me?” Eli whispered against the top of her head.

Cassie’s mind raced rapidly, desperately trying to keep up with her heartbeat. Eli’s arms felt strong and secure. Cassie had not felt this safe since she was a child. However, the heated surges she felt through her loins were nothing childlike. She squeezed Eli even tighter to her as she breathed in the smell of his chest against her face. Cassie could not articulate how she felt at that moment, so she had no idea what to interpret from Eli’s question. Funny how in the midst of the passion, she wondered if he intended her to answer his question.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Her voice was muffled against his shirt.

Stunned by the ridiculousness of Cassie’s comment, they began to laugh. What began as a gentle giggle turned into a full on belly roll, end of the night, punchy laugh-fest. “You are something else, Cassie Stewart, something else indeed.”

How can we get more of you and On Ellicott Street

This eBook will be available for purchase on February 17, 2012 from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Secret Cravings Publishing.

Psssst….However, you can win your own advanced PDF copy early! I will draw one lucky winner from the names of all comments received on Heaven’s blog, as well as my own blogspot, so, comment early and in both places for your chance to win.

I am so excited for you and your new novel. I have been such a fan for a while now and I know I can not wait to read On Ellicott Street! Thank you so much for joining us today!

Monday, January 16, 2012


~~~~~~Dreaming of Books Giveaway Blog Hop & Interview~~~~~~

Welcome to the Second Annual Dreaming of Books Giveaway Hop.

The dates for this hop are Friday, January 13th to Wednesday the 18th. 

Thanks to Reviews by Martha's Bookshelf for co-hosting.

Nearly 200 blogs are each hosting a giveaway for something a reader, author or blogger would enjoy! Just click the Dreaming of Books Giveaway Picture on the right hand side of your screen for a list of all the wonderful authors, bloggers, readers, reviewers and more that are giving away some awesome prizes!! 

Yay! I’d like to thank Axel Howerton for joining us today on The
Demon Side!

Thank you very much for inviting me!

Before we get to the nitty-gritty, tell us a little about yourself?

Well, I'm an Aries. I like long walks at the bottom of the Ocean and
peanut butter cups... Seriously, I'm just a dudeist monk with a glorious
head of hair, a lovely wife and a couple of great kids. I've been writing
for decades, but only recently got back into fiction after spending 10+
years as an “entertainment journalist” rock and film writer.

Did you wake up one morning and say “Hey, I think I’ll write a book
today!” or has writing always been a passion for you?

I've had stories running through my brain every minute of my life. The
real challenge is finding the time to get them down on paper and then
finesse them into something good enough to entertain someone else.

Can you tell us what Hot Sinatra is about?

It's a detective story, first and foremost, about a modern day P.I.. None
of the traditional “finest mind in America”, “expert on esoteric what-
have-you”, “former Navy S.E.A.L.” stuff, just a Marlowe-style wiseass
who spends most of his time following cheating husbands and trying
to live up to his grandfathers legacy. His grandfather was the template
for all of the hardboiled detectives of the 40's and 50's, a real ladies
man, tough-guy, Dick Tracy. He gets hired by a miserable old record
producer, who may be senile, to find a stolen Sinatra record that
may or may not be worth a fortune. From there it becomes a buddy-
comedy, a mid-life crisis, an action piece full of Mafiosos, bad cops
and Yakuza thugs, and a love story about a va-va-voom redhead who
gets stuck in the middle of it all.

What inspired you to write Hot Sinatra?

I believe it started while driving home from work one summer evening.

The sun was setting, but blasting a volcanic reflection off of a glass
building as I emerged from an underpass, sunglasses and porkpie
fedora on, Cake's “Frank Sinatra” blasting on the stereo. All of a
sudden I had a daydream rolling out in my mind of a half-assed P.I
wandering into an abandoned-looking hospital to the strains of a
trumpet, wailing and echoing through the empty halls. Eventually he
came to a room with an old man playing a Sinatra record. That one
sequence stuck in my brain pan for a week or more, before I started
jotting down notes for a story. That story evolved into a few chapters,
which then evolved into the novel. It's a short novel by modern
reckoning, but the old pulp novels were frequently thinner than the
more “literary” selections of the day.

When you write do you draw from your personal life or experiences?

I think I tend to infuse my writing with personal interests or things
going on around me. I'm kind of like a sponge that way. I think most
writers are. I pick up snatches of conversation, tidbits of other people's
lives. Sometimes I steal peoples anecdotes outright, Chuck Pahlaniuk
advised me to do that. Other times it's a character's look, a speech
pattern, how they hold their kid's hand, how they slurp their coffee
at the Starbucks. 
You have to be aware of everything. As to putting
my own life into stories? Not so much. I'm sure there are issues I
subconsciously work out by having characters go through similar
situations or relationships, and there's always the requisite “horrible
ways to kill my unholy scumbag of a boss” plotlines, but everybody
does that, right? Right?Oh God! What have I said?

I know I can't write a word without my IPod, a Pepsi and a bag of
Hershey kisses. What must you have while writing?

If it's nice out, I can usually be found lounging on the patio in my
threadbare plaid bathrobe, board shorts and a fancy hat. Most
important is a beverage. Coffee or Irish whiskey or both. Not enough
to cause impairment... In fact, most of the time, the drinks go cold (or
warm) and sit for hours at a time. Sometimes I need a little music, but
it's usually something instrumental that fits the mood. I soundtrack
most of my stories, but not when I'm actually writing.   I'll pick, say,
a Ramones song for a raucous scene, listen to it a dozen times over
while I'm at my day job, driving in the car, cleaning the kitchen...
while I'm listening to it, I'm daydreaming the scene out like a movie
in the ol' Cerebellumplex. Then, when I'm ready to sit down and write
it, it's all down to describing the scene. Consequently, there's a lot
of mention of music in my writing. Hot Sinatra is chock-full of Jazz
references and Punk songs, but they're woven into the story like they're
woven into my own life.

How do you manage your writing career and life outside of the
computer desk?

Poorly, at best? With a time-intensive dayjob, an hour commute and
two small kids at home, writing time is increasingly hard to find. To
be honest, a lot of the time that does present itself gets wasted, just on
account of being exhausted or emotionally drained. I need a large-ish
chunk of quiet time to focus. I know a lot of writers can just sit down
and plow in for whatever five minute window they find. I envy those
people. If I can't schedule a couple of hours straight, it ain't happenin'.

For me, inspirato needs to be worked up to. I have mad rushes of
creative energy, where I'll run off to the bathroom and lock the door to
scribble down two or three pages of illegible notes on a new idea or a
new story arc, but if I need to actually write, I'm usually screwed ;) In
my perfect world, I'd have a big house in the country, just far enough
in the boonies to be left alone, but just close enough to have net access
and BBC reruns of Sherlock and IT Crowd. Then I'd build myself a
little bunker just for writing, with a nice big wood desk and a comfy
chair, and a shelf full of real, honest-to-goodness paper books. And a
Ferris Beuller security system to trick my kids into thinking I'm still in
the house.

I also find it difficult to have to spend 6 hours a day on Facebook
and Google and Twitter and Goodreads and Amazon and blah blah
blah. How anybody finds time to write is beyond me. The only one I
really look forward to is Coffin Hop. That week in October was an
absolute blast last year, and Julie Jansen is every writers best friend.
I can think of no one I'd rather partner up with to manage that kind
of madness. Hopefully this year will blast last years out of the water
and we can bring in artists and writers and, most importantly, readers

Can you give the readers a little taste of Hot Sinatra?

The first few chapters are available on my site - http://
It's an older draft, but only a few minor changes have been made so

How can we get more of you and Hot Sinatra?

I can always be found on where I post all
my news and reviews. Facebookers are cordially invited to “like” my
page which is

Preferably, go to my Amazon page and pick up some of my stuff, check
it out and let me know what you think. I have been known to respond
with witticisms, banter and sometimes super secret special prizes!

Sunday, January 15, 2012


Welcome to the Second Annual Dreaming of Books Giveaway Hop.

The dates for this hop are Friday, January 13th to Wednesday the 18th. 

Thanks to Reviews by Martha's Bookshelf for co-hosting.

Nearly 200 blogs are each hosting a giveaway for something a reader, author or blogger would enjoy! Just click the Dreaming of Books Giveaway Picture on the right hand side of your screen for a list of all the wonderful authors, bloggers, readers, reviewers and more that are giving away some awesome prizes!! I'm giving away free copies of The Demon Side and official autographed Demon Side bookmarks!

Yay! I’d like to thank Jeff Carlson for joining us today on The Demon Side! 

Before we get to the nitty-gritty, tell us a little about yourself?  

I’m 52 years old (but don’t act it) and live in North Carolina's Triad. When I'm not thinking about writing, I like ice hockey and traveling. I've tried stand-up comedy too. A cat owns me; in fact, she has helped me pen three picture books featuring her and her friends and the compilation thereof has just been published.

Did you wake up one morning and say “Hey, I think I’ll write a book today!” or has writing always been a passion for you? 

Always have I loved creating worlds different from the one in which I lived, and writing helped me do that.  Interestingly, Shrike came to life one morning when I did decide, “Hey, I’ll start it today!”

Can you tell us what Shrike is about? 

Set in present-day Raleigh, North Carolina, Shrike is the story of one young woman's overcoming tremendous physical, emotional and logistical adversity to defeat evil incarnate. When Taryn Spire and her best friend learn that some banking executives plan a cyber-crime to embezzle funds from the North Carolina State Fair, the adventure begins. A botched attempt by the perpetrators to silence them permanently leads to a dramatic transformation for Taryn - watching a television program featuring a video clip of a shrike with its prey destines her to become a crime fighter. With the help and the love of an unlikely ally (a motorcycle salesman), Taryn, as her alter ego, dispenses a unique type of justice.

Heaven:Wow. Some of my favorite things all wrapped into one book. I love it!

What inspired you to write Shrike?

I had the idea in me for over three decades.  With the encouragement of the young lady to whom I dedicated the book, I started it one morning as described above.   

When you write do you draw from your personal life or experiences? 

There is always some part of me in all my work – characters, experiences, feelings, aspirations.  Written words ring all the more true if indeed they were/are true.

I know I can’t write a word without my IPod, a Pepsi and a bag of Hershey kisses. What must you have while writing?

Jeff: A computer, quiet, a vision and one or more Jack and Cokes. 

Heaven: Coke? You're lucky you're a talented writer or I'd kick you out. :P

How do you manage your writing career and life outside of the computer desk? 

At this time, I do not have a “writing career” as such.  When I can, I write in the calm evenings after work and before bed.

Can you give the readers a little taste of Shrike?

How about the prologue?

It has been said that those who play with fire get burned.  If only that had been the case weeks ago - a furious, fiery, final judgment.  The vermin who caused the death of my best friend and changed my life forever live on without a scar - and I know all about scars.  They may be hiding.  They may be in a glorious dining room, eating dinner with friends with a cheerful fire crackling in the fireplace right now while the dog begs at his master's feet for a tiny morsel of filet mignon.  Whatever the case, I shall find them.  Swiftly to the prey I must be...

…For now I am beautiful.

Ooh, I'm so loving your prologue. How can we get more of you and Shrike?

E-book links:

It is available also via the iBookstore.  I can be reached on Facebook at
"The author pulled me into Taryn's world from page one. I am a sci-fi geek and writer, tend to read mostly science fiction and fantasy, and often find it difficult to become engrossed outside my chosen genre. This book hooked me in and held me through out with attention to detail and depth of character and setting. It is a story of love, loss, pain and vengeance, and Taryn is a wonderfully unique character. I thoroughly enjoyed this book."