A Steampunk Reverie

Kid's Play

2012-01-11T17:11:00.001-05:00

Today we're taking a bit of a detour from our normal corsets and discussing the written word. A great friend-- and my critique partner!-- has put together an awesome site about Kid's Play. And really, if you've got young ones running underfoot, what could be better than finding a great way to keep them busy and happy, so that you might even be able to get a bit of writing done?

So without further ado, I'd like to introduce Jean Oram, creator of It's All Kid's Play.

You’ve recently started promoting your blog Kid’s Play, a cool site where parents can find ideas to keep bored kids happy, occupied and active—and on a tight budget, no less. As a writer of fiction, did you find it difficult to blog about something non-writing related or does writing fiction help with the creativity you need for the ideas in your blog?

I think writing fiction has helpedme define my voice. As for creativity, I think all fiction writers are creativeby their very nature. We’ve tuned into that child inside that is constantlyasking ‘why’ and ‘what happens if…” So fiction writing has definitely helped inthat regard.

As for blogging about non-writingrelated things, anything I am interested in, inspired by, or believe in seemsto be fairly easy to write about.

Can you tell us a little bit about Kid’s Play?

My website, www.itsallkidsplay.ca, has hundreds ofactivities, arts and crafts, games, party ideas, boredom busters, challengesand other great things for children and families or for people looking to try“slow parenting” (essentially the opposite of hyper-parenting).

Basically, the premise behind thesite is that screen time is taking over many childhoods because it is an easyway to engage children (that’s how TV shows, computer/video games and moviesare designed). However, as experts are learning, too much screen time is not healthyfor child development as what children engage in shapes their brain and screentime limits our brain’s plasticity (ability to create connections). Yikes!

On the other hand, free play (unstructured, unscheduled play)has been found to be very healthy for children. It has been found to increaseproblem-solving skills, self-esteem, grow personal confidence, increase communicationskills, decrease depression, reduce the risk of obesity, increase resiliency,and so many other positive things. In fact, play has been recognized by theUnited Nations High Commission for Human Rights as the right of every child.

So, that’s where It’s All Kid’s Play comes in. It’s aresource that is a TON of fun for families to help them beat back the boredomblues and find engaging ways to bring free play back into their lives.

How do you get your ideas for your projects and activities?

I started this project several years ago when my daughterwas about a year old. I wrote down one thing that I wanted to remember thatseemed cool—she was too young to do it yet. And by the end of three days I had over200 ideas in that notebook. It seems that one idea comes to me and soon all itsfriends want to come and hang out too! (I now have close to 1000.)

What’s one of your favorite activities?

My favourites are definitely in the‘tricky challenges’ section. I love the way kids get totally into things liketrying to lick their elbow, touch their nose or chin with their tongue, touchtheir elbows behind their back, cross their eyes, wiggle their ears and/or nose.I used to turn my 4 & 5-year-old class at the library completely wild withthese sorts of challenges before we’d do story time. (Why on earth theycontinue to agree to put me in a library, I don’t know! I’m so disruptive!) Beforelong we’d be doing things like trying to put our foot behind our head (ouch!)and suck on our big toe (can still do that one!). I love the energy andcreativity that comes out when kids test what they can do.

I know you write adult fiction. Have you thought about writing children’s books also?

I have a partially completed middle grade (for ages 7-10ish)novel that is about a boy ghost. However, life keeps interfering on completingthat one. I’d like to get back to it though. It’s a fun premise.

It seems like you have such a knack for coming up with ideas to keep kids busy. Did you have a very creative childhood? Do you think it did/didn’t have an influence?

My own childhood has totally influenced my philosophy onplay as well as my website It’s All Kid’s Play.

I grew up on an acreage/farm on the outskirts of a hamlet(population 100). While I was lucky to be part of a baby boom (there were 6 ofus girls and 1 boy within 2 years of each other right in town), there werestill periods of boredom where I didn’t know what to do and had to figure outhow to entertain myself. (We didn’t have cable/satellite, internet wasn’t around,I didn’t have an Atari, and videos weren’t around particularly affordable.)

As well, us girls (and Ryan) would get bored doing the samestuff over and over again and so they’d turn to me to ‘fix’ it. So, I’d writeout a list of things we could play (sounds familiar doesn’t it?) and we’d allchoose something and whatever everyone didn’t mind doing, we’d do! We made somepretty awesome forts out of the junk on our farm.

What’s next for Kid’s Play?

Hopefully it will appear bigger, greater and even more fun inbook form! <crosses fingers and prays to the gods of publishing and allthings wonderful>

Ice cream sandwiches or cupcakes? Finger painting or playing in the mud? Pink polka dot elephants or purple unicorns?

Awesome question! I can’t believe youare going to make me choose!

Okay, hands down ice creamsandwiches—one of my all time favourites!

While I’m always a sucker forplaying in the mud (I make a mean mudpie with pine cone lacing), today I’m inthe mood for finger painting. I love the feel of cool, smooth, wet paintbetween my fingers!

And finally, I’m going to go withthose awesome elephants as I’ve never been a unicorn kind of gal--although I dorecognize their allure.

Where can we find you and all your great ideas?

I’m all over the place. I must be making up for the lack of screentime during my youth. ;)

Personal website and blog: www.jeanoram.com

It’s All Kid’s Play: www.itsallkidsplay.ca

Activity blog: www.itsallkidsplay.blogspot.com

Twitter: writing related stuff: www.twitter.com/jeanoram

Twitter: Kid’s Play activity of theday and parenting resources: www.twitter.com/KidsPlay

Facebook (resources, activity of the day, etc.) for It’s AllKid’s Play: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Its-All-Kids-Play/310799765624876.

Thank you so much for having me, Calista! I appreciate it.Happy playing!

Forever True?

2011-11-13T18:00:00.001-05:00

As a writer, I most certainly want readers to enjoy my story. With that said, I think there's a difference between writing a story that will make readers happy and writing a story that stays true to the characters and the way the story is meant to unfold.

I think sometimes it's hard to stay true to our characters, especially when they want to go in a direction that may not make readers happy. As a writer, what do you do? Do you write the story so it'll sell books and keep controversy to a minimum or do you listen to your characters and let them take the lead, even if you don't agree with "their" decisions.

As a pantser (a type of writer who does not plot things out, but rather writes by the seat of his/her pants), I let my characters take the story where they want to take it. Sometimes it leaves me shaking my head and cringing. The decisions my characters make aren't always the decisions I would have made for them. Sounds silly, right? After all, I'm the one writing the story. And yet... I feel as though I'd be untrue if I wrote something that didn't fit what my character would do, or the decisions she/he would make. I also think there's something to be said for writing the story you want to write, without being influenced by what others will think of you or your story.

If you've read my book, Viridis, there's a scene in there that left me cringing, and you'll likely know the one. Would I have done what Phoebe did? I don't know. But what I do know is that the decision she made was true to her character, based on her fears and emotions at that point in the story. Truth be told, I originally wrote the scene so I would know what Phoebe went through, but had no intentions of putting it in the book, for fear that readers would freak out. However, my agent convinced me otherwise, explaining that Phoebe's reactions to what occurred seemed like an over-reaction if the reader didn't get to see what actually happened. I took her advise and put it in, and though I feel I remained true, sure enough, not all readers have been happy.

Once more, Devil on a Sparrow's Wing, book 2 in the series, left me thinking and rethinking the ending. It would certainly be easier to pick an ending that would be less controversial, and yet... any endings other than the one chosen would not have been true to my characters. I can only hope that my readers will know my characters well enough by then, and will understand it was what my characters would have done.

It isn't easy to stay true, especially when you know they'll be some backlash. But I'm happy that I've stayed true to my characters, even if my story isn't everyone's cup of tea--not to say I won't try to make everyone happy if there's a way to do it and still keep in line with what my characters want. ; )

How do you get around this sort of dilemma? Do you find a way to tweak things so everyone's happy, including your characters and your readers, or do you throw caution to the wind and just write your story without giving it any thought?

Devil on a Sparrow's Wing

2011-11-03T16:47:00.001-04:00

It's been a crazy few months, but I feel like I can finally check a couple things off my list. I managed to send my steampunk clothing craftbook to my editor, and also wrapped up edits on the second book in the Viridis series. I'm happy to let you all know that Devil on a Sparrow's Wing is now available on Amazon and Smashwords! Barnes and Noble will also have it available soon, but their upload process takes a while.

Although this is the second book in the series, it works just as well as a stand alone novel, so no worries if you haven't read Viridis yet.

Not sure if it's for you? Well, I'd never have you buy without a sample! I do hope you'll enjoy.

Devil on a Sparrow's Wing

Chapter One

Edinburgh, May 1866

Phoebe stood there at thehelm of Gavin’s airship, arms crossed and her temper up, as Seth argued withher.

“It could be dangerous andI’d rather not have to worry about ye. Icannot concentrate on the matter at hand if I’m distracted by trying to keep yesafe. Gavin,” he turned to his friendfor support, “can ye not talk some sense into her?”

Gavin balked. “How am I to talk sense into the lass, whenshe’s your wife?” A teasing smilecrept across his lips.

“I’ll not have you talkingaround me as if I’m not even here.” Phoebe’s cheeks flushed with her annoyance. Nothing was more infuriating than havingothers make decisions for her. “And itmakes no difference whose wife I am. Doyou hear me, Seth Elliott? Wife or no,I’m still my own person, and I’ll not have you dictating whether or not I’ll beallowed to go to a meeting regarding my herbal.”

Seth ran a hand down herarm, diffusing some of the tension between them. “Can ye blame me for wanting to keep yousafe, a ghaoil? Of course we’rehere because of Sanctis, but it does not change the fact that this could be adangerous situation. We’re meeting withthe heads of Am Freiceadan for the first time and I cannot be sure ofthe situation.”

Am Feiceadan, knownas The Watch, was the group responsible for giving Scotland the edge it neededto win its independence from England, its members notorious for their fightingprowess. They could also be instrumental in helping the Cause, an undergroundmovement trying to better the lives and circumstances of London’s poor.

However, Phoebe was notswayed by his argument. “So you thinkthey’ll assault and murder my person in the middle of the tavern?” Her eyebrows perked up in question.

Gavin finally spokeup. “Let her come, mo charaid. No harm will come to her. I’ve dealt with these men before, and theywouldna hurt her, aye?” Gavin winked atPhoebe, and she couldn’t help but smile. “Besides, she’s liable to get in a world of trouble if we leave her herealone.”

Seth shook his head,cursing under his breath, accepting defeat. “Aye. Ye can come then.”

As if he had a choice inthe matter. Phoebe threw her arms aroundhis neck and gave him a kiss on the cheek, before whispering in his ear with anibble. “I’m glad you’ve come to yoursenses. I promise, you’ll barely knowI’m there.”

“My love, ye could walkinto a room with a hundred other people, and I would instantly know ye’rethere.” His arms went around her waist,kissing her full on the lips. “Since I knewye’d likely insist on joining us, I’ve made ye a little something. If ye’ll excuse us a moment, Gavin.”

Once in their room, Phoebewatched as Seth rummaged under the bed, returning victoriously with a silkwrapped package. He handed it to herwith a grin on his face and a sparkle in his eyes. “For you, my love.”

The delicate rose ribbonfell to the side as she peeled away the cream colored silk. “Seth, what have you done?”

“Do ye like it?” He stepped up behind her to peek over hershoulder, his body so close, it was all she could do to not lean againsthim.

She held it up to take abetter look. “It’s a leather corset?”

“Not just a corset, aghaoil. I’ve designed it towithstand charges from fuse guns, and even a knife or traditional gun would havea hard time penetrating it.”

She spun to face him with asmile upon her lips, his arm going around her waist to hold her close. “What would I do without you, my dearesttinkerer?”

An eyebrow perked up. “One can only imagine.” A laugh escaped him. “Here. Let me give ye a hand getting into it.”

Phoebe loved that therecent months spent in Gavin’s company had Seth’s words falling back to theirmore natural Scots, the lilt in his voice melting every fiber in herbeing. She could hear him talk all day longand never tire of it.

“Ye see, it can be wornboth under a gown or over it. Andknowing ye often travel without a maid, I designed it so it doesna lace like atraditional corset. Ye’ll be able to getyerself in and out of it with few problems.” He showed her how the corset buckled on each side.

It was actually quiteheavy. Though the exterior was made of adeep brown leather and the inside was lined with a burgundy silk, there wasanother thick layer in between the two. The leather pieces had been riveted together with hundreds of littlebrass rivets. It was quite unlikeanything she’d ever seen.

She went to her wardrobeand chose a silk burgundy gown with a nicely bustled back, the colorcomplementing her mahogany locks and porcelain skin. Seth moved to her side to help her out of thecorset and gown she was currently wearing, but when he started to trail kissesdown her bare shoulder, she forced herself to take a step away from him. “We will be quite late if you keep up yourantics, my love.”

“Ye canna blame me,aye?” Seth snaked his arm around herwaist, pulling her close for a kiss.

“Could you give me a hand,please?” Ignoring Seth’s look ofdisappointment, she slipped into the gown she’d chosen and handed him thecorset.

He wrapped the corsetaround her waist. “Ye see, ye adjust thebuckles like so. Start with one side andthen move to the other.” He fastened thebuckles, and then turned her towards the full-length looking glass.

“Oh Seth, it really isstunning.”

“Ye’re the one that’sstunning, my love.”

***

Phoebe now sat happilysandwiched between Seth and Gavin, as Seth maneuvered his steam coach down thecobbled streets and into the center of Edinburgh. Busier than she had expected, the walkwayswere teeming with people coming and going.

It was quite fascinating tosee the revival the city had undergone, now a tinkerer’s haven, transformedfrom its traditional past. So much hadbeen accomplished, and she knew Seth was sorely tempted to move his shop hereand away from London.

Phoebe put a hand on hisarm. “I’ve never seen anything of thelike. Perhaps one day we could livehere. It really would be the perfect placefor you to be tinkering.”

Seth glanced at her, hisbrow furrowed. “We couldna do that whenye have Viridis back in London.”

Viridis, Phoebe’s club backin London, was named for Phoebe’s first herbal concoction, bearing the samename. Much to her surprise, Phoebe andher drink had taken London by storm and become an instant success.

“I could always leave it insomeone else’s care, though I’ve no doubt the revolution may very well altereven the simplest of plans.”

Seth glanced away from theroad again. “Phoebe, I’d never ask ye todo such a thing.”

“I know, love, but we couldalways open a second club here, could we not? I’ve never seen a more amazing city.” Phoebe was excited to see all the marvels as she looked around the city. “Look over there.” Phoebe pointed to a large brass and glasscoach dangling from a metal rail as it sped along between the buildings,leaving a trail of steam dissipating behind it.

All around them tinkeringsabounded. A glass tube on the exteriorof a rakishly tall building carried people up its side, airships dotted thesky, and towers reached to the heavens. There was even an abundance of other steam coaches on the road, in amultitude of shapes and sizes. Theirride through Edinburgh was remarkable, but it was not long before they arrivedat the tavern where their meeting was to take place.

“Here ye are, love.” Gavin gave Phoebe a hand out of the steamcoach as Seth came around to join them.

Seth tucked her hand in thecrook of his elbow, his eyes alight as he took her in, his touchlingering. “Are ye ready, my love?” Seth’s voice held a hoarse edge of need,making her want to abandon the meeting all together and drag him back to theairship.

“I am.”

He leaned down and kissedher quickly, before turning his attention to Gavin. “This is yers, aye? Ye’ve had dealings with them before, and it’llprobably be best if ye do most of the talking.”

Gavin gave Seth a quick nodin answer. “Aye. Will do.”

They followed Gavin intothe tavern, and after a preliminary glance around, headed to the back of theroom where two men stood upon seeing their approach.

One man couldn’t have beenmore than thirty-five, strong and fair of face, with an unruly thatch of redhair. The other man had to be in hislate forties, with a weathered face and brown hair streaked with grey. The thing that caught Phoebe’s attention,however, was the tinkering the man wore in place of his left arm, theshirtsleeve rolled up and out of the way to allow for the metal joints andmechanics to operate freely.

It was remarkable. Like nothing she’d ever seen before, it wasdifficult to not look. The hand was madeof wood and metal, each joint articulated. The fingers moved independently from each other, most likely by a seriesof thin wires and pulleys hidden within, if she were to guess based on itsmovement.

Neither looked like thetype of man you’d want to go up against in a fight, good hand or not, and bothmen were kilted in their plaids, as were Seth and Gavin. Since Scotland had gained its sovereigntyfrom England, the kilt had become a symbol of pride and independence.

Phoebe had never seenGavin, a full-blooded highlander, in anything but a kilt. Seth, who happened to be half Scot, normallywore breeches when in London, but when he came north, he always wore the tartanof his mother’s clan—and there was something about seeing him in a kilt, talland strong, that made her heart race.

Gavin made theintroductions, starting with the older of the two men. “Niall Campbell and Conall MacAllister, I’dlike to introduce ye to Seth Elliott and his wife, Lady Phoebe Hughes Elliott.”

The men shook Seth’s hand,and then turned their attention to Phoebe. Niall took her hand with his good one and bowed over it, but Conall wasfar more forward, kissing her hand with a lingering touch.

Phoebe blushed, and thoughshe felt Seth shift at her side, she hoped he’d not make a fuss. It could ruin their chances to secure helpfor the Cause. With the revolutionlooking as if it might erupt at any moment, they desperately needed to secureweapons and men if the Cause was to be successful.

Pulling out a chair forPhoebe, Seth took the seat next to her, Gavin once again sitting on her otherside. They ordered a round of ale forall, still too early for a meal.

Conall smiled atPhoebe. “It’s a pleasure to finally meetye, m’ lady, though I’ll admit, I hadna

expected the creator of such arevolutionary herbal to also be one of such beauty.” His eyes ran over her figure before flickingover to Seth for a moment. “Yer husbandis a verra lucky man.”

Phoebe’s back stiffened,not quite sure how to react, but before she could speak, Gavin came to herrescue. “Conall, it’d be greatlyappreciated if ye’d stop being a shite and concentrate on the matter at hand,aye?”

Conall let out a heartylaugh, giving Phoebe and Seth a bow of his head. “My apologies. I meant no offense.”

Niall glared at Conall,before continuing. “Ye’ll have toforgive my companion. It seems he losthis manners when he crawled out of the gutter this morning.”

Niall shifted in his seatbefore continuing, his eyes now focused on their group. “I’d like to get to the matter at hand, andwill speak frankly with ye, aye? Ourgroup fully supports what the Cause is doing but I’m afraid we canna get involvedin another war with England if it willna benefit us in some way.” Holding up his mechanical hand, he added,“The cost of it is still too fresh in the minds of those who were there.”

“Aye,” Gavin added. “We’d not be bothering ye if we didna havesomething to offer in return. When wespoke, I told ye about the herbal. We’dbe willing to exchange ten barrels for yer help in the way of arms andexperienced men.”

Conall motioned toPhoebe. “If the lady would be so kind toexplain the effects of the herbal— Sanctis, is it?— it would aid us in ourdecision.”

Phoebe nodded. “Of course. It’s an herbal elixir that’s mixed with spirits, and derived from analteration of my formula for Viridis. Are you familiar with Viridis, sirs?”

It was quite obvious byNiall’s blush, if such a man could, and by the smile tugging at Conall’s lips,that they had at the least heard the rumors. It was Conall that answered her question. “If ye wouldna mind telling us about it, it’dbe much appreciated.”

Ignoring the men’sreactions, Phoebe continued, very matter of fact. “Viridis is derived from a combinationof herbal extracts, and tends to leave one with a feeling of euphoria whilesensitizing the skin.” She would not addthat the rumors were indeed true, and that when taken in its undiluted form, anorgasm could be brought on by a single kiss.

Niall’s blush now extended to the rest of hisface. “And the difference betweenViridis and Sanctis?”

“The alteration to theoriginal formula resulted in an enhancement of the senses, sight and soundbeing primarily affected, though you probably would not want to experience anyextremes in temperature.” She tucked astray curl behind her ear before continuing. “I was able to eliminate most of the skin sensitivity and euphoriainherent in Viridis, though not completely. You may also experience an increase in strength and stamina, though ittends to come about once you’ve used it repeatedly.”

Niall sat forward, runninghis hand over his chin. “Are there anyunwanted effects that ye ken of? I’dhate for my men to drop like flies, aye?”

Phoebe shook her head,no. “Not that I’m aware. I cannot say for sure, though I doubt itwould cause anyone to drop, as you so put it, like a fly. The herbal is still relatively new. Viridis does not have any unwanted effects,and I’d be tempted to say the same will prove true of Sanctis, based on thefact that they are similarly derived. Ibrought some with me, if you would like to try it firsthand.”

Niall nodded. “We would love for ye to join us in adrink.” Phoebe knew it was his politeway of ensuring they would not be poisoned, and could not help but smile.

Seth reached into hisleather bag, and pulled out a dark blue bottle as Niall waved to the servinggirl for some glasses. The empty glasseswere placed on the table along with the ale they had ordered. Seth poured out a small amount of Sanctis asPhoebe passed out the drink.

Gavin lifted his glass. “Toa successful partnership.”

Niall, nodded his head intheir direction. “May the gods bewilling.”

They all drank the herbal,conversation drifting to nothing of importance as they waited for the herbal totake effect. It did not take long— nomore than ten minutes— when Phoebe noticed her eyesight had sharpened and shecould now hear things clear across the tavern. Even the taste of her ale seemed more pronounce, the hops and yeastdistinct in their flavors.

“I’ll be damned. It actually works.” Conall tilted his head to the side. “Ye can sort of focus on what ye wanna hear,aye?”

Gavin nodded. “It takes a little getting used to, but ye’llhave it down in no time.”

“Aye. And how long does it last? Do ye ken?” Niall was looking at the liquid remaining in his glass.

Phoebe answered him. “It depends on the quantity you’ve had andwhether or not the drink has been diluted. At its full strength, I’d say two ounces of Sanctis should keep theeffect going for close to two hours. Ifyou cut it by half, you’ll cut its effectiveness and longevity by half.”

Niall nodded. “I’d be willing to send two hundred weaponswith ammunition— the latest tinkerings, mind— and another twenty men, all welltrained and capable of training others. What do ye say?”

Gavin gave it a minute andthen said, “Make it two fifty and twenty five, and ye’ll have yerself a deal.”

“Aye. Agreed, if ye’ll also throw in two barrels ofViridis.”

Phoebe smiled. “Agreed.”

***

FREE!! And What That Might Mean

2011-10-11T23:41:00.000-04:00

It is with a great deal of excitement that I write this post. As of late this afternoon, Viridis is now free on Amazon!! I can't tell you how excited I am! I'll admit, I was worried that if Amazon didn't make Viridis free, then my marketing strategy for this series would have been sunk. It was a risk I was willing to take, and it now appears to be paying off.

I know that offering a book for free is still controversial. Some argue that it devalues the book and my work. However, I'm willing to take that risk if it means more people will download my book, and then perhaps enjoy it enough to want to purchase the second. This means getting Viridis into the hands of as many people as possible. Does that mean everyone will read it? Doubtful. But I do think the number of people that will download it and read it now that it's free, will outweigh the number of those that would purchase the book at a price and read it.

And so far the numbers are encouraging, and lead me to believe it was a risk worth taking. On Sept 1, I uploaded Viridis onto Amazon and sold, at $.99, approximately 114 copies. This evening, Viridis went free on Amazon, and in the last 4.5 hours there have been 123 copies downloaded. I have to say, I'm blown away by the difference in numbers, and if getting the first book into the hands of readers is key in getting them to buy the second, then I think going free, especially as an unknown author, is the way to go-- for me at least.

Can't wait to see how this all plays out! And for those interested in reading the second book in the series, Devil on a Sparrow's Wing, it should be out in just a few weeks. There was a bit of a delay when I had a plot epiphany. Gotta love it when that happens! : )

Viridis is Up & a Word on Pricing

2011-09-06T07:25:00.000-04:00

I'm excited to announce that Viridis is now available through Amazon and Smashwords (why oh why are you taking so long, B&N? Update: Finally up at B&N!! And now it's FREE!).

It's currently FREE on Smashwords, though it's still .99 on Amazon. If you're not familiar with Amazon's pricing policy, I'll try my best to explain it as I understand it. See, you can't actually price an ebook for free on Amazon, even though there are plenty of free books on their site. If you want your book to be free, you need to price it free elsewhere, and then hope Amazon "decides" to make your book free in an effort to match the lower price. There's no guarantee it'll happen though.

I thought long and hard about how to approach pricing. There are many schools of thought on pricing an ebook. Some feel that writing the book took time and effort, and should be priced accordingly, even if it's a selfpub'd ebook. Others feel that price is a marketing tool, and use it to their advantage.

As an unknown author, I don't expect someone to pay a price equivalent to that of traditionally published books. It's just too great a risk for someone to take with their hard earned cash. Does it mean the book isn't worth that price? Of course not, but I think it's a realistic view about people's buying habits.

Then there's pricing the book for under $5. I think this is a good option if you have a huge audience to market to, and have the time to really market it hardcore.

Instead, I'm taking the drug dealer approach. I'm giving the reader a sample of my writing by offering the first book for free, and hoping they'll like it enough to buy the second book in the series, and then the third, etc. I debated putting it out there for .99 (and did for about 24 hours), to see if there would be a perceived value or incentive in getting the reader to actually read the book if they paid a small amount for it. However, after talking to Ruth Cardello about her success with offering the first book for free, and then charging for the second book, I decided to offer Viridis for free. Since May, Ruth has had over 200,000 downloads of her free book, and is averaging approximately 200 purchases of her second book a DAY since she published it just a few weeks ago. Can't argue with those numbers, though I'd be happy to just do a percentage of those figures.

So there you have it! Viridis is now published and available for your entertainment pleasure. And with luck, it will soon be available on Amazon for free. If you do take the time to download and read it, I hope you'll enjoy it.

Viridis-- A Sneak Peek!

2011-08-26T10:20:00.000-04:00

I'm still planning on e-publishing Viridis in the upcoming weeks, but wanted to give you a sneak peek. Above is also the final cover. It feels like this has been a long journey, and I'll admit, I'm a bit nervous to take this next step. Can't move forward though if you're not willing to take a risk. I do hope you'll enjoy.

Viridis by Calista Taylor

Chapter One

London, January 1866

The body lay as ithad fallen, the man’s limbs bent at awkward angles. Holding the lantern out to shed light ontothe scene, Inspector William Thomas crouched down, careful to avoid the pool ofblood that had frozen onto the cobbles. Shifting the body over, he made note that the blood beneath had not yet hada chance to ice. The man couldn’t havebeen dead more than a few hours. Anylonger, and he’d have been stripped of any valuables, the harsh cold being theonly thing to keep the street urchins at bay thus far.

Looking around thedark alley, there was little evidence to be had, other than the bodyitself. No signs that a struggle hadensued. Nothing left behind. It must have been done quick and withsurprise, since a young man like this would be apt to put up a fight.

Even through the dimflickering lantern light, William was able to identify the killing blow ashaving come from a fuse gun, the burn in the fabric and the hole of singedflesh all the evidence he needed. Atleast his death would have come quick, a small mercy.

The man’s face hadfrozen into one of shock. It was still abeautiful face even in death, framed by locks of gold, youthful, with a strongjaw.

Someone would bemissing this man come morning. By thecut and quality of the cloth he wore, it was certain this was a man ofwealth. The poor went missing and deadtoo often for most to notice or care. Itwas a cruel injustice, but that did not change the reality of the matter.

“Do we have anyidentification?” William turned to theconstable who had found the body during his rounds.

“That we do, Inspector, andit’s not likely you’re going to have an easy night of it. According to the calling card found on hisperson, this is Lord Niles Hawthorne.” The constable handed it to him.

“A bit out of his way to bewandering into this part of town. Morethan likely he’d been over to Viridis. No other reason to be in this part of the city.”

Viridis was a dinnertheatre and club offering a drink by the same name. Lady Phoebe Hughes had developed the strongdistillation from a variety of plant essences, and as of late, more and more ofLondon’s elite were turning to the newly developed herbal for refreshment andescape. Viridis offered all the besttraits of intoxication—and then some— with none of the undesirable side effects. Indeed, the club Viridis had been designedwith London’s elite in mind, offering them not only a fashionable andentertaining destination, but also one that managed to retain a sense ofrespectability and decorum, despite the nature of the herbal, which onceconsumed, was rumored to have the effect of an aphrodisiac.

William could see theattraction. Physically, the herbal didnot make one susceptible to dependency. However, that was not to say one did not develop a mental predilectionfor the euphoria and heightened senses it brought on, both mentally andphysically. And it was the physicaleffect of the drink that attracted so many followers. It was rumored that whenViridis was taken in its undiluted form, an orgasm could be brought on by asingle kiss.

With so many of influencefrequenting the club, the local authorities had been willing to overlook itsrather salacious, yet tasteful reputation, but with a murder only blocks fromViridis’ doorsteps, William would need to take a much closer look at the cluband its proprietress.

It was high time Williampaid Lady Phoebe Hughes a visit.

Chapter Two

Lady Phoebe Hughes movedthrough the club, greeting her customers and making sure they were enjoyingthemselves. The second show of thenight— far more risqué than anything else in London— had just gotten underwayand nearly all the tables were filled with London’s elite, men and womenalike.

She had made the club asextravagant as time and money had allowed— gilded chandeliers above, rocococarved furnishings, and exquisite Persian rugs below— offering the nobility ofLondon a place to come and dine while watching a bit of entertainment, not toounlike what one would find in Paris. Though the theater and show allowed the ladies some semblance of anacceptable façade, the true reason they came was for her herbal concoction,Viridis, which had become all the rage among London society.

Though she had originallydeveloped the herbal to lift one’s mood, she had not anticipated the scope ofits effects. Once consumed, it induced a certain euphoria, heightening thesenses and making skin sensitive to the touch, leaving a person acutely awareof their carnal needs.

Satisfied that things were running smoothly,Phoebe headed to the Sanctorum—a private area reserved for her best customers,connected to the front of the club by a wide corridor. She had spared no expense in this room, and though it had beendear, it had paid for itself in short time.

Reminiscent of a gentlemen’sclub, the Sanctorum was a large sitting room, comfortably outfitted with plentyof areas for relaxation, including largecomfortable chairs and a roaring fire, whichbathed everything in a gilded light. Itwas a casual atmosphere affording a more intimate environment away from thetheater. It was in this private area that her most elite customers congregated,and though the theatergoers had access to Viridis, it was only in this part ofthe club that one gained access to the stronger version of the drink.

Beyond the Sanctorum,Phoebe had added yet another area which housed private rooms, enabling one toseek a clandestine rendezvous. The entrance was hidden by an optical diffuser,a tinkering that allowed one to pass through unnoticed. She thought of the tinkerer who’d drawn upthe original plans for the diffuser, and her heart ached at the memory ofhim. He had left over a year ago, andshe’d been forced to hire another tinkerer to build it.

A long mahogany baroccupied the far corner of the sitting room and was currently being run by heryounger brother, Gabriel, who chatted with his patrons, entertaining them as hepoured their drinks. He was the onlyfamily she had left. Their mother haddied when she had been just ten, with her father dying several years later of abroken heart. Then there was theirsister, Imogene, gone just over a year. They only had each other now.

He nodded to her inacknowledgment, and she could not help but smile at his handsome face. Just a few years younger than herself atthree and twenty, running the club would have been impossible if not for hisconstant help.

She approached the bar witha smile, but grew wary when her brother’s eyes darted around the room, a sighescaping his lips. “What is it, love?”

Gabriel reached out andgave her hand a quick squeeze. “Phoebe…” He gave his head ashake, then looked up at her with a hint of smile. “There’s someone here to see you.” He motioned with a tilt of the head and asparkle in his eyes to the gentleman sitting by the fire.

Though the man’s back wasto her and she could only see his luscious chestnut locks, she knew, without asingle doubt in her mind, that it was he. It had been over a year since she had last seen him, over a year sincehis duty to the Cause had called him away. And now he was here. Her tinkerer.

Her chest tightened and herheart picked up its pace, thundering away against her ribcage. She glanced at Gabriel, steeled herself witha deep breath, and moved across the room on wobbly legs, her pulse deafeninginside her head. She closed the distancebetween them quickly, scarcely acknowledging the friendly greetings of herregular customers as she passed, her focus on him complete.

She reached out, her handhovering above his shoulder, not sure she could touch him without having herheart stop. Before she could muster thecourage, he turned around, his eyes locking on hers.

“Phoebe.” He stood to greet her, but took no more thana step towards her.

“Seth.” Her mouth had suddenly gone dry, her hearttripping over itself. How she wished hedidn’t have this affect on her. “I hadn’trealized you had returned.” She wasbarely able to get the words out.

“Just this morning. Please, sit with me. It’s been too long.” He motioned to the vacant chair across fromhim, sitting back in his own.

Phoebe fell into the chairbefore her legs gave out, her corset the only thing keeping her upright. She was unable to look at him without beingflooded with memories of their nights together, of his touch, and of the darkdays after her sister’s death when no one—not even Seth—could reach her.

Soon after their father’sdeath, Imogene had become plagued by melancholy and Phoebe had spent countlesshours in her father’s abandoned laboratory, desperate to develop an herbal curethat would help her save her. Unfortunately, Phoebe’s breakthrough had come only months too late. Bythe time the formula had been perfected, Imogene had already taken her own life.

“You look beautiful, Phoebe.” He moved to the edge of his chair, andreached out to take her hand in his. “Doyou know how I’ve missed you? Therewasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t think of you.”

Though she wanted nothingmore than to sink into his arms and forget how desperately alone she’d beenthis last year, she yanked her hand away, her anger and hurt getting the bestof her. “How dare you! How dare you sayyou’ve missed me. You left me, Seth. Left me when I needed you most.” All ofthe emotions she’d kept bottled up for so long came flooding back, and she hadto blink away the tears that threatened.

He flinched at herwords. “You know that’s not the reality ofit. It killed me to leave you the way Idid.” He reached out to her again, butstopped just short of touching her.

“My sister had just died,but your assignment for the Cause took precedence. It always has, and I knownow that it always will— which is fine, but let’s not pretend, Seth. I knowyour priorities.”

“Phoebe, please. I would have stayed if I could have, but youknow I was the only one who could have fixed the geostat on such short notice.You know how important it was to get it back up and running.”

Seth was a brillianttinkerer—one of the many reasons Phoebe had fallen in love with him. Thegeostat was one of Seth’s most innovative tinkerings, bringing much neededincome to the Cause by making the mining of the arctic Outlands apossibility.

Controlled by the Cause,the Outlands were located so far to the north that water and land iced tobecome one. While the earth in theOutlands was rich, the severe weather conditions had made mining previouslyimpossible. Only Seth’s geostat wascapable of digging through the hardest earth and working in the harshestconditions.

Tinkerers were incrediblyimportant to the Cause, for it was through their innovations that they soughtto better the lives of the people, working for the good of all mankind. Though she had always done all shecould to help the Cause, Phoebe did not always agree with the methods anddemands made by those running things, and felt they often asked too much fromthose willing to help—too much from men like Seth.

Seth got out of his seatand knelt in front of her, pulling her fighting hands into his. Phoebe allowed herself a moment to really lookat him. His hair was disheveled, longerthan he usually wore it, and he had lost some weight since she had last seenhim, his muscular form now leaner, more hardened than it had been when he’dleft. But his eyes were still the deepblue-green of a tropical lagoon, intelligent and kind, promising far too much.

How she wanted to justthrow her arms around his neck and bury herself in his warmth, breathe in hisscent. But she feared it would alwaysend the same way, with him abandoning her to go save the world. So she held fast to her convictions, andgingerly removed her hands from his. “I do not know if I can do thisagain. Things have changed since youleft.”

He retreated to his chair,giving her the space she needed. “Yes. I can see that. Congratulations on your success. It’s well deserved. I know how hard you worked on it.”

“Thank you. You know, it probably would have neverhappened if it hadn’t been for your help. Have you had a chance to try it? It’s quite good actually.” Shegave him a bit of a smile, as the initial shock of seeing him wore off and herheart slowed its gallop. She toldherself she would be fine if she could only manage to avoid discussing theirrelationship.

“Not yet, but I was hopingyou would join me.” He raised hiseyebrows in question.

“Of course.” Phoebe caught the attention of one of hergirls. “From my private reserve,please.” She could not help but notice Seth’s eyes go wide for just a moment ashe took in the girl’s uniform before quickly looking away, a blush creepingacross his cheeks. Though the waitress’soutfits were tasteful and elegant, they did run towards the provocative.

With the girl gone, theysat in silence, just taking in one another while they waited, getting used tobeing in each other’s company once again. It was not long before the young woman returned, wheeling a small cartbefore her. She greeted them with asmall curtsey.

“Thank you, Maggie,” Phoebesaid, by way of dismissal. She pickedup the small, dark green bottle and poured a thimble-sized amount into twoslender crystal glasses. The liquid wasslightly viscous, and just the palest of greens. “From my own personal supply. Normally we dilute the strength, and thoughthis still isn’t at full concentration, it’s not too far from it.” Handing him a glass, she said, “Welcome back,Seth.”

He lifted his glass tohers, and she watched as he took a tentative sip. “You are right. It is quite good.” He took another sip, and then smiled. “A little different from your earlier formulations.”

Phoebe thanked him beforebringing her own drink to her lips. There was only a hint of bitterness, withdominant notes of citrus and herb. Itwas slightly sweet, and it went down with an alcoholic burn that sent a warmheat through her body. She did not oftendrink Viridis herself.
Although the sideeffects of the drink were limited, it did seem to make one susceptible to anoverly rosy view of things, and the other lustier characteristics of the herbaldid not lend themselves overly when one did not have an outlet for release. She knew that in ten minutes time that heat would turn into a melloweuphoria, sending tingles across her skin, leaving it sensitive enough that themere breath of one’s lover could ignite passions.

“So are you going to tell meof your adventures? It must have beenexciting over in the Outlands.” When hewas assigned the mission, she’d begged him to take her with him, wanting onlyto escape her anguish over her sister’s death, but he had refused, claiming theconditions to be too harsh for her to endure.

“I wouldn’t have called itexciting. Nothing but metal and grime,barely another soul to be found. It’sjust too cold for most humans and even the steam techs have problems when theygo up to the surface for any length of time. Actually, it was Gavin that brought me back on his airship. He sends his regards.”

“Gavin?” Though she could not help but smile at thethought of their dear friend, she also could not stop her pulse from picking upits pace. When he had last visited her some six months ago, their visit hadended badly. “It’s been months since Isaw him last. I do hope he’s well. He’s always taking on such dangerous cargoruns. I always fear he’ll run into somedifficulty.”

Fearless and accomplished,Gavin flew when others refused—whether it be horrible weather conditions,territories at war or precious cargo—he was one of the most sought afterairship captains. Gavin never shied away from a perilous situation, and had aknack for always landing on his feet.

“He always manages, does henot?” Seth said with a smile. “He’ll bestaying in London for a bit, so I trust he’ll show up around here at some pointor another. Seth took another sip of hisdrink and then gave his head a shake. “This is something powerful, Phoebe. No wonder you cut its strength,” he said, his eyes intense, sparkling.

Phoebe nodded in agreement,feeling her shoulders relax. Drinking Viridis with Seth probably wasn’t thewisest of decisions. Inventing the drink had not made her immune to itseffects, and Phoebe felt her resolve to keep her distance from him meltingaway. The room was suddenly much too warm, her garments far too restrictive,and her breath so shallow she felt she might faint. Each pounding beat of herheart sent a pulse of need through her very core.

“I’ve missed you, Seth.” The words were outbefore she could stop herself. She inwardly scolded herself for being weak andlooked down at the glass in her hands. “You could have written, you know.”

He sat forward on the edgeof his seat, only a breath away. “By thegods, Phoebe, do ye not think I would have written or called if it were at alla possibility? You know the Aether isweak that far north, making communication an impossibility.” A faint Scottish lilt crept into his voice,as it always did when his emotions were running high or when he let his guarddown. How she had missed it. The pain in his voice and the pleading inhis eyes tore at her defenses, and she reached for his hand as he asked, “Do yenot know how hard it was to leave ye here?”

“Is this gentlemanbothering you, Phoebe?” A cold, familiarvoice came from behind them, cutting through the warm effects of the Viridis,sending a shard of panic through her heart.

“Victor,” she stood andforced a smile. “Thank you, but no. Everything is fine here.”

The last person she wantedto see was Lord Victor Fenwick— especially with Seth present. In Seth’sabsence, Phoebe had no other amorous ties, and Victor had started courting hersoon after she opened her club, even going as far as asking Gabriel for herhand in marriage. Gabriel had made itclear it was her decision to make, which only made Victor more persistent inhis pursuit.

Seth also stood, the creasein his brow making it clear he was unhappy about the interruption. Phoebe made the introductions. “Lord Victor Fenwick, Mr. Seth Elliott.”

Though they were both exceptionally handsome, they couldn’t have beenmore different. Seth was tall, lean and muscular. His dark hair was long enoughto brush his collar, his strong jaw clean-shaven. Though not born into a familyof wealth, Seth’s brilliant work as a philanthropist and tinkerer had elevatedhis status in society—one of the reasons the Cause found him so valuable
WhereSeth was tall, dark, and lean, Victor was shorter and brawnier of build, hisstrong cheekbones framed by his well-trimmed blonde beard. As part of a familyprominent in London society, Victor was more concerned with wealth, status, andpower than the well-being of others.

The two gentlemen gloweredat one another, towering over Phoebe’s petite frame like two dogs fighting overtheir turf. Victor spoke first, hisvoice a growl. “I have not seen you atViridis before, Mr. Elliott. I mustconfess to spending a fair amount of time here, as I’m never able to go verylong without paying dear Phoebe a visit.”

Seth smiled at Victor, hisgaze sharp and unwavering. “It is true. I have only just returned from a trip abroad, though I consider myselflucky to be familiar with both Phoebe and her curious herbal, having had thepleasure of helping her with her endeavor.” Turning to Phoebe with a smile, he took her hand in his. “Indeed I do not think I’ll ever forget theeffect that very first batch had on me— or you as I recall.”

Phoebe blushed crimson atthe memory. Indeed, it was that firstbatch that led to the discovery of the true effects of Viridis and the rumoramongst London society that the herbal could bring on an orgasm with a singlekiss.

When Gabriel waved herover, she was relieved to have an excuse to leave. Between the effects of the drink, thememories of Seth, and the two men hovering over her, it was all too much forher to handle.

“I’m terribly sorry, but mybrother is hailing me. If you will bothexcuse me, I do hope you will enjoy the rest of your evening.” Then without waiting for a response, shewalked back to the bar on still-wobbly legs.

“That was looking like a precarious situationyou had gotten yourself into.” Gabrielgave her a crooked smile, making him all the more handsome, his dark curlsbringing out the blue of his eyes.

“I cannot thank you enoughfor your help. I think it has left mefeeling a bit drained, though. I’m goingto retire for the evening, if you think you can manage things here.”

“You know that’s never aproblem, love. Truth of the matter is,you have the place so well-staffed, it could run itself without either of ushere. Your escape, however, might not beso easily made.” He motioned behind herwith his chin.

She turned just in time tosee Seth approaching, her pulse becoming erratic as he neared.

“Let me at least see youhome, Phoebe.” The gentle pleading inhis voice tore at her few remaining defenses.

Victor stood where she’dleft him, his thick arms folded across his chest, his mouth set into a thinline. But her attention strayed only fora moment— Seth was too close, his scent too familiar.

Unable to resist him anylonger, she gave Seth a nod of agreement, despite the fact that she could stillfeel Victor’s gaze upon her. She knew hewas not a man she should anger, but she had never returned his advances, thoughhe was always showing up at the club, bringing her small gifts. Perhaps this would finally make it clear thatshe had no interest in him romantically, even if she felt just a little guilty,wondering if she had inadvertently encouraged him in some way.

Seth took her hand in his,his touch pulling her from her thoughts. He brought it to his lips beforetucking it in the crook of his elbow, a smile on his face, his eyes dancing inthe dim lamplight. Her pulse raced asshe walked out of the room on his arm, hoping she would not later regret herdecision, for even though she had not said a word, already she could feel herheart surrendering to him.

A Lemons to Lemonade Experiment

2011-07-29T14:34:00.001-04:00

It's not exactly news that the publishing industry is going through some major changes as ebooks and ereaders gain in popularity and sales. E-publishing today is a far cry from what self publishing was, even just a few years ago. In the past, it was very difficult to achieve sales, primarily because the deck was stacked against you. Not only did you not have name recognition and a following, but the price of a self published book was equal or higher than that of a book published by a mainstream publisher.

Enter the E-book. By epublishing, you're given a very powerful tool. And that tool is price. Most readers won't risk $10-$15 of their hard earned cash on an unknown self published author, however the risk is negligible with a free or moderately priced ebook. Readers don't mind taking a chance if all they're risking is a dollar or two.

About two years ago, my steampunk romance/mystery novel was out on the first round of submissions. We were getting some great feedback from editors and even made it to acquisitions and second reads on several occasions. Unfortunately, many of the big publishers felt that steampunk romance was just a bit too "out there" for a mainstream audience, and didn't want to take the risk. It was disappointing, but we'd only gone out to a small handful of publishers and there were many more. Then came a hard blow-- the agency I was with decided to switch exclusively to YA, MG and children's books, and I suddenly found myself without an agent, and with a book that had already been partially submitted. This meant there was no chance another agent would bother with it. And I even had the sequel written. Two books, down the tubes.

And then the rise of ebooks!! So, here is where my experiment begins. I have two books collecting dust, and I'm now thinking, "Why not?" At the least, maybe I'll get a few more followers just in time for the release of my steampunk craft book due out next spring.

I'll admit, I'm sort of excited about this. Really excited. I had thought the book and the series had great potential, and was devastated that it might never get read. And now it's been given a second chance. I'll still query my current manuscript, but I like the idea that others may read my Viridis series. And did you notice the cover? Must thank Marcus Ranum for providing the stock for the model and Obsidian Dawn for the photoshop brushes.

I'll be sure to keep you updated with how it all goes, though I'm still not quite ready to epublish the book yet. I hear I should have some sort of launch plan, so I'll be looking into that. I may also publish the second book in the series at the same time. I figure, it's probably best to have both books available, right? Tentatively I'm thinking in a month's time.

So that's my story and those are my plans. Here's hoping I can turn those lemons into lemonade. Has anyone here gone the route of epublishing? How has it turned out for you?

Choosing a Pen Name

2011-06-08T10:20:00.000-04:00

Choosing a pen name is often a choice dictated by a variety of factors, but like most decisions that deal with building a platform and a brand, it's not only personal but business.

I first decided that I would need a pen name when I started writing steampunk. My real name has more of a chic lit feel to it, but worse, there's a porn star with the same name. As a result, the chances of googling my name and finding ME instead of the popular G-string starlet would be slim to none. Not a great way to be easily accessible to readers.

With the decision made to choose a pen name, I quickly came up with a checklist.

Google Hits-- When choosing a name, put the first and last name in quotes and google it. I like the number to be under 1000 hits (or close to it). That guarantees that by the time you're well into your platform building, you'll have taken over that name, so that when someone googles it, they'll primarily get your website, your Twitter/Facebook account, or your blog.
An available domain-- You'll likely want to put up a website to help promote yourself, and since it's likely you'll write more than one book, it's best if you put your website in your name, rather than your book title. Having that domain be available is a huge plus, though there are ways around it, like adding "author" to your name. Not great, but still an option, if you have your heart set on a particular name.
How easy is the name to remember? Pronounce? Spell?-- This is HUGE. If no one will be able to remember it, say it, spell it, then it's probably not a great choice.
Does it suit the genre you'll be writing?-- This deals with not only the feel of the name (sounding too modern, when you write historicals, etc), but also with whether the name sounds too male/female when it's a genre that's dominated by a particular sex. For example, writing romance with a name that sounds male, may turn off some readers.
Does the name sound like a joke?-- Picking a name that sounds too fake (often done to fit the genre to an extreme) can be a turn off. Remember-- this is still a business venture so naming yourself Luscious Fantastique just because you write erotica or Vampira Nightshade because you write paranormals, probably isn't a wise move.
Is the name already being used by someone else?-- A porn star (lol)? An actor/actress? Another author? Is it too close in the way it sounds to another author?

Whatever name you choose, I highly recommend using it for your Twitter account (both the user name and the @name), because each tweet gives that name another hit on google. This means that before long, when someone googles your pen name, they will get you, or one of your tweets. This will of course lead to your Twitter account which should also have a link to your website, making it fairly simple for any readers to find you.

My favorite place to look for names is, hands down the Baby Names section on Parent's Connect (though the recent addition of video to the site is making me crazy). They offer a cool feature that allows you to find names with a similar feel to a particular name, or names that sound similar. This becomes useful if you really like a name but can't use it because it has high hits on google, or doesn't meet one of the other criteria. Now you can easily find a different one that "feels" the same.

I hope this list will help, if you're considering pen names. Have you already chosen a pen name or plan on using one? What were your criteria?

International Steampunk City Photos

2011-05-25T22:01:00.000-04:00

The International Steampunk City took place in Waltham, MA, not only at the Charles River Museum of Industry, but spilling out into the town. The event was fantastic, and there was a great turn out-- 2500 people on each of the two days of the event.

Here are some pictures from the event (some mine, some borrowed from other attendees).

The International Steampunk City

2011-05-06T06:59:00.000-04:00

Last year, I attended the first annual steampunk event at the Charles River Museum of Industry and Innovation in Waltham, MA and had a fantastic time. Well, this year is promising to be an even bigger extravaganza with the event spilling out into the streets and taking over a section of the city.

The International Steampunk City will take place this weekend, May 7th and 8th on Moody Street, Waltham, MA and once again at the Charles River Museum. There's a full schedule of events, and it looks like it'll be great time.

Of course, I'll do a follow up post with pictures, and if anyone is going and would like to meet up, just let me know!

Shiny and New!

2011-04-01T00:41:00.000-04:00

I'm so excited!! Just a few weeks ago, I got together with a group of amazing writers I met through Agent Query, and the idea to start a collective blog was born.

From querying and publishing, to specifics about genre and the craft of writing, From the Write Angle will tackle it all. Best of all, because each one of us brings something different to the table, there should be an endless supply of variety and useful information.

It is officially launch day, and new posts will go up every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. We've already stocked it with a few goodies, so be sure to check it out! I do hope you'll enjoy it!

It's Been too Long!

2011-03-15T21:29:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry it's been so long since my last post, but things have been crazy busy, and for the most part in a good way.

A few months ago, I signed a contract for a steampunk clothing craft book, which should be out next spring. It got off to a bit of a slow start, since I needed to get set up for taking professional looking photos, but I've finally got an area setup (right in the middle of my living room). I'll be taking pics of everything I do, as I do it, so there's a step by step guide for each project included in the book. The first project is underway, and looking great.

In addition, I'm in the process of wrapping up the manuscript I've been working on, and though it's not steampunk, it is a paranormal and does take place during the Victorian time period. I'm hoping to have that wrapped up and edited in the next month so. Very excited about that manuscript. I think it could do quite well since it puts a new twist on a story many know.

There's also a bit more exciting news, but I'll need to keep that under wraps for now, though I promise you won't have to wait too long.

Hope all is well with you!

Best,
Cali

Going With Your Gut

2010-12-13T20:40:00.000-05:00

When writing, I'll often hear a tiny voice whispering to me. It may tell me that there's something not quite right with a scene or character, or perhaps it would be best if I changed a certain aspect of what's happening. It's just a little niggling feeling, that is actually quite easy to ignore, but the problem is it never goes away. And the even bigger problem? That voice is usually right.

After having the wonderful opportunity of editing my manuscript with my agent, I realized that those little whispers were there for a reason, since too often, the changes made to the manuscript coincided with one another. All I had done was delay the inevitable changes-- changes that would have been easier to take care of early on, and most importantly strengthened my manuscript.

So now I know. I listen to my gut. And if my gut's telling me a scene should be cut or changed-- whatever it happens to be whispering in my ear-- I take care of the matter, then and there. Might as well, right? The issues sure aren't going to go away just because I ignore them.

So, how about you? Or am I the only one hearing voices?

On Writing Accents

2010-09-06T15:24:00.004-04:00

"Ye hae a guid Scots tung in yir heid," is a Scottish saying which means, "You have a good Scots tongue in your head." In other words, "You can speak up for yourself."

Could you imagine an entire book where one or several characters speak in such a heavy accent? It would break the flow of your story each time one of those characters spoke, since the reader would have to stop and try to figure out what's just been said. No doubt, a trying and tiring excercise for the reader.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love writing accents, whether they're due to a location, a time period or schooling. I think they can add character and voice, however, there's a balance that you as the writer need to find, if you choose to actually write out the accent. There's always the option to mention the character has an accent, and leave it at that, but if you choose to show it on the page, then here are a few things I've found helpful.

Pick just a few words that you'll change, or pick a "rule", such as dropping the "g" off -ing words. You'll get the voice and impact you're looking for, but without sacrificing readability.
Try and use phrases or particular words specific to an area. Every country or locale has it's own way of saying things, and this can be an easy way to get across the person's place of language, without spelling out an accent.
Try and find the rhythm of the language. Each language has it's own rhythm and if you can, through your word placement, capture that, you'll immediately get a feel of that place. Unfortunately, this might be the hardest thing to nail if you haven't lived in the area (or been in regular contact with someone from there). One option is to try and find books, articles, movies or shows from the area, and pay close attention to the rythm of the language and placement of words. Another option is to find a writer who has managed to write the accent, and has done an excellent job of it.

For me, the last two are particularly key if writing a different time period. Writing steampunk, my story is usually set in the late 1800's, and the language would not only be more formal with a different rhythm, but would also use different words. But again, it's important to find a balance so that a modern reader, used to twitter and text messages, isn't having to wade through wordy, flowery prose.

Have any of you attempted to write accents? How do you approach it?

When the Pieces Fall into Place

2010-08-12T10:04:00.000-04:00

Sorry it's been so long since my last post, but it seems like things tend to get away from me during the hot summer months. Luckily, I've still managed to get a fair amount done. I'm happy to say I've wrapped up edits on my manuscript, Devil on a Sparrow's Wing, and have now moved on to a new story-- a story I'm crazy excited about.

I had this idea for a story a few years back, but every attempt to write it immediately fizzled out on the page. I didn't quite know why. It was a great story idea (No. Really!!), but once I sat down to write it, time and again the words would slow and stop.

About six months ago, as I started to give the story some more thought. I knew the idea was a good one, but it was missing something. I changed the time period from modern day to Victorian. That certainly helped things, but it was still the same story and I worried that when I sat to write it once again, I would have the same problem.

Then it came it to me. As I discussed the storyline with a few critique partners (can NOT live without them!) the story took on a new life, morphing and evolving as the ideas all fell into place to form a new story. Something unlike anything else out there, though it was an old story told from a different perspective. It still had the original story idea at the heart of it, but with a new twist--an incredible twist!!

Perhaps my muse had kept me from writing the story all along, knowing it had not yet evolved into what it needed to be. And this time, when I sat to write it, the words flowed effortlessly. All the pieces fall into place.

Now granted, this is still the honeymoon stage for me-- the first 10K words are always the easiest and the sweetest. Just like that first kiss, when everything is new and shiny and exciting. I'll eventually come down off the clouds around 20K words, but that's ok. I'm in it for the long haul.

Do you have a method you use to try and brainstorm your story ideas? For me, jotting down notes helps, but talking and writing out the story concept is where I'm most successful in working things out.

Ready to Query?

2010-06-20T10:30:00.010-04:00

After slaving away for months—years even—you’ve finally completed your first novel. You’ve given it to your friends and family to read, and they all LOVE IT! You do a happy dance with visions of a massive advance on a multiple book deal and a movie—make that movies!—starring your favorite actors. Ready to get that contract, you put together that list of agents and get ready to query.

But are you REALLY ready? Maybe. Maybe not. And I won't even comment on the massive advance or the movies.

There are so many things that need to be done before you query, and it’s very easy to either overlook something or not even be aware that you’ve missed a crucial step. Like anything, it’s all a learning process. When I finished my very first manuscript, I didn’t even know what a query was, and was woefully unprepared for the reality of querying agents.

So before you query, here’s a checklist to help make sure you truly are ready.

• Have you edited your COMPLETED manuscript?—Yes, for fiction you need to have a completed manuscript. And by “edited” I don’t just mean doing a read through. Of course, you need to make sure you’ve checked spelling, grammar and tense. But have you edited for info dumps, unnecessary words, words and thoughts that echo. Does your first page grab the reader and keep them turning the page? Have you made sure your first page doesn’t start with a dream sequence? Does your plot capture the reader’s attention? Does your plot make sense? Are there holes in your plot? Has your point of view remained consistent? Does it have voice? Is there too much description? Not enough? Are you showing versus telling?

• Is your word count appropriate for your genre?—This is very important. You don’t want to stray too far outside the norm. Yes, there are books that break the rules, but I’d argue that for every agent willing to overlook word count, there are another ten that won’t. You don’t want word count to be the reason an agent rejects your query.

• Have you had your manuscript critiqued?—Family members and friends do NOT count. It’s like asking your husband if your arse looks fat in the jeans you’ve been gushing about. In addition, most non-writers won’t have the skills needed to figure out what is wrong (please see points in editing your manuscript). For me, finding good critique partners was crucial to my development as a writer. You’ll likely have to don some thick skin, but honesty is critical, and it’s also why your friends and family do not make good beta readers and critique partners. Need a crit partner? Find one HERE.

• Write a query—There are a ton of great sites that address how to write a good query letter. The forums on Agent Query Connect and Query Tracker are great. You may also want to have your query critiqued. However, you should be careful about editing the voice and character out of your query. Too often, over-revisions can lead to a query that’s technically perfect but bland as baby food. You’ll also need to make sure each query is individualized for the agent it’s going out to. No mass mailings!! When you’re ready to query, it’s wise to query in small batches, in case your query isn’t working and needs to be tweaked. You only get to query the agent once per project.

• Write a synopsis.—Wait! Make that—“Write multiple synopses.” Some agents will request or require a synopsis of a certain length and that can vary from agent to agent. You’ll want to write a short one and a long one, though you may find you need an extra short one in addition to the other two.

• Edit again!—It’s best if you let your manuscript sit for a few weeks (or even months) between edits. This allows you to look at the manuscript with fresh eyes.

• Research agents—There are some great sites for this. I like using Agent Query and Query Tracker. I’d recommend sorting agents into you’re A-list, B-list, etc. and then when you query, select a few from each group so that you don’t burn through you’re A-list only to find you have a query that doesn’t work.

• Prepare your manuscript, query, synopsis—Make sure any tracked changes and comments have been removed and your formatting is correct. It’s also a smart move to send yourself a test query to make sure things aren’t getting jumbled in translation.

NOW you’re ready to query. Or should be. There are a few more things you may want to consider. Do you have a dedicated email for querying? Please make sure the email you’re using sounds professional—your name is fine, but a humorous email that may turn off an agent is not. Also make sure you don't have any weird filters on your email, and that your email does indeed work. Do you have a website or blog? Not exactly necessary at this stage, but it might be a consideration in the near future since it’s important to start building a platform.

When you do start querying, make sure you track things—Note the agent, the agency and the date you sent it. Note the query version you sent. Did you send a synopsis? Did you send pages? How many? And then when (if)you hear back, make sure you note that also.

It may seem like a lot, but being prepared will help you get through querying, which is never easy. I wish you the best of luck!

Home is Where the Steampunk Heart Is

2010-05-20T11:48:00.005-04:00

I came home the other day after a morning at the restaurant, only to find that my husband decided to be proactive on the bathroom renovation we'd discussed by demo-ing my tub surround. Now, there's a reason it was in the discussion stage, with the most important reason being that it is the ONLY bathroom in the whole house. There are no pretty little powder rooms, nor is there a jacuzzi tucked away in the master, since there is NO master. This is a 1200 square foot 1960's ranch, with no bells or whistles unless the girls manage to find the instruments I've hidden away.

So, if we take our bathroom apart, we better be prepared to put in a new one quick. Which brings us to the other reason I hadn't tackled the bathroom before this-- plumbing is not something I have a ton of experience with. Neither does my husband. Don't get me wrong. We've done a ton of stuff around the house, and I'll happily lay the new tile and put in the new lighting and cabinets. Even the plumbing fixtures and the toilet won't be a major issue, but I've got to admit the tub-thang is scaring me just a little. Anyway, at least the current tub still works, and with the addition of several shower curtains, the shower is still usable as long as you don't mind being attacked by multiple swirling sheets of vinyl sticking to your naked body. Yeah. Needless to say, the bathroom reno has been bumped up on the to-do list.

Now, it'd be incredibly tempting to steampunk my bathroom-- get an amazingly deep tub and all sorts of cool plumbing and lighting fixtures. I'm amazed at just how much is already out there that could pass as steampunk in it's aesthetic value. With classical yet modern designs being an easy way for homeowners to update their home without dating it, the selection is quite good.

One of the finest examples of steampunk incorporated into everyday life is the steampunk home of Bruce and Melanie Rosenbaum of ModVic Home Restoration in Sharon, MA. I've included several sites that have pictures, because it is truly that remarkable. Be sure to check out the 360 degree views available of some of the rooms here-- http://www.onlinepropertyshowcase.com/showcase/10328/
http://www.modvic.com/Steampunk.aspx http://www.steampunkworkshop.com/visit-steampunked-home

By blending natural elements, such as wood, copper, brass, and iron, with more decorative and whimsical touches reminiscent of the Victorian period, a steampunk feel starts to emerge. If you keep in mind certain aspects of steampunk, such as exploration and technology, and blend it with the Victorian aspects of nature and discovery, you'll start to capture the feel of it. Personally, I love anything that looks like it would belong in a turn of the century apothecary. Also, joints and moving parts, tend to be reminiscent of the mechanical and industrial aspect of steampunk. And though so much of it can be created if you're good with your hands and are so inclined, there is also a fair amount that can be readily purchased.

Restoration Hardware has some great pieces if you can afford them. This is a curious looking chair, and though it's not blatantly steampunk, it does remind me of a hot air balloon or dirigible.

They also have these great looking gears.

And who can say no this knob from Anthropologie of a Kracken pulling down a ship, or this chronograph knob. Love it!!

And though I'm not one for knick knacks, I can't resist this mechanical raven.

I must say I also have a soft spot for fixtures, since I think they always have such a huge impact on the aesthetic feel of a room. Conant Metal and Light have an amazing site loaded with original and reproduction lighting (amongst other cool and interesting things), like this carriage house harp light. And once again, back to Restoration Hardware for this industrial double pulley pendant.

If you're at all interested in steampunk design for your home, then you must also check out The Steampunk Home blog. They always find the most amazing things.

As for my bathroom, I'm afraid I'll be limited to something basic and modern for my tub and surround, since I don't want any major plumbing issues. However for the rest, I most certainly hope to steampunk the room, even if it is just a little. I'll be sure to post pics if it's ever completed.

The Things I learned going to the Steampunk Festival

2010-05-04T15:43:00.005-04:00

Over the weekend, I had the pleasure of attending (and was actually a featured artist) at the first annual Steampunk Festival, held at the Charles River Museum of Industry & Innovation in Waltham, MA. There was a huge turnout for the event, especially when one takes into consideration it was the first year for the event-- over 1300 people attended. Hats off to Christine Gill for the excellent job she did in putting the event together.

I wish I'd had a bit more time to get a more steampunk outfit together, but unfortunately, after many difficulties, most of my time was spent constructing the leather corset from hell. Here were a few things I was reminded of, since it had been a while since I'd last strapped myself in to a corset of considerable stiffness.

First of all, be sure to dress the lower half of your body before you put the corset on, since getting on shoes, socks, pants/skirts, etc. usually involve bending at the waist. I, of course, did not remember this little tidbit of information, and I'm sure you can all just imagine the contortions involved in getting the rest of my clothes on.

When I designed my corset, I did not use a busk because I decided it would be neat if I could make the corset reversible to the red brocade. As a result, I needed another set of hands to lace me up, and since I was going to the event alone, I went fully dressed.

This brings us to the next thing I quickly figured out. Driving in a corset is far different to driving without one on. When the gods decided to scramble my genetic makeup, they decided to be generous in the area corsets are designed to restrain. With a corset, there is only one place for those curves to go, and that is up. It wasn't much of a problem until I decided to sit down and attempt driving. Sitting only shifted the corset further up, and all that had already been pushed to the heavens, got pushed up even further, practically drowning me in my own cleavage. Funny? Okay, maybe a little. However, cruising down the highway at 80 mph, when you no longer have the stability of resting your arms by your side, is a little precarious-- athough I can only imagine the image from passing vehicles had anyone bothered to look over. I'm just glad I didn't get pulled over or get a flat, though my dear husband had the sense to ask if I had anything stashed in the car that I could potentially cover myself with should the need arise.

The event itself was great, and the musuem was the perfect setting for a steampunk event. Though not everyone was dressed up, the steampunk outfits there were all amazing, and it has definitely motivated me to complete a few more articles of clothing. I think next on the to do list will be a bustled skirt, and underskirt. And maybe another corset, complete with steel boning and a busk.

Though I did love the snug feel of the corset while at the event, I must admit that it felt so incredibly nice to get out of it for the ride home, especially on such a hot day. And that brings me to my final point, though this was not figured out until the day after, when I awoke to sore muscles around the ribs and back. I guess wearing a corset involves using muscles you don't normally use-- perhaps in keeping you so terribly upright and pulled in. Still, a small price to pay, don't you think?

Here are some more pictures from the event...

A New Look

2010-03-29T17:34:00.010-04:00

You may have noticed that A Steampunk Reverie has gotten a makeover. I've often thought that it's very important to have not only a cohesive image to market, but also one that immediately represents what I write. Though I liked the previous setup, it felt a little plain and ordinary, so I started searching for a new background that would fit into the theme I have going with my website, blog, business cards, etc.

There really are some great backgrounds and designers out there, though some backgrounds were far more difficult to install than others. The simplest setup was a small bit of code that was easily copied into an html window within the blog. Some of the designs out there are amazing. To find these sites, simply do a search for BLOG BACKGROUND MINIMA and you should come up with some great sites. MINIMA is the Blogger template that these backgrounds work with. I'll admit I don't know if these would work with Wordpress, but code is code, so I'd think it might.

Though there were some great backgrounds, none really had the feel I was looking for, but I soon realized that the code was more or less the same, with the only difference being a link to an image. That got me thinking that I could make my own background for my blog. It did take some finagling but I finally got it down.

In case anyone else is interested in creating their own unique background to their blog, I figured I'd include the steps here. Now I will warn you that I know nothing when it comes to code, but I'm a pantster by nature, and not only when it comes to my writing. So I experimented, until things seemed to work.

First you want to alter the size of the image you're going to use to approx. 1600 x 850. Many images can be found on Flickr.com and can be used through Creative Commons, so that you're not overstepping into copyright issues. Just make sure to check that the image is free to use.

Keep in mind that your text will be running down the middle so you may want to add a solid section in that area through a photo or paint program, like Gimp.com . That section should be around 7.5-8 inches wide. You then need to upload it to a website that allows you to store files that size. Photobucket.com will allow it if you pay for the upgrade, however, Picasa.com is free. Once uploaded, just make sure you zoom in to the maximum size, right click, select properties and then copy the URL. From there, you want to copy it into this script with your URL fitting in between the " " as indicated below...

<style type="text/css">
body {background-image: url("YOUR URL GOES HERE"); background-position: center; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-attachment: fixed; }
</style>
<div id="tag" style="position:absolute; left:0px; top:30px; z-index:50; width:150px; height:45px;">
<a href="http://blo64rt.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">
</a></div>

Once you have copied in your URL, you then copy the script into a HTML box in the layout section of your blog. You will also need to make sure that your blog template is set to one of the MINIMA templates.

That should be it!! I hope you'll find this helpful if you do indeed attempt to give your blog your own personal look.

P.S. Here are a few of the sites that have some great premade backgrounds that are easy to install.
http://www.backgroundfairy.com/
http://www.shabbyblogs.com/index.html
http://itkupilli-cutencool.blogspot.com/
http://www.thecutestblogontheblock.com/
http://leelou-freelayouts.blogspot.com/

Mythos and the Muse

2010-03-03T23:26:00.001-05:00

Does anyone else cringe when they hear a story is about vampires? I'll admit to doing just that, not because of the story itself (I'm sure they're fantastic), but because I don't understand why someone would choose to go down such a worn path when there are so many more interesting trails one can venture down.

I've heard it said that there are no new stories, only new ways to tell them, and I think this is true. So why not embrace the old and make it new again? I've often found myself paging through an encyclopedia of mythology as my imagination races through the posibilities. There are so many mythological creatures to pick from, and so many amazing stories waiting to be retold in a new and fresh way that's relevant to our time.

Here are a few sites on mythology and mythological creatures to help you guide your muse down that path less traveled.

Wikipedia's list of Mythological Creatures - This is an amazing list and the best part is there's a brief description for each creature so you don't have to keep clicking.
Wikipedia's list of Creatures by Type- The above list divided up into type of creature.
Wikipedia's list of Folklore
Wikipedia's list of Mythologies - Impressive and thorough.
Wikipedia's list of Deities
Wikipedia's list of Mythological Objects
Wikipedia's list of Women Warriors
Theoi Greek Mythology- A fantastic site!
God Checker- A great resource with many different cultures listed.
Luminarium- Fantastic page for all things Irish.
Encyclopedia Mythica - Another amazing site- very thorough with an extensive list of cultures.
A World History of Art- So many great works of art have been inspired from mythology. This is a great site if you prefer something more visual for your research.

I hope you find these links useful! Please let me know of any others.

The Elusive Plot

2010-02-08T07:16:00.001-05:00

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I tend to wing it when it comes to my storylines-- in other words, I'm a pantster. I thoroughly enjoy the freedom it allows, and my characters always surprise me, often taking the plot where I would not have thought to go. There have been rare occasions when I've tried to work with an outline, however my characters have a tendency to misbehave and it usually results in a deviation from my original plans.

And yet, there are times when I just cannot figure out where my story is going. Sometimes it's because I've taken a wrong turn. These are the easy issues to correct-- I backtrack to that fork in the road, and go a different way. However there are times when I feel like I don't have a very good grip on my plot and it goes beyond taking a wrong turn. These are the times when I find myself rewriting and tweaking the first hundred pages of my manuscript several times, hoping I'll find that magical combination.

But no matter how bleak things may look at times, I always try and write through it. There is no other option for me. Not writing won't change the problems with my story, so I might as well get on with it and deal with the matter at hand.

Here are a couple of things I like to try to help me find my way. Maybe they can help you too.

* First determine if it's something as simple as "The Wrong Turn". If you think that's the case, determine where your story veered off the right path, and simply back the story up to that point. You may have to delete a fair amount of pages, but it'll be well worth it.

* Brainstorm some ideas with loose outlines. I find this helps solidify my thoughts and the plot. Even if I follow a vague outline for a short while, I can always let the story go where it wants afterwards, once it's picked up a bit of speed.

* Raise the stakes. And then raise them again. What does your protagonist have to lose if she/he fails? What if their failure will affect far more than just their life? By raising the stakes, we raise the tension, and the tension can help strengthen the plot.

* Make your protagonist's life miserable. If something can go wrong, it should. Pile on the hurt, and when you think they couldn't possibly take anymore, pile on some more. However, in between all the misery I like to sprinkle moments of hapiness, which only adds to what could be lost when it all goes wrong.

* And when all else fails, a dead body always helps to move things along. *mwa ha ha* I'd like to say I'm kidding, but really, dead bodies do wonders for raising the stakes, the misery and the tension. Granted, not every storyline can carry off a dead body, but you'd be surprised.

The very last thing to keep in mind is once you're done, there is always the editing phase where you can tweak your story, strengthen your plotlines and rein in those loose threads. So, what about you? Any tips for finding that elusive plot?

The Results are In!

2010-01-19T14:01:00.006-05:00

I just wanted to thank all who participated in the contest. Every entry was a fantastic read, and I cannot tell you all how impressed I was, especially given the fact that most of the writers had not written romance before and in many cases had not written steampunk. Many of the writers stepped out of their comfort zone to participate, something I admire greatly.

A huge thanks also goes out to those that took the time to read the entries and vote. We had a total of 37 votes!! That's just amazing.

The winner of the contest with 12 votes was Entry 6, Keep Going by Samuel Briggson. Congratulations! I will be in touch so that I can send you your prize.

The votes were as follow...

Entry 1- Love, Lace, and Gears by Cheryl L-G Trent- 3 Votes
Entry 2- The End by James Pollard- 1 Vote
Entry 3- Untitled by Jenny Martin- 1 Vote
Entry 4- Evangeline by Robert K. Lewis- 4 Votes
Entry 5- Breaking Barriers by K. L. Townsend- 1 Vote
Entry 6- Keep Going by Samuel Briggson- 12 Votes
Entry 7- Mutual Admiration by Don Pizarro- 3 Votes
Entry 8- (Withdrawn after contest)- 8 Votes
Entry 9- The Envoy by Bibliovore- 3 Votes
Entry 10- Untitled by Renée Belliveau- 1 Vote

I did want to apologize for the slight glitch, and hope the next contest will run problem free. Also, for the contestants, if I don't have your name as you would like it displayed, just let me know.

Again thank you to all who participated. We'll have to run another one soon.

The Entries Are In for Our Steampunk Romance Contest!

2009-12-30T09:22:00.016-05:00

Photo by AMG 123

I wanted to thank everyone who made this contest possible by taking the time out of their busy holiday schedules to write something fantastic and send it in.

I have posted the entries below anonymously, and you can find a voting poll in the side margins. Voting will close on Monday, January 18th at 8 am EST. You are only allowed to vote once, and though I know I need not say it, I ask that everyone participating please play fair. Of course, I'd love for you to promote the contest on your blog, but I ask that you let readers make their own decisions. I would not have even thought to bring this up, except that similar issues did arise during the first contest, and I want this to be an enjoyable and fair experience for all involved.

If you come across any problems, or if I did not receive your entry, please let me know! Also, feel free to leave comments about the entries. I'm sure the writers would love the feedback, especially since, for many of them, this is their first attempt at steampunk and in many cases, romance also.

Without further ado, I give you the short stories.

Entry 1 - Love, Lace and Gears

Ada looked at the thick heavy gear in her hand and ran her finger along the teeth. She surveyed the different sprockets and springs and slowly put the pieces together in her mind. Lost in the fantastical creation she jumped when a kiss fell on her neck. “Charles, you frightened me near to death!”

Charles gave her an amused grin, “What are you doing?”

“I’m looking at our work.”

“Our work?”

“Yes.” She said with a defiant tone and wry grin. “Even if I cannot speak of such things in public, it is our work.”

He slipped her small frame into his arms, “Agreed this is my work as much as yours, let us hope they approve the funding.”

“Of course they will. How could they deny this one? The applications are endless and will change the world.” Her face flushed with excitement making her eyes sparkle. Charles could not help, but steal a kiss.

“You truly believe you can convince your husband to help your lover?”

“This isn’t about love.”

He started looking a bit shocked.

Ada continued, “This is about changing the world, making Britain even greater. Besides he thinks you and I were done long ago.”

He slowly let his lips play across her neck, “How could I ever give you up, Ada ….you pulled me from a dark melancholy and help bring my dreams to reality.”

She grinned softly and ran her fingers through his hair gently touching the increasing grey. “It’s about politics, Charles.”

He gruffed softly and looked up from his adoration of her skin, “Why must it be about power and politics it is simply a machine to decrease error and improve life.”

“And those that have it can gain power over those that don’t.” He tried to pull away, but she held his arm tightly and she gently kissed him before checking the watch pinned to her bodice. “I must go.”

His mood had darkened, but he nodded softly and when she kissed him one last time his eyes sparkled back. She reached over, picked up her hat, “I will courier the final sketches once I complete them tonight.”

The light was dimming in Ada ’s reading room forcing her to crouch closer to the paper working out fine details, and perfect lines. She looked up as the door creaked open and a tall slender man stood in the frame.

"You missed dinner.” Her husband said. William’s face was gaunt and clashed against the brilliant red cravat tied around his throat.

She looked across to the clock slowly whirring on the mantle. “I’m sorry dear, but the servants brought me dinner.”

"I know I was the one who sent them.”

She smiled pleasantly, “That was thoughtful.”

He drew in a deep breath. “I thought you were done with this.”

“This?”

He stared at the stacks of papers surrounding his wife with great malice.

She attempted to release a casual laugh, but it stopped half way, “William, it is what I do. It is what you in fact taught me and it is what I love.”

"It is no longer your duty to waste hours studying numbers and other people’s works. You are a mother, a wife, and a Countess. You have more important duties than numbers.

Ada’s temper stirred, “I do not lack in my duties, but I will not be denied my passion.”

“Your mother was right you are like your father where he got lost in verse you get lost in equations! She didn’t staunch the insanity she simply fed it a different drug.”

She looked away from William and slipped the manuscript she was working on into a leather jacket with lace ties.

“I will not help you.” that chill returning to his voice. “I know what you have been working on and with whom.”

"And what, William? Are you jealous? Like you were so many years ago?” Watching his jaw tense seemed to give her more courage, “My mother may have chosen my husband, but she did not choose what my soul needs. With you I feel as trapped and sickly as I did at home, but with him I am alive. My heartbeats in pace with the clicking gears of our creation, it may not be of flesh and blood, but it is made with the same passion.” A prideful smile spread across her face, but only briefly as a stabbing pain in her stomach caused her to drop the manuscript and cry out. She crumpled to the floor and while trying to fight the pain she watched his feet slowly move towards her.

“Did you really think you could sway me to help him? The man is a crackpot and will not waste her Majesty’s wealth on useless machines.” He picked up the servant’s bell and rung it loudly. Help scurried in from all quarters and aided the ailing Ada.

“Fetch the doctor, I fear the illness of her youth has returned and she will be sick for quite some time.”

To the servants merely listening to his words they seemed dreadful and worried, but William’s eyes coldly followed Ada as she was carried away. He grabbed the elbow of a young servant girl. “Burn all of the Mistress’s work. It has made her ill and must be destroyed.”

The girl nodded obediently and set to work. Hours later she tapped on her Master’s door. “Yes?” He asked without looking up from his book.

“It is done.” She softly said.

“Excellent.”

Later the girl gently mopped the sweat from Ada ’s brow and said, “It has been sent, Mistress, just as you asked.” Ada closed her eyes and once again heard the soothing click of gears falling into place.

A somber servant entered his Mistress’s chambers and set down a package wrapped in leather and lace. “Your Majesty, the item from the Countess of Lovelace.” She nodded and read the attached letter. She then glanced up and replied, “Send for Charles Babbage.”

Entry 2- The End

Marie’s eyes stared deep into Harvey’s. “Then…this is it,” she whispered, with a wry smile.

The corners of Harvey’s mouth turned up ever so slightly, the best smile he could manage. He kissed Marie’s fingers and gently dropped her hands to her side before taking two strides to the observatory door. He turned the handle and pushed it shut, silencing the sound of shouts already coming up the stairs from the vestibule. He turned the key three times, all the parts of his intricate lock design falling into place. He went to pull the key from the lock but realised there would be little point.

He turned back towards Marie. She had her silver locket held firmly in her clenched hands and was whispering something into them. Maybe she was saying a prayer, he thought. Maybe she was telling her mother to look out for her soon.

A loud shout from beyond the door startled Harvey. He leaned back to the oak panels and pressed an ear to it; the voices sounded close. He knew the acoustics of the building would have amplified the shout, but even so, he knew their time was short.

He strode to his desk and squatted down in front of it. He drew the small rosewood box close to the edge and shifted himself so as to allow as much sunlight onto the mechanical bomb as he could. He took a silver pin from the desktop and slowly pushed it into the centre of the largest gear. When it came to a stop after only a few millimetres, Harvey pushed against the pinhead with his thumb to force it through the paper-thin copper casing of the chemical funnel. With a click and a hiss, the device sprang to life; the four driving cogs began turning, quickly followed by the six smaller ones. Harvey breathed a short sigh of relief and leant back, taking a moment to admire his handicraft. As much as he wanted to, he had no time to marvel at the mechanics of his latest and last invention. He gently lowered the box lid, pushed up on the desk back to his feet and turned to Marie.

"It’s…begun,” he whispered, as he walked to her. “Marie, I needed…”

She stopped him with a firm kiss. “No more words” she whispered back. “Not yet. Later.” Harvey closed his eyes and leant forward, his forehead pressing against hers. He lifted his head again and kissed her softly on the lips whilst every sound in the room fell to silence, save for the ticking of the clock mechanism in the box.

After about five more seconds the ticking stopped. Then, after a short pause, the wooden box cracked.

The crack of the box casing caught Harvey off-guard; he’d been expecting the initial force of the blast to vaporize the box instantly and the sound of a muted explosion and sharp crack panicked him, albeit only for a fraction of a second. A dozen thoughts ran through his mind at once; had the chemical mix been right? Had the trigger mechanism failed? Had the device melted? During the course of his dozens of tests he had seen the chemicals erode the smallest of the cogs at a far quicker rate than he had anticipated. His eyes opened ever so-slightly at the sound of the crack, a subconscious reaction of his inquisitive nature that had helped him accumulate an abundance of awards, admirers and enemies across his thirty-five years of life.

However, within that same second, all of his fears were eradicated as the explosion kicked and tore through the room and through the lovers’ bodies. Realising that his focus had been momentarily drawn away by that crack and fearing that his lover may have noticed, Harvey squeezed his eyes shut and clenched Marie’s arms hard. His mouth pushed harder against hers, feeling her last hot breath billow across the roof of his dry mouth. He tasted her last tear as it rolled across her top lip and onto his tongue; the salty taste of it was bitter, yet strangely sweeter than he expected.

He felt guilty about bringing the love of his life to tears; he had never once seen Marie cry during their six years of their affair. She had been the perfect picture of luminosity and exuberance, of energy and hope. She had been, in every way, his muse. She had inspired him to create and build; she pointed out all of the good things he and his work had achieved. His life had been made perfect by her being part of it, and after today his afterlife would be too. They could be eternally together in love, free of fear and retribution from the evils that had relentlessly pursued them recently.

Harvey felt Marie gasp as white hot flames seared across them. All he could really hear was the sound of the flames leaping and billowing outwards. In an effort to try and visualise the sound, all he could picture was that it sounded like a steam engine falling down a well. He wanted to hear Marie laugh, he wanted to believe that that tear had been one of satisfaction that she had played her part in helping her lover elude the wrath of her father and his cohorts. He wanted to hear those gentlemen outside the room scream in pain as the red brick walls fell around them or as shards of glass from the windows rained down on them to the pavement below.

Harvey let out one final breath as the flames consumed him. The heat was so fierce it disintegrated the lovers’ flesh within seconds. The pain was so intense that even before nerves sensed the pain, they were dead and gone. Harvey had been expecting the blast to launch them out of the room, but the explosion had been so much fiercer than previous experiments there was no physical part of them left to launch.

Entry 3- Untitled

He pulled her into his room and she embraced him. Even as their lips touched, she heard the faint sound of gears whirling and rotors turning. Curious. What is that? The ambient hum matched the throb beneath her ribcage.

She reached for his belt, but he stepped back and pushed her away.

"I love you," she said.

"I know," he replied.

"Then why won't you let me in?" She batted his hands away. "Stop this game. You're breaking my heart."

An impious fire ignited in his eyes. "I musn't do that. I need you."

"If you only you'd open up, I'd give myself to you."

Unbuttoning his oxford, he nodded. She stared at the small metal plate grafted over his muscled chest. She reached to touch it, but he gripped her wrist.

"I don't understand," she said. "What--"

"I need you, Christine. If I only had a heart." The needle seemed to erupt from his forefinger.

She screamed.

"This will only sting for a moment," he said.

Entry 4- Evangeline

It was at Sir Blackmoore’s house that I first saw her. He is one of our most brilliant scientists. Invented the engines that power our air navies. Also gave us the system for sending a load of explosive miles away. Not sure how happy I am for that one, actually.

I was standing with Lord Strathington when Blackmoore appeared. His vest was of a strange material I’d never seen before. It shimmered with the light, danced in the most amazing ways. His chronometer chain was more extensive than the last time I’d seen him. However, the man himself appeared pensive. Occupied.

And I could understand why. There had been a terribly attempt on his life, and it was his daughter, his dearest Evangeline, who’d paid the deepest price. There is a group operating in London, sympathetic to the enemy cause. This group sent Lord Richard a package: an explosive device devised to go off as the outer wrapping is removed. Diabolical contraption. Diabolical people! They meant to destroy one of England’s grandest minds, and one of her greatest military and scientific assets.

Only, Sir Richard never received that package. He was in his laboratory. Evangeline only meant to denude the box from its outer wrappings. The blast nearly killed her. Poor child lost her right arm. No one saw Sir Richard for some time after that.

Yet, here he was. Pensive, as I said, however I thought I could perceive a certain amount of excitement in the man.

The clock struck ten. Chimes rang out, echoing throughout the large, marble-floored room. Sir Richard walked to the grand door that led to the entryway and turned to face the crowd.

“My dear friends,” he began, “allow me my deepest thanks to you on this evening. Although our country is locked in bitter struggle with forces far from home, we gather to celebrate the future. We look forward to a time when a man who has lost a leg in battle will once again be able to walk. When a soldier who once lost an arm, will be able to hold his loved one in his arms, and give them a great embrace.” Here he cleared his throat, then continued. “As you know, my darling daughter, Evangeline, was the victim of a cowardly attack by the enemies of our fair country. She survived. Not only because she is Blackmoore, but because she is English. Ladies and gentlemen, will you please welcome my beloved daughter, Evangeline.”

There was a hush as Evangeline entered. She was radiant. The lady wore a satin evening gown the color of the sky at sunset. Her alabaster skin was luminescent. Her hair was the color of honey upon which the sun shines. However, her eyes held a veiled sadness. Like a sun hidden behind clouds.

However, all this paled in comparison to her arm. Yes, her right arm. Where before it was flesh and blood, now it was brass and silver. It was made to be an exact replica of her left. It was perfect. But then, oh dear God, but then… it moved. She waved to the stunned crowd; a shy girl waving to a group of strangers. The fingers worked as normal digits. I could see no hinge work. No seams. Nothing. Her father handed her a glass of wine, and she took it. Again, there was no hesitation in the way the arm moved.

“Let us have music!” Sir Richard called, and one of our latest war songs came over a hidden amplification system. A crowd formed around Evangeline, as was to be expected. I received a drink from a passing butler and made my way to the large balcony that overlooked the grounds. I stared north, towards London. There was a glow, just on the horizon line. Orange. I wondered if the terrorists had set the town ablaze again.

I heard a whisper of fabric behind me, and then she was there. I turned to see Evangeline move to the railing, to gaze up at the moon.

“Your father is a brilliant man,” I said to her, not knowing what else to say.

In response, she looked down at her metal arm. She brought it up, holding it as if she were making a toast with a ghostly goblet in her hand. The moonlight reflected off the brass. I noticed then that the nails were of bronze. They glittered like polished stones. “Yes,” she finally said, “he is that, sir.”

I indicated the doorway with my glass. “I suppose this is a bit much, for your first party? It certainly would be for me.”

She nodded, and then did the most amazing thing. She held out her mechanical arm to me, palm upwards to the sky. “Please, good sir,” she asked quietly, “would you hold my hand?”

“Madam?”

“Please?” And I noticed there were tears in her eyes. Sadness, in those beautiful eyes.

I moved to her, and gently took her hand. Again, I marveled at the warmth.

As if reading my thoughts, she said, “My father, O brilliant man that he is, has harnessed the sun. It is that which powers this metallic, mechanized appendage of mine. Father says that steam is the way of the past. The sun, the god Sun, is the way of the future.”

I gazed down at her arm. It was a thing most beautiful. Sublime, really. “How does it… move?”

“It moves,” she replied, “due to the surgeries I had to endure this last year. The muscles in my shoulder are tied to mechanisms in the arm. Mechanisms calibrated to an almost impossible fraction.”

“It’s a truly wonderful thing he has invented. It will help thousands soldiers readjust to civilian life once this dreadful war is over.”

Then she looked at me. Those eyes. Those beautiful, sad eyes. “Would you stand here with me, Sir? Stand here with me, and hold my hand?”

“I can think of no other thing I’d rather do, dear Evangeline,” I replied.

Entry 5- Breaking Barriers

She had waited over a year for this moment, and now it had finally come.

Eleanor Hodgson stood in the doorway, her arms stiff as boards, as she peered into the hidden room in her father's basement. Lit only by the glow of the oil lamps that lined the stonewalls, and not the broken electric lanterns that had been fitted between them, the room teetered on the line between life and death, light and darkness. Each flicker within the lamps cast moving shadows over the hunks of machinery that littered the floor, dancing like ghostly waifs before they retreated into the recesses of the lab.

And away from Charles Butler.

An average man, he was neither handsome nor homely, but carried the stench of hard labor in his oily clothes. Lost to his tinkering, Charlie--as he liked to be called--hunched over a metal contraption, one of her father's unfinished experiments, which rested on a small mahogany table. She still felt the loss, yet knew that her father's work was in capable hands. He hadn't recruited the former garret-master without good reason.

Her attention returned to the broken lamps.

"Blew them out," Charlie said, answering her unspoken question. He turned and offered a lopsided grin, the smudge of forgotten soot highlighting the lines on his face. "Come right in, Ellie."

"Miss Hodgson," she said. She tightened the pin that held her hair and stepped into the workroom, closing the door behind her. "Remember your place."

Charlie gave a lazy shrug and smiled before returning to the mangled mess of valves, pipes, and tubes that comprised the heart of the monstrosity. A typewriter rested in front, connected to the steam turbine by copper wires. Brass plating lined the sides of the typewriter, giving it a haunted gleam in the dim light.

Her father's spectregraph.

A machine to reach the other side. A gadget to change the world. That had been her father's last invention before his untimely death, one he had never been able to finish on his own.

She glanced at Charlie.

He handed her a spare pair of goggles. "It'll help see through the steam."

She accepted the goggles and waited for his mark. A spark of mischief danced in his blue eyes as he pulled the lever and hopped back. An abrupt hiss signaled the start. Steam pushed through the valves, while the typewriter trembled from the pressure.

A crack of electricity charged the air; Eleanor took Charlie's hand and squeezed.

All the same in death: her father's final words. He had once told her that his inventions would help revolutionize not just London, but the world. He had told her they would break down every last barrier.

He had told her that one day she would need to let go.

She had waited a year to ask him what he'd meant.

Eleanor held her breath while the keys clinked one by one. As the bars pounded the paper beneath the brass plating, she couldn't stop her excitement from getting the better of her. Her father, and now Charlie, had managed to create something extraordinary.

She approached the typewriter. The paper was damp from the steam, but the ink was legible. As she leaned closer, she felt Charlie's unwelcome hand on her back.

Today, she didn't stop him.

She read the print: As should be in life.

The words meant nothing to her. She frowned and shot an accusing glare at Charlie. He kept smiling, his good-natured flare shining through the darkness that shrouded the spectregraph.

"What do you find so amusing?"

"That'd be him, Ellie."

She ignored his indiscretion. Her father had always been a man of few words, but words that held an immeasurable weight. But was this really him? Not some parlor trick or demonic ploy? Was that all the spectregraph could accomplish? Mere bits of esoteric phrases would do nothing to revolutionize the world.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "What barriers? What must I let go?"

The typewriter punched out a few more words.

You know, they said. You know.

Eleanor trembled.

"Maybe he's talking 'bout different barriers than you're thinking," Charlie offered.

It wasn't a remark filled with scorn or conceit. Charlie's voice was warm and compassionate with a hint of sorrow. She found the comfort of his hand on her back more reassuring than ever.

She took off her goggles and stared at the dying spectregraph as the last of the steam sputtered through the pipes. While the results could have been created by a wayward spirit, a psychic ruse, or by other supernatural entities, in her heart, she knew that Charlie was right. She should be happy that her father's machine worked.

Instead, she was miserable knowing there would be no more midnight rendezvous in the dark room. No more long lazy summer evenings where the two of them would debate the morality of her father's wishes, test and experiment his gadgets, or pore over his feverish notes.

There would be no more Charlie.

She had never understood what her father had meant. Yet, as she stood with Charlie and stared at her father's final work, she finally understood his simple words. She had been a fool.

Charlie knew it as well. "I guess that's it then," he said, his voice low.

"I suppose it is." Eleanor paused, considering her future, her past, and what the present could hold for her and Charlie. "Though, I wonder… My father would never have settled for merely chatting with the dead. He would have wanted to communicate with a full manifestation."

Charlie arched his eyebrows, barely noticeable under his raised goggles, though she could see the knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I wouldn't want to let Mister Hodgson down."

Eleanor pulled the pin from her loose bun, and after giving her hair a hearty shake, she turned to Charlie. "Then we have much work to do." She snapped on her goggles and grinned. "Shall we?"

Entry 6- Keep Going

The revolver clapped twice in quick succession before the alchemical silver bullets spun from the barrel. As they traveled through the heat-soaked air, they flung little pieces of themselves in all directions. They might have dissolved into nothing if not for the short trip between the gun and the leathery hide of the demon.

Part gargoyle and part zombie, the creature had been lunging for Jacob's throat when the bullets burrowed into its chest. It shrieked in pain and fell to the pine deck of the airship. One tight fist of only three clawed fingers pounded on the wood while the other clutched at the wounds. In front of the man's eyes, the creatures veins bulged through skin that resembled slate. They grew and grew until rupturing. Black ichor, wreaking of sulfur, splashed over everything including Jacob.

He puked.

Another flock of the smaller demons bounced off the invisible shield that surrounded the airship. These creatures, varied through all the colors of a burnt rainbow, couldn't pass through like the larger ones did. Still, with each impact, Jacob could hear the glut of mason jars in the hull rattling. The vacuum-sealed prayers powered the protective bubble. He knew the yellow glow in the jars had dropped below the halfway point and that the protection would run out eventually.

He had expected them to last longer and to protect him completely. Neither of those things had turned out to be true. Just two weeks in to his journey through the bowels of Hell and Jacob had encountered more demons than he ever thought possible. They kept him awake all hours without rest.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, Jacob stumbled over to the wooden steering wheel. That same hand ducked into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a small bottle. He gave it a shake and found that it sounded mostly empty. His thumb flicked the cap off and he emptied the white tablets into his mouth. His friend and dentist, Lloyd, had given him the cocaine toothache drops in case his pesky molar acted up during the trip. Surprisingly, that was the one part of him that didn't hurt.

Suddenly the ship lurched as the bow raised high in the air. Jacob turned just in time to see a huge metal hook cut through the air. He ducked, managing to avoid getting gouged but the chain that hung from that hook caught under his arm. It picked him up and then dropped him like a marionette with cut strings. The revolver flew through the air and over the rail. He knew it was gone; it had surely been consumed by the lava flows below.

Standing on the back of the deck, its horns pressed into the balloon stories above, was a massive quadrupedal demon. The hook-and-chain weapon was grasped between two arms that jutted out halfway between the front legs and a grotesque head. From his perspective, Jacob couldn't see anything but gnashing teeth.

He hadn't seen a demon this large before. So far, the biggest ones had been man-sized, although they looked much more imposing given their huge wingspan. This toad-skinned abomination didn't have wings and Jacob wondered how it boarded the ship. There wasn't an outcropping of rock nearby and he certainly hoped the forces of darkness didn't have their own airships.

It was moments like this, the fifth or sixth of this adventure, that caused Jacob to do two things. First, he soiled himself. He had gone through the bulk of his luggage thanks to his body's natural reactions to the demons. And he certainly wasn't going to waste his limited steam and drinking water on cleaning.

The second thing that Jacob did during these attacks was to doubt the journey. His friends had told him it was a fool's errand to tear in to Hell on a dirigible but he hadn't listened. They eventually relented and assisted in whatever way they could. Better to send him off prepared, they had said.

The brute spun the chain around, clipping one of the ropes that held the ship to the balloon. Before Jacob could calculate how many of those ropes he could afford to lose, the broad flat part of the weapon descended towards him. He rolled to the side moments before the weapon splintered through the deck.

Laying on his stomach in front of the steering wheel, Jacob looked up. Tacked to the wooden pole was a picture of a gorgeous woman with hair that could teach the lava a thing or two about being fiery. She was posed with one foot up on a steam boiler, showing off more of her leg than was appropriate for a lady. His family, the neighbors and even Lloyd had called her a superfluous woman. After her death, they told him to simply forget her.

But how could he? Every time he smelled the potpourri made from her perfume and the dried flowers from her grave, he remembered. He remembered the nights they spent together in the brothel and then the days in his shop. She was as handy with a wrench as she was with, well, his other tool. He'd have made an honest woman out of her if not for her untimely death.

Summoning up all the strength in his weary body, Jacob lunged forward to grab the lever for the airship's fire suppression system. With one strong tug, the valves open and water rained down on them. Water was precious commodity in the inferno but it was also blessed by Father O'Leary. The hulking brute screamed in agony as flesh was flayed from it. With a powerful lunge that shook the whole airship, the creature careened over the railing.

More ropes were torn in the escape but they could be fixed. Jacob shut the water off before draping his shaking hands over the steering wheel. He quickly put the craft back on course.

“I'm coming, Elle. I'm coming.”

Entry 7- Mutual Admiration

Elva had hoped the pleasure obtained would be worth the time spent piling her lifted petticoats underneath her as a cushion to raise her hips to the correct level. It was.

She edged her still-quaking body away from the machine, letting its phallus pull out of her. Her elbows lost the will to prop her up, and she collapsed flat on the coarse blanket covering the barn floor. Panting, Elva had barely enough strength to push her skirts back down over her thighs. She closed her eyes and thought to herself, What could Stephen expect, with all that talk of pistons? Her breathing slowed to its usual pace, rather than the one set by the apparatus, hissing and grinding as it pumped its prosthesis into the open air, as if searching for something else to fill.

Elva did not notice Stephen, partially obscured by shadow, standing behind a post. When she heard his tentative steps forward and saw his dropped jaw, Elva quickly sat up and folded her legs underneath her skirts, summoning just enough strength to shout over the din of her apparatus, "I beg your pardon."

Stephen immediately averted his eyes. "I heard machinery. I heard you crying out. I thought you might--"

"Might, what?" Elva demanded, bringing her knees to her chest. She scanned the barn floor around her trying to find the drawers she cast aside.

"I apologize. For intruding...." Stephen backed away a step, and stood transfixed at Elva's machine. A look Elva hadn't seen for her in a long time.

"Forgive me. Please," he said. "I don't blame you--"

"Nor should you," she said.

"I'm just...surprised."

"You were expecting to find me here with a stable boy? Some ranch hand? A Negro rail worker, perhaps? Would you have even cared?"

"I won't dignify that." Stephen crouched by Elva's machine and wiped his forehead on a rolled-up shirt sleeve. "You built this...yourself?"

She nodded. "You were so absorbed in your work, I decided turnabout was fair play. Not that you noticed."

"I did notice," Stephen protested.

"You noticed the occasional missing part, perhaps."

"I noticed your random questions about pressure variables and valve sealant." Stephen smiled.

So did Elva, though she quickly suppressed it.

Stephen ran his fingers along some rubber tubing, along the wheel-crank thrusting the piston out and back, until he found the lever controlling the speed. He shifted the lever back and forth and watched the machine's response. "This control alone must have taken you months," he said.

"A fortnight," said Elva.

"It would've taken me a fortnight just to calculate the scale."

"I know," Elva said. "Doubtless, the only reason you tolerate my presence."

"I'm not allowed to appreciate your intelligence? You told me that was what attracted you to me." Stephen knelt down and inspected the engine more closely. "This is brilliant," he said.

"Don't patronize me."

"I wouldn't dream of it." He picked up another section of tubing, inspecting its snug connection to a small valve. "You're brilliant. And beautiful and wonderful and woefully neglected. And I hope, forgiving?"

Elva eyed her engine's thrusting piston. "Yes, I am brilliant, aren't I?" She raised her petticoats above her waist and laid back. She inched down, reaching a foot toward the machine's speed lever. "One would almost wonder why I need you."

"That's just cruel," Stephen said. Slowly, he rose and turned to leave.

Elva nudged the lever to the off position. With one long hiss, the piston stopped thrusting. "Almost wonder," she said, holding out her hand to him.

Entry 8- Withdrawn after contest

Entry 9- The Envoy

The Envoy stood before the Prime Minister and the Prime Minister was afraid. Sweat prickled his brow and the chamber felt suffocatingly warm. The Envoy bowed stiffly in a series of small jerks, its glistening black carapace making the movement difficult.

He could smell it clearly despite the incense placed judiciously throughout the chamber - a sour metallic tang that hung high in the air like bad music. It straightened again, spreading two of its limbs wide and rearranging several of its facial orifices and mandibles in what the Prime Minister had been assured was the equivalent of a smile. Then the bristles around its upper set of eyes quivered, the spiricles along its sides gaped open and closed like a row of hungry mouths and its chest-plates thrummed as it began to speak.

"Has her Majesty come to a decision?"

The sound was a suprisingly rich baritone, with only a faint buzz. The Prime Minister's heart hammered in his chest. He was fairly sure the Envoy could hear it. Every natural instinct within him was howling at him to run and hide, to get away from the unspeakable thing that stood and glistened and drooled before him. But he was Prime Minister for good reason and he was a consummate diplomat above all else, so he swallowed the sour fear that flooded his mouth and forced his voice to remain level.

"She has."

"And her answer?"

"Her answer is yes."

The Envoy gave another careful bow.

"Then my Masters will be most pleased. Please extend my congratulations to her Majesty. She has made the right decision and Great Britain will soon be unmatched amongst the great powers of the world."

The Prime Minister shifted uncomfortably.

"And we have your utmost assurance that they will not be harmed?"

"Again, you have our word that none of them will receive anything but the very best treatment. No harm will come to them, physical or mental."

The Prime Minister stood then, his face ashen.

"Our thanks to you, then. May this be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship."

"I have no doubt of it. But before I take my leave sir, I have brought this small token of our respect and appreciation for her Majesty. It is a mere trifle, really, but one that my Masters earnestly hope that she will enjoy."

The Envoy turned towards the doors and gibbered and chittered something in its own language. The doors opened and another, near-identical creature entered carrying a small, highly polished wooden box which it handed to the Envoy before leaving. The Envoy turned to the Prime Minister and opened the box.

Inside was a brass nightingale, lying still and silent. Its small black eyes were bright and glossy, its feathers perfectly arranged.

"It is merely a simulacrum" said the Envoy, "An artificial copy, but so close to the real thing as to be indistinguishable. Not only will it sing on command, but it will speak when her Majesty chooses to speak to it. We trust it will make a fine amusement as well as a most charming companion."

The Prime Minister was acutely aware of how close the Envoy was standing and he realised that he'd been holding his breath. He forced himself to smile and accepted the box from the Envoy, but made absolutely damn sure not to touch him in the process.

"Her Majesty will be delighted by your generous gift, I'm sure."

The Envoy looked at him with all of its eyes and gave its obscene parody of a smile again.

"It is the merest trifle, as I say, but also an indication of the scientific possibilities that will soon be yours, sir. And with that I must beg my leave - my Masters will be most eager to hear the wonderful news."

The Prime Minister had no doubt that they already knew, but he nodded again and wished the Envoy a safe journey. As soon as the heavy oak doors of the chamber had closed behind him, the Prime Minister collapsed back into his chair and covered his face with his hands. He shuddered and gasped for breath, but the air still seemed tainted. He didn't think he'd ever get the taste of it out of his mouth...

That night he lay in bed, listening to the dark. His wife moved softly beside him.

"You're still awake, aren't you?" she said.

"Yes."

"Shall I ring for some tea?"

"No."

"Some laudanum then?"

"No."

There was a pause then, the only sound the distant clopping of a hansom cab carrying someone safely home.

"You did the right thing, you know."

"Did I?"

She rolled over to face him, her eyes wide and earnest, her skin smelling of warmth and lavender.

"You did the only thing you could do, Charles. You put put the good of the Empire first. No-one can ever say that you didn't."

"And what of the price, Mary? How can I sleep ever again knowing the price we've agreed to pay - the bargain we've made with those...things."

"They said they wouldn't hurt them."

"We only have their word for that though, don't we? What if their concept of harm isn't the same as ours? We don't even know what they want them for!"

Mary pursed her lips.

"In time," she said softly, "if people ever find out, they will understand. History will not judge you harshly Charles."

"The hell with history! What of Louisa? What of my own daughter? Will she judge me harshly? Will she ever be able to look at me again when she learns what I've done?"

"He's my flesh and blood too, Charles. Don't think I don't feel it just as sharply, but when all's done, it's only five of them. What are five children compared to the good of the entire Empire?"

He said nothing.

Eventually he put an arm around her and they held each other close in the dark. He turned to look out of the window at the stars above. There were more than he could ever remember seeing, and they shone so hard, so bright. Like a million knives poised above the world.

Entry 10 - Untitled

Perhaps when observing someone it would benefit the observer to be in the same room as their target; however, when one is spying on a person who has closed the door behind them, squinting through the keyhole is the best option available.

Mr. Bennett had given them all strict orders to stay away and stay quiet for however long his guest was inside the manor. Even the cook was forbidden to bring out tea. This just made Irene even more curious than she usually was and since she had never missed an opportunity to spy on her uncle's guests since her arrival at the manor after her father's death, she decided that tonight should be no different. She lifted her skirts just high enough to kneel comfortably on the wooden floor outside of the study and pressed her face into the cool metal.

At first, all she could see was her uncle standing stiffly be the fireplace, but with a slight shift of her head she caught sight of the visiting man’s fingers tapping unconsciously on the armrest of the sitting chair. She cursed her luck for only being able to see the back of the chair and for it being so large. All she knew was that he wore no band on his wedding finger. What good was that information if she couldn’t even tell if the man was greying like her uncle or young like cousin Amelia’s new husband?

Mr. Bennett spoke softly, disdain clear in his expression and posture. His caller’s emotions were obviously not as controlled: his arms began to flail about and his voice got louder. Irene could finally make out sentences such as “he had a duty to fulfil”, “you can no longer provide adequate protection”, and “neither you nor I have a say in the matter”. Mr. Bennett turned to the fire and used the iron stroker to poke at the burning logs. The man’s voice lowered again but his finger was squishing its tip into the red material of the chair emphatically.

Mr. Bennett spun around quite suddenly, waving the stroker and jabbing the hot tip forcefully towards the man. There was a loud squawk and Mr. Bennett jumped, swinging the rod at the table beside the chair. There was a tiny creature hunched on the table, hissing at Mr. Bennett.

It was unlike anything Irene had ever seen before in all her nineteen years. It looked like the illustrations in one of her books, the one about dragons, but different somehow. Its metallic scales did not sparkle like diamonds as her book suggested, instead they reflected the light from the fire dully, and the membrane of its wings looked more like the material of her boots than anything she would have associated with a dragon.

It backed away from the stroker and spread its wings in defence. She pressed her face harder into the door. If it was a machine, how was it able to function so freely?

The man reached out to soothingly pet the creature and as soon as Mr. Bennett put the stroker away, it relaxed and leaned into the man’s touch. The two men continued their conversation, but Irene was longer interested in them. She watched the creature as it stared at Mr. Bennett until it seemed satisfied he would not try to attack anyone with the stroker again. It snorted, two miniscule puffs of smoke escaping its nostrils, and turned to look around the room. She couldn’t believe it. This machine was, for lack of a better word, alive. How was that even possible?

It reminded her of Danny, the boy who used to live down the street.

One time when they were children, her cousins had teased her about the two of them getting married someday and she had cried for hours. Of course, that was when she still believed boys were infected with cooties. After a few years, they all matured and became close friends. The girls loved to annoy him by going on about boys and fashion, and in turn he would bore them with talk of science and his new inventions that never seemed to work. Danny would have loved to see this creature. Unfortunately, it had been a few years since any of them had last heard of him: on his fifteenth birthday, he had moved out of the city to become an apprentice for a wealthy inventor.

The creature’s gaze stopped on the door. It tilted its head and squawked. The man looked over the armrest at his pet. He was a rather large man with a plain face and his grey hair tied at the back of his neck. The most distinguishing feature was a black patch over his right eye.

Irene gasped and pulled back from the door, staring at the keyhole in shock. She had seen that man before. That was the man rumoured to be the cause of her fathers’ death. That was the man Danny had gone to work for. That was the man they called The Inventor.

I've been tagged!

2009-12-18T06:35:00.008-05:00

I've just been tagged in a blog game! The fantastic Jemi Fraser has snagged me, and I'm IT! This means I get to answer several interesting questions about my writing. Stuff you were all dying to know, right? So here goes!!

1)What's the last thing you wrote? What's the first thing you wrote that you still have?
The last thing I wrote would be part of the current manuscript I'm working on. As for the first thing, it was a murder mystery/romance that I never completed. Maybe someday.

2) Write poetry?
Not unless forced to.

3) Angsty poetry?
Definitely not.

4) Favorite genre of writing?
I always incorporate romance into anything I write, but steampunk is my all-time favorite. It's just far too much fun.

5) Most annoying character you've ever created?
I try to avoid annoying characters, though I definitely have dislikable ones. The most dislikable would be Victor, an English Lord who uses his influence to get his way and is anything but nice.

6) Best plot you've ever created?
The plot for Viridis has a few twists and turns that I don't think most would expect. That was a lot of fun to write.

7) Coolest plot twist you've ever created?
It might have to be sticking my poor main character with two husbands.

8) How often do you get writer's block?
Sometimes my writing will slow as I try and figure out where my story is going, but it rarely stops completely. If it does, I know I've written myself into a corner and need to back track and take the story in a different direction.

9) Write fan fiction?
I'm afraid not.

10) Do you type or write by hand?
Definitely on my laptop. I'd get nothing done if I had to write by hand. Not to mention, I move text around too much.

11) Do you save everything you write?
Since it's all on my laptop, it's easy enough to save.

12) Do you ever go back to an idea after you've abandoned it?
Yes, but with changes.

13) What's your favorite thing you've ever written?
I'd have to say Viridis, again. I love the characters and there's just so much happening.

14) What's everyone else's favorite story you've written?
There aren't too many people that have read my books from start to finish, though I have a few critique buddies that have gotten through most of two seperate stories. I think Viridis would probably win out. The other was a paranormal romance with a snarky main character. She was a lot of fun to write.

15) Ever written romance or angsty teen drama?
I love writing romance, but under no circumstances would I write angsty teen drama. Sorry. Maybe it was those years as a seventh grade science teacher.

16) What's your favorite setting for your characters?
For me, it's more about the characters and the story. The setting could easily change and not affect the story very much.

17) How many writing projects are you working on right now?
Sanctis, the sequel to Viridis, still needs to go through final edits. In the mean time, I've started another story, unrelated to the Viridis series, but that is still at the beginning stages.

18) Have you ever won an award for your writing?
I don't really enter competitions, so I'd have to say no.

19) What are your five favorite words?
Five words? I don't know. They tend to change with my mood, but the only one that I've always loved is coagulate since I think it immediately puts a vivid visual in one's mind. Rent (as in "to tear"), maybe riot. I also love words or slang specific to a geographical area, like banjaxed, bollocks or ken.

20) What character have you created that is most like yourself?
I think all my main characters have little pieces of me in their personalities, but you'd probably have to combine all my characters into one, and then tone down or ramp up certain aspects to get a close representation.

21) Where do you get your ideas for your characters?
I have no idea. They just come to me. If I do manage to plan out a character, they usually end up being completely different to what I had envisioned once they are written. They never behave.

22) Do you ever write based on your dreams?
I don't tend to remember my dreams, though if I do, they are sometimes influenced by what I've been writing.

23) Do you favor happy endings?
Writing romance, you sort of need a happy ending, though my characters have usually gone through so much by then, the ending tends not to be anything sweeping and sappy.

24) Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?
Always. Dangling participles are the bain of my existence.

25) Does music help you write?
Music helps me think about the plot and the story, but I can't write with music on. On rare occasions I'll try something instrumental but it doesn't last long.

26) Quote something you've written. Whatever pops in your head.
"Is it always so... ready?"

Be sure to check out Jemi's blog since she brought us this fun game!! Now it's my turn to tag a few people!!

A must on the list is the funny yet mysterious Robert K. Lewis, the energetic and quirky Jean Oram, and the sweet and fun Don P. Be sure to check them out!!

A Steampunk Short Story Contest

2009-12-10T07:03:00.004-05:00

Photo by Orla

It is officially here!! Our second Steampunk Short Story Contest. The first contest was a great success and a fantastic way to launch my blog. Since it was so much fun, I think it's time for another! There's nothing better than a short story to get your creativity going.

Though the first contest didn't have any sort of theme, this time around, I'd like to try for one, and since I write steampunk romance and I'm evil, you guessed it! Now, I can already picture all the guys cringing, but WAIT! I'll make this easy for everyone... it just has to be a hint of romance, not necessarily the theme of the story. Hell, I'd even settle for a simple sultry look in another's direction or a bit of chemistry or flirting between two characters (or three!), and have that be the entirety of the romance. I'm an easy girl to please. If you want to take it to the other extreme and submit steampunk erotica, I'm game for that too.

So hear are the rules:

* All entries must be emailed and received by Dec. 28th, 8 am EST. Please send to asteampunkreverie@gmail.com
* Your story must be original, and have a MAXIMUM of 1000 words.
* There must be steampunk elements and also a romantic element, though I'll be a bit more lax on the latter (see above).
* Entries will be posted so that readers can vote on them. The winner will be the entry with the most votes.
* There will be a prize. I have no idea what it will be, though I am open to suggestions (and no, I'm afraid it is not in my budget to steampunk your house or car if you win).

So there you have it. I think I've covered everything, however feel free to comment or email with any questions. Can't wait!

Adding Some Heat Between the Sheets

2009-12-05T23:18:00.004-05:00

Though I love coming across a steamy hot sex scene in a story, I can honestly say that, for me, a sex scene is by far the hardest thing to write. I agonize over every word. But no matter the difficulties, when done right, I think an intimate scene can add a lot to your story if you choose to add one in. Here are a few things I've found have helped me...

* Avoid repeating yourself.-- Often, easier said than done, in this type of situation. You need to make sure that things aren't getting repetitive, not only in what the characters are doing, but also in your choice of words. And that is where some of the difficulty comes in, since there are only so many ways to refer to ones anatomy. Once you add the additional constraints for what was in use during a certain time period, you're left with even less words in your arsenal. However, some things can be assumed. If you've already referenced a particular bodypart, and the action has not strayed too far, then you can often skip another reference. Another way is to reference a different area in close proximity, as long as it's clear where the action has now headed.

* Think about the small details. -- By doing this you pull the reader into the scene. I'm not normally one for a lot of details, but this is where you need them. How does her skin feel to the touch? Does he taste of whiskey when he kisses her? Can he smell her perfume? Is his stubble rough against her soft skin? Does the firelight cast a golden glow across her skin? Does that same light catch the planes of his muscular form? The details will help your reader visualize the scene and pull them in. Even if you choose to remain pretty vague about "the act" itself, by including the little details you still keep the scene intimate.

* Use their thoughts and emotions.-- Sex is an intimate act (even if your characters are not necessarily intimately involved) and there are bound to be thoughts if not emotions. Too often you come across a sex scene and it's just the physical act. By adding thoughts and emotions, we again keep the reader involved in the scene.

* Make sure the scene is not confusing.-- I think this very important. Too often when the writer tries not to get too explicit or if the writer is trying something a little "creative" *ahem* things can get muddled in the process. Nothing pulls a reader out of a scene faster than having to figure out what just happened, or trying to account for all the body parts during an acrobatic feat. This can be especially difficult to do if there is more than one person of the same sex involved, since you can no longer say his/her or he/she and have it be clearly understood.

* Be creative.-- I know this goes without saying, but it can be easy to start repeating things. Try for a little variety, especially if you have more than one sex scene. A quickie or a long night affair, slow and sweet or fast and rough, fun or tender. Even within the one scene, change things around a little.

* Take into account the character's personality and history.-- This is something that will keep the reader involved beyond just the sex scene, as it can add insight and often lend a bit of surprise. Is your character normally shy and timid, but a fierce and dominant lover? Or do they stay true to their personality? Did something happen to them in their past that causes them to react a certain way when intimacy is involved? All these personality quirks will lend depth to your characters.

I hope this helps. Any other suggestions? Do you write sex scenes into your stories or is it something you completely avoid?

History Repeating

2009-11-15T20:01:00.008-05:00

It is very difficult to ignore one's past since our experiences in life tend to shape who we are. I have found that my past, my personality quirks, and even my likes and dislikes, seem to weasel their way into my manuscripts and into my characters.

I tend to write what I know and feel comfortable with, and think this is often the case with most writers. Not that we don't stray off the beaten path! But there is a reason my characters drink whiskey and tea, are slightly claustrophobic, more than a little stubborn, know how to ride a horse and are a half decent shot with a bow and arrow. There will often be something Gaelic, a hint of something pagan, and more than a little mischief and romance to be had. And you guessed it, those are all a part of my history and who I am.

I also find that when adding in something I've actually experienced, the details tend to be more intricate and crisp, and therefore the scene tends to come alive with those details-- details you would not necessarily add or think of if you had not experienced them.

In the next month or two, I'll be sitting down to write a new story, and as I figure it all out in my head, it seems like more than ever, my past is playing a greater influence. In some ways it's a very comfortable feeling, like putting on a favorite comfy sweater. And though my story will still be a completely new world and experience, I take comfort in knowing there will still be a bit of the familiar.

What about you? Do you draw from your own experiences in life? From your own personality? Your likes and dislikes? Do these things influence your writing? Do you find it easier to write what you know or do you feel like you're exposing a part of yourself? Inquiring minds want to know.

And in case anyone is indeed wondering... yes, that is a picture of me and my past. I'm sure it all makes a little more sense now. No?

An Introduction to Steampunk

2009-11-10T19:01:00.004-05:00

My apologies since this is LONG overdue. I have found that though steampunk has experienced a recent explosion in popularity, there are still plenty of people who are not familiar with what steampunk is, though they may have heard the term before.

There is a bit of difficulty in explaining steampunk as a genre, since it really is quite adaptable and flexible, and extends well beyond a genre of fiction to an aesthetic in clothing, art, and everyday items. As a result this is just a brief overview of steampunk as I see it.

Steampunk is a subgenre of speculative science fiction, that usually takes place during the Victorian time period, or in a world where Victorian aesthetics and ideologies are dominant. However there is the very important addition of technological advances- often steam driven- that did not necessarily exist during the time period and may be far more advanced than even our current technologies, but are always in keeping with the aesthetics of the time period. The technology is often used to try and better the lives of the people and erase the inequalities of society that were so dominant during that time period.

Steampunk, at its earliest, was influenced by writers like H. G. Wells, Jules Verne, and Mary Shelley, since their works included many fictional technological inventions and prominent elements of science fiction. Though steampunk is often set in Victorian England, you can easily find many stories set in other countries and areas, some settings altogether fictional.

Because there is so much more to steampunk than what I've covered, I encourage you to check out Wikipedia and Tor for more information. Also check out the great postings Tor put up for steampunk month in addition to a great source of all things steampunk via NaNo WriMo.

To market, to market...

2009-10-04T07:55:00.007-04:00

With the current state of the market and the economy, first time authors are having to get creative about marketing and promoting their own books. I am still a long way from seeing my novel in print, and have become quite adept at typing with my fingers crossed in hopes that it will indeed happen. Yet, I do not think I am being premature in starting to build a network now onto which to launch publication news if and when it does happen.

Networking and building a following online are the easiest routes to self promotion, and there are many sites and forums that can help you accomplish just that. Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn are just a few, making it quite easy to reach a large amount of people. Coupled with a personal website,a blog and participation in online forums, it becomes quite easy to build an online presence.

I do think it is vital, and feel it will give me a head start when the time comes, and yet I often find myself networking rather than writing, and have found that maintaining a balance has been difficult at times. I am still active on Twitter and the writer's forum I frequent, yet have let some of the other forums and Facebook fall to the side. As is evident even here on my own blog, I unfortunately do not post as often as I would like.

I have no idea if all this networking will indeed make a difference when the time comes. However, it certainly cannot hurt and I'd rather start now and take my time in building a following, rather than panic and attempt to build it overnight.

With all that said, check out my new website!

So, do you have a strategy, and if so, what is it? I'd love to hear!

***

A Matter of Words

2009-09-20T00:14:00.000-04:00

I've always loved trivia, but have recently developed a bit of an obsession for the etymology of words. It all started simple enough... I was writing my steampunk romance and was not sure if the word I was using would have been accurate for my time period. In my search I stumbled across a fantastic website, Online Etymology Dictionary. Now, I don't know how I ever lived without it.

By avoiding modern day words, and also using words common during your time period, it is an easy way to set the mood and feel for your manuscript. Most often than not, reading other works that are either set or were written during that time is the easiest way to pick up on a feel for the language and develop your vocabulary. Of course, there are several websites that have compiled lists, so here are a few I've come across that you might find helpful.

The Victorian Slang Dictionary
The Victorian Dictionary
Canting Dictionary (Thieving Slang) 1736
Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
How to Speak Proper

Please feel free to share any sites you have found helpful.

***

Catching Up on Summer

2009-09-02T07:50:00.008-04:00

Terribly sorry I've disappeared as of late. It seems the end of the summer is always a chaotic time as the children prepare to go back to school and we try to force all our summer plans into the weeks remaining. Even the publishing industry seems to take a bit of a break in August. I guess we all need to recharge before fall gives way to the dark cold winter.

The next months also promise to be fairly busy as I wrap up my edits on Viridis, finish the sequel Sanctis, and, with luck, pitch to publishers. Exciting times lie ahead.

I have also recently discovered Twitter. Now I know it's been around for ages, but I never gave it much thought, thinking it would be nothing more than a long list of people's moment-to-moment activities. I now find I was completely wrong and happily surprised. It would appear that it is an excellent way to find other writers and to pass on great articles and information about the publishing industry. Who knew? Here's a great little article by Debbie Ridpath Ohi on hashtags to get you started. http://www.inkygirl.com/twitter-chats-for-writers/

I promise to post more often and will have a new contest dreamed up for you sometime next week. Until then, happy writing!

***

Putting Some Steam in Your Punk

2009-08-17T21:20:00.025-04:00

Maybe I'm just a hopeless romantic, but I love reading stories that have a bit of romance woven through them. Indeed, I can never resist heating things up between my characters, and there's nothing better than a steamy bit of steampunk.

In my own novel, I've freed my main character, Phoebe, from the puritanical constraints and ideologies of the time, thus allowing her to explore her sexuality. Not to say her forward thinking doesn't cause its share of problems.

Steampunk as a genre seems to lend itself not only to a romantic element, but the more erotic. And yet it seems as though there are very few full length steampunk novels that have included any romantic plot or subplot (if you know of any, please share).

With the demand for steampunk romance increasing, I can't help but be excited. So do you plan on heating things up in your own steampunk work to meet the demand? Does your writing already have romantic leanings?

I wonder if the addition of romance will be the thing that catapults steampunk into the mainstream. It certainly seems as though its time has come.

***

The Truth, The Whole Truth, and Nothing But The Truth

2009-08-11T09:53:00.010-04:00

The truth is sometimes a difficult pill to swallow, especially when it comes to something so personal as our writing. We've devoted time and energy to getting our words on paper, and have spilled our hearts and souls into our story. Now, unless you've written your masterpiece for your eyes only, there will come a time when you will turn it out into the world.

And with that, often comes the truth. If you are lucky.

Don't get me wrong. It is often devestating to find that your labor of love may fall a tad short of perfection, and when you receive the first honest critiques of your work, it can truly feel like a knife to the heart; a personal attack. These people must be mistaken, right? They must not know what they're talking about. After all, all your friends and family loved it!

And so we come back to the importance of truth. For the truth will set you free.

If you are lucky enough to be part of a good critique group, then you will often be confronted with opinions that may differ from the praise your friends and family lavished on your story. Now, granted, these are just opinions (I guarantee they are not personal attacks). However, in my experience, the honest opinion of fellow writers is an important tool in improving your writing. That's not to say you should follow every suggestion. After all, no one knows your story like you do, but a fresh set of eyes will often see what you are too close to notice, and what friends and family are either too nice or inexperienced to point out.

With that said, I feel critiquer's also need to deliver their opinions with a bit of tact, especially if they know a writer is new to critiques. Critiques I receive now without batting an eye, would have probably crushed me when I was first starting-- hell, some did. But I'm a far better writer as a result of those honest words, so it was well worth the pain.

Being open to other writers' opinions of your work can be an invaluable tool. So I recommend you don your thick skin, and listen to what others have to say, finding the truth in their opinions, so that your story will still be your own. Only better.

***

And the Winner is...

2009-08-03T19:50:00.005-04:00

I wanted to thank everyone that participated in the first short story contest. Every single entry was imaginative, well written and thought out. I also wanted to thank everyone who voted.

Without further ado, I'd like to congratulate Stewart Hemingson for his entry Construct. Honorable mentions go to Brian Hook for his entry Difference Between Moments. And again, a huge thanks to all that participated. I'm hoping to make the contests a regular part of the blog, so please make sure to check in.

Stewart, please contact me at asteampunkreverie@gmail.com with your details so I can mail you your pin.

Our First Contest

2009-07-27T11:48:00.008-04:00

Fantastic!! Not only am I impressed by the amazing turnout, but I'm also blown away by the entries. I've posted them anonymously below and have included a poll so that everyone can vote. Be sure to leave comments for the stories, too, since I'm sure everyone would love feedback.

The polls will close a week from today, on Monday at 8 AM, EST, August 3. To try and make this fair, you may only vote once.

Happy reading!!

Entry 1 — Untitled

“Michael!” came a harsh whisper from around the corner. The street was quiet, the alleyway dark as pitch, and the whisper was louder the second time through to be heard over the rain’s sotto voce.
“It’s me, Charlie.” Was the reply a little ways off in the alley, and Charles strained to peer into the dark. Light crept in around Michael’s face as he drew a breath on his cigar, a beacon of red that lead him closer.

“Michael, have yeh got-” Charles began, but was hushed with a hiss.
“Don’t say it aloud. Not safe, bucko. It’s inside.”
Michael’s voice was draughty and hard, different to Charles, who had a sing-song melody in almost everything he said. East, he supposed, as opposed, to West.

Directly to Michael’s right, a door that Charles was just starting to see cracked open, and the dim oil lamp glow skirted around the lip. Michael’s wife stuck her head out.
“Hello Charlie. The lads are in bed, now, it’s safe to come in.”

They came in; and the still-warm stove from supper was a relief from the bitter-snip dizzle. Charles felt his nose coming back into life, and Lucy chidingly asked if he’d been down the Plague Rat already that evening.

She sat them down at the rickety kitchen table, made them tea, and Charles had it Irish. Michael wanted it Irish too, but Lucy thwacked the back of his good hand with a spoon and told him he’d had his Irish plenty not two nights ago. Then she left the room, at her husband’s request, and Michael slid the package out of his pocket. It was ever so small, Charles thought, as he handled the brown-paper wrapped parcel.

“Don’t just stare at it, bucko.” Michael urged, and Charles unwrapped it. There was a bright green glow that bothered his eyes, it out-shone the lamp, and he closed it back up again and winced.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Straight from Peru. The Heart-Stone, they called it. Fabled to charge up, and store, vast quantities of… Aether.”

Charles paled and leaned back heavily, the wooden chair creaking under him.
“Real Aether?”
“Real as you an’ me. That’s why it ent safe, everyone wants it, an’ as far as I can see, no one should have it. Scotland Yard is on full alert, an’ every dirigible that enters and leaves London is to be searched.”

The little rock- more a rough-cut gem, sat squarely in Charles’ palm. It was warm, and- holding still, closing his eyes- he could feel it thrumming like a tiny, quiet engine.

“That there little rock could power the whole of Britain fer an age, they said.” Remarked Michael, cool as crisp snow, nursing his tea while Charles dared to peek inside the paper again.
“I’m no scientist, Mikey, but that sounds like codswallop.”
“It’s not important, what it can an’ cannot do. What’s important is that everyone wants it. The Military, the Monarchy, Parliament… anyone who holds this has the potential to take over the Empire as we know it.”

Charles downed his tea, whiskey and all, and shuddered.
“Who do we give it to, then?”
“No one.” Michael replied, and when Charles choked, he raised a dismissive hand. “It’s to be buried and forgotten.”
“Couldn’t there… Isn’t there someone, somewhere that could use it for good? Unlimited power, why… I could fly around the world non-stop!”
“And what would you do wi’ that power, except viciously guard it from every Tom Dick an’ ‘Arry that wanted it for hisself? That’s the catch, Charlie. It’s no good to no one; Whoever has it is cursed, not because of some heathen Gods, but by the world’s greed to have it for themselves.”

Charles began to rattle off locations.
“Back to the jungle, then?”
“That’s the first place they’ll look.”
“What if I drop it in the sea?”
“Have yeh seen them new boats? Submersibles are the cuttin’ edge. They’ll find it.”
“Antarctica?”
“They’ll send a team, with readers an’ scanners.”

The pained expression on Charles’ still youthful face made Michael pause.
“It’s up to you, an’ your crew, to save Britain from herself. Hide it, Charlie, so it can ne’er be found.”

Entry 2 — Pilgrimage to the Past

"I am at home here among the scent of books, their dusty pages may be disquieting to some, suggesting rot and ruin. But to me, they signify the past, all the more glorious than the present as we continually close our eyes on substance. I sit here among the books and their yellowing pages, and the candles whose light illuminates the disarray. I sit and listen to the bustle of many a man and lady out for a stroll among the shops. For eons I had wished to find a place amongst them, but there seems to be no place in this world for someone of my tastes.

If you knew what those tastes were, you might shudder, or give a small shake of the head in disapproval. I have seen it all before as the graceful women and stately men enter my book shop and glance upon me, dust on my jacket and trousers. As of late no customers have entered, either to browse or to purchase from my small shop. The only thing I can currently hear is my pocket watch ticking out the minutes, and my fingers ticking out on this typewriter, worn with age, some of the keys sticking.

It seems like death in here, perhaps that's what keeps the noble society away. They enter and they are reminded of age, of the progress of all things, and of death. Do they not know the value in that which has passed? Of the marvelous inventions that, while constantly being replaced by newer models, still run with more efficiency than those models ever could. They seem oblivious, but I, in this dust, in this quiet, am transported back. Back to a place where I am comfortable, back to a place where sanity first breathed its breath. Care to step into my world pilgrim?"

Entry 3 — Construct

From what I have learned since that day, I am the only one to have seen the Knoxworths before they quit the city of Portal-Whitesmith. The name Knoxworth may be familiar to those that followed the work of the great construct designer, Desmond Knoxworth, also known for a sudden death surrounded by controversy. Before I took my leave of this city to study abroad in Albionoria, I was a casual acquaintance of their son, Clarence and had met the mother, Gwendolyn, once or twice. When I returned, I reestablished contact with the family. Desmond had passed away in the four years that I had been gone. Mrs. Knoxworth requested that I help move out some of the old constructs that laid around the place. Not having steady work, I took this job.

The house was old and musty. Mrs. Knoxworth seemed to be living in the garden, surrounded by overgrown rosebushes and a rounded construct with spidery arms that squatted beside her wrought iron garden furniture, and whirred near the endless stream of tea and tobacco that the old lady consumed. She chatted pleasantly, if inanely, apologizing for the odd absence of Clarence. She claimed him to be ill, and infectious at that. The entire third floor of the house seemed shut off. I strove to listen for sounds of him, but the whole house creaked and groaned with sounds that both baffled and unnerved me, so I could not determine if the boy even still existed.

One day, late in the afternoon, the Daymoon looming over the city's spires, I came to find the front door locked. I was alarmed, knowing that Mrs. Knoxworth had no appointments. I clambered over the garden wall, pricking myself on the roses as I found the back door ajar. I slowly walked inside, calling but receiving no reply, meeting only the silent host of brass effigies that still resided in the various corners of that house.

I ascended the stairs slowly. I was concerned. And this is the point where I opened the door and saw what I now report, though I doubt my words can capture it. How can I describe Clarence Knoxworth -what was left of him? A porcelain mockery of a face, painted white, with black straw bangs, a body that was but a shell of brass and wood. Skeletal arms and legs splayed on the bed, chest opened and the leather sacks heaving inside as they took in blood, from the arm of Gwendolyn Knoxworth, her arm placed in that semblance of a mouth, with it's sharpened teeth, the red life dripping down the throat of the thing that was not Clarence, to power the functions that only barely made it living: small, shaky gestures in it’s prison bed.

But I was wrong about it’s weakness, a mistake that may have cost lives. I rushed to pull Mrs. Knoxworth from the hellish device that was her son, prying apart the steel jaws to take her shrunken arm out. She screamed, struggling, telling me I did not understand. I looked at her to see desperation. Then I collapsed as a heavy weight hit my head, knocking me flat to the floor and to darkness. The last thing I recall is two terrible glass eyes, flickering with the few candles in the room, observing me as the thing that was not Clarence creaked to a sitting position in the bed, half supported by, and half supporting his hysterical sobbing mother.

When I awoke, they both were gone. As far as I can tell, they are no longer in the city. A watchman claimed to have spotted an old woman carrying a thin figure wrapped in cloth out the south gate. That means they went into the forest.
Mrs. Knoxworth is old and sick – the forest, I suspect, will kill her within a month or two. But Clarence -what can stop a thing like that? And when his mother’s blood ceases to fuel him, where shall he get his driving force? The forest holds even more horror for me, knowing that the brass vampire must soon stalk its boughs. Was that where Desmond ended up? Is that the immortal life he chose?

Entry 4 — The Mesmerist’s Curse

I just can’t compete with her. She is so beautiful, and clearly very good at what she does. She always peaks at the perfect moment, and by the time I have picked up steam, its all over and done with, and I feel so useless. My performance could never match hers. Oh well, the audience seem happy, the applause seems to get louder and louder with each show. It used to be me that got that applause, and now it is her. She does deserve it, she is the most talented woman I ever “mesmerised“, a great actress. I make a few passes in front of her face, close her eyes, and she disgraces herself in front of the crowds for a penny a head. The great unwashed love her. But I have the talent, I’M the one with the power! It feels so frustrating, knowing that this harlot does nothing but remove her clothes seductively, and yet gets more applause than me! I suppose it’s only matter of time before my name is erased from the advertising posters altogether, not longer “The Marvellous Mesmerising Morvo, and assistant”, but “See the beautiful Vanessa be mesmerised!”. What happened? Somewhere along the line, my dark art has become a mere joke, a bawdy night out for the idiotic masses pouring out of the gin dens and workhouses. Where did it all go wrong? I know the answer to that, as much as it pains me to admit it. I used to be the chief anaesthetisist at Eliotson’s Mesmeric Hospital, I earned more I could spend in a year, my medical and scientific contemporaries adored me, and my future was mapped out. I would make a few passes over the patients, and put them into the deepest of trances. The doctors could perform their surgeries while the patient was out, and they would come to with no pain, no sleepiness or nausea. It was fool proof. I witnessed limb amputations, childbirth, the removal of tumours from the deepest recesses of the inner human body. But then one day there was some….unpleasantness. I found myself the hospital library between surgeries. I had no idea why I was there, I rarely ventured far from either my theatre or the courtyard, the matron was a fearsome woman and not a force to be reckoned with, but I felt drawn to this room I had never seen before. All at once I felt the familiar ringing in my ears, the pounding pulse in my temples that only a mesmerist would recognise, I felt as if I was being called. I closed my eyes, walked around the small space, and my hand fell on a book. Truly it was meant for me. It was hidden at the back of a shelf, behind a number of dusty bibles and other religious texts. I don’t know what drew me to it, but I read a few passages, and it became clear this book was pure evil. It was written in some heathen Eastern script and peppered with illustrations of hideous demons, and although I did not understand the language on he page, the words stung me, the pain was excruciating, as if the devils from hell themselves were burrowing into my eyes! I slammed the book shut, and hurried back to my theatre, I was to mesmerise another childbirth, a young woman giving birth to twins. I don’t feel I can discuss what happened next, but there were some unexpected side effects I never wish to relive, all I can say is I hope the poor woman had the love of God in her soul. I was immediately expelled from the hospital. And now, here I am, with a blonde nymph I scooped from a brothel in Whitechapel, who pretends to be mesmerised by me in front of these cretins. And I could, I could mesmerise her, I could make her do whatever I want. I have more power in my littlest finger than every other mesmerist in London put together! But I am frightened, far too frightened, what happens if it happens again……?

Entry 5 — The Fall Over Chicago

You know of the many adventures of the Professor. I have dedicated my life to their retelling, and have profited in no small way from my time with that man. It is his final battle with his arch-nemesis the Count that is the most famous. But there is a secret to that story I have kept these long years.

The mad Count von Bluchenwald had come to Chicago, his cog-work soldiers ready to descend from his dirigible fleet and destroy the city. The Professor had hastily designed and built an energy projector powered by the inherit static electricity of Lake Michigan. But even as the beam lay waste to the dirigible fleet, the Counts flagship was untouched, protected by his Lightning Shield.

With a canny use of the Professors glide-wings, we made our way aboard the flagship, the Shields useless against slow-moving natural materials.

As you well know, the cog-men were helpless against the Professors improved pulse gun. I easily disabled them with sonic pulses as we made our way to the control cabin.

“Careful, old chum,” the Professor said. “Who knows what madness lies beyond this door. I had best go first,” he said as he pushed me aside and threw the door open.

“Get them,” the Count screamed. The remainder of his troops steamed forward. The Professor slid through the cog-men with his customary cat-like grace, leaving me, once again, to do the dreary work of cleaning up. As he and the Count dueled with their super-heated steamblades and pithy quips, I was left to deal with the machine-men like some drudge.

“Careful, old chum!” The Professor said, slicing the head off the last of the mechanical soldiers, as if here were doing me some grand favor. Off he spun, blade twirling as he drove the Count back against a command console, pinning him down with a flurry of attacks. He shouted over his shoulder, “Smash the shield generator!”

It was as if he thought I were some simpleton that could not be trusted to be out from behind the skirts of his nursemaid! Without out a word or glance at the two men prancing about the front of the cabin, I walked to the crystalline gears churning in the center of the room. The gear-works were crafted of some opalescent substance known only to the Count and encased in a translucent dome. It generated the field that deflected any projectile or beam of energy away from the ship.

With my pipe wrench, I smashed it to fractal shards.

“Well, done!” the Professor cried, as he bludgeoned the count into unconsciousness. He grabbed the steering wheel, and locked the ship to a course headed straight out over the lake. “All according to plan, my friend. Now,--“ I hit him in the back of the head with my wrench. He crumpled to the ground like a paper mache man.

He had his plan. I had mine. I caved the Counts head in to be thorough.

I jumped from the craft, the glide-wings turning my fall into a slow descent. No one followed me. I reached into my jacket and pulled out the flare. The original plan was to use it to signal when the Professor and I were clear and the shield destroyed. I fired it without hesitation. It shot up into the sky, a murderous red star.

Without the shield the beam cut through the ship like a knife slipping between a mans ribs, igniting the hydrogen chambers inside. The dirigible was engulfed in flames in a matter of seconds. Undaunted, the great ship struggled against gravity and the hell raging in its own belly. The skin melted away, exposing the skeleton to the world. Again the beam of light lanced out, piecing the flaming aircraft. The ship exploded long before it reached the ground.

The shock-wave sent me plunging towards the ground like Icarus. Luckily, I suffered only some small injury to my body. The worst of which has caused my now famous limp. Of all the scars that I bear from my time with that man, I find the limp bothers me not one whit.

Entry 6 — Kenna’s Dream

“This will not work,” Kenna shouted, slamming the book shut. “How will I find the answers I need, if they, themselves, have not a clue where to look?”
She leaned back in her chair, watching her lover, Elsbeth, struggle with the sewing contraption a friend brought over for her to try.
“This is to make my job easier?” Elsbeth questioned as she pumped the the pedal under the table with her foot.
“Supposed to.”
The machine whirred and sputtered as Elsbeth struggled with the thread coiling around the metal beast. It is quite ingenious, Kenna thought as she watched the shaft move up and down with each press of Elsbeth's foot.
An idea began to surface.
She scooted across the floor on her hands sand knees, crawling under the table, looking for the finer details of how the machine worked.
“Maybe--,” her voice drifted off as she ran out the door to the carriage house.
Kenna pressed the buttons on the metal box beside the door and waited for the deep click of release. As the steam pressure built, the door eased open allowing Kenna access to her workshop in the back.
Hours passed as she drew out her plans, watching as they sprang to life on the faded parchment roll. Across the top she scribed, in her best calligraphy, Blood Purifying Machine.
She signed and dated the bottom of her plans before slipping them into a solid tube for safety. Tomorrow she would bring them to Lord Ashton, and together they would bring her plans to action. But, for tonight, sleep called to her, stretching into her soul, pulling her back to her resting place.
As Elsbeth pulled open her coffin lid, Kenna's heart began to beat. She stretched the sleep out of her unyielding limbs before climbing over the edge of the mahogany box.
Within an hours time she stood in Lord Ashton's home to work on her idea of progress. He was not as taken by this idea of hers, but would do anything for her, his true love.
Together they worked, each knowing what had to be done. Before long it was done and they stood, each admiring their work in silent awe.
Copper tubes wrapped around many glass jars, each one having a specific purpose. The smaller one on the right would hold the non-purified samples. The one to the left would hold the herbal and salts needed to cleanse and stabilize the blood. The larger of the jars sat just below the machine where the finished product would be stored till needed. Around each jar was a metal tub, large enough to hold the ice needed to protect the blood from spoiling. To the back was their idea of a modified sewing machine, minus the needle and thread. It would drive the machine to mix, heat, and control the amount of blood flowing through the tubes at any given moment.
All that was left was to try their tinkering, so Kenna headed to town to gather the blood needed, while Lord Ashton brought the machine back to her house.
The town was still, most at home for the night. Kenna continued to the tavern on the edge of town. A man stood, leaning against the side of the building watching as a woman climbed into a carriage alone.
Kenna moved in the shadows till she stood just behind the man. The smell of malt liquor and hard work made her stomach retch, but at this late hour there would be no other choice. Kenna walked up behind him, looping her arm in his, pulling him into the shadows between two buildings. Before he had a chance to shout she pulled him to her chest and sank her teeth into his neck.
Tonight she would not have time to savor his life as it ran down her throat, nor repay him for his generous donation. She gathered what she needed into a metal flask, leaving him passed out in the shadows of the bar.
Kenna smiled as she hurried home. No matter if this worked or not, she was now one step closer to her dream—to be human again.

Entry 7 —(Removed at Author's Request)

Entry 8 — Breaking the Eyes

There was a firm knock on the door. Pat had been waiting for this. He
stood up and grabbed his bag. Another impatient knock made him move to the
door quickly. With a last glance behind him, he said a silent goodbye to
his wife and children, who were sound asleep.

The moon looked reddish in the midnight sky. The knocker coughed in the
damp air. Pat could barely see his companion. He knew it was all caused by
the dirt that was blast into the air from the chimneys of the factory. The
air was polluted and sometimes seemed thick as a brick.
“Let´s go, Ned,” Pat whispered.
“You brought the gear?” Ned pointed his lantern at Pat.
He shook the bag. There was clearly something made of metal inside.

They headed to the valley. Their target was situated on the banks of the
Mercey. From a distance, it looked like a dragon, crouching in the dark.
Pat hestitated. He entered the jaws of the monster every day in order to
feed the belly of the beast. He had been angry, but never afraid in
daytime. However, now, close to midnight, with the glowing red from the
boiler room and the low frequent droning of the engines, it felt
uncomfortable to see the brick cathedral with the fire spitting chimneys.
The cogwheels screamed like banshees to be oiled.
And it was, Pat thought, as if the factory was looking at him. He held his
breath.
“Come on,” Ned whispered. “We have to do this. In name of humanity and the
environment!”
Pat did a step forwards. The tools he had in is bag made an aweful noise.
He held that uncomfortable feeling. Was their action still secret or were
there people lurking in the bushes? He shrugged to get the impression of
eyes sticking at his back from him.
It was his first time out with Captain Ludd. He had heard stories from
other workers, how they lost their jobs and joined Ludds army. How they
smashed the engines of the factories they used to work in. Investors were
forced to hire traditional craftsmen. That was good for the villages
filled with craftsmen, and better for the environment.

Ned Ludd had reached the outer fence of the factory. A shadow fell over
him. The light of his latern moved with the Captain when he climbed the
fence. It was clearly visible, now the moon hid behind the darkness. He
crossed the darkness behind the fence, swift and elegant.
Pat followed the Captain. He threw his bag over the fence, which made an
aweful noise in the silent night. It was followed by the loud beating of
Pats heart. He climbed the fence and let himself drop. He had to search
for his bag.
The red moon had looked spookey, Pat thought, but it wasn't half as bad as
the darkness. That single bloody eye had something comforting, but the
eyes looking at him from the darkness made him shiver once again. Yet the
only thing he could see was the lantern the Captain had in his hands. He
hurried towards the light.
The bag in Pats hand was heavy with metal tools. But when he got closer to
the factory, the bag seemed to be of less weight. Just when Pat thought it
was his more positive approach, he felt the bag actually pulled his hand.
"What the...?" he uttered in surprise. He fastened his grip on the bag. It
definitely pulled at him, in an upwards direction.
He pulled back.
The bag wouldn't let go.
Pat clung his other hand to the bag too, only to feel how his feet lost
connection with the earth.

Lord Cunard watched how the airmen took in the Luddite. They released him
from the strong magnet, so he could stand on the deck of the airship. A
smirk attached itself to Lord Cunards mouth. He had just found himself
another member for his transatlantic airship line. He had something to
offer the Luddists couldn't: a bright and shiny future. And the craftsmen
were an easy catch in the sea surrounding the factories below. One just
had to observe.

Entry 9 — Difference Between Moments

The rattle of a triple-piston steambike echoed across the pavestones of the desolate main street. The flicker of light from the dying gas lamps danced on the oversized lenses of the stranger's elaborate goggles.
The stranger halted the bike before a young man crossing the street.
"Good evening, young man," said the stranger as he tipped his plush purple top hat. The laced cuff of his wool overcoat accented his affluent tone.
"Evening, sir," said the young man.
"What calls you out at this hour, lad?"
"I'm a coal whipper, sir."
"A bit late for unloading the ships, is it not?"
"It was quite a payload, sir."
"I've lost something," the stranger blurted. He took a breath to collect himself. "So long as we're well met, I suppose you wouldn't mind helping me find it." He rocked himself from the steambike and stuffed his hand into a leather saddlebag. He brought forth a rather modern camera.
"This here is true magic, lad." The stranger twisted a brass knob on one side of the device and cogs mingled on the opposite side. Tiny geared wheels influenced one another to create a curious clatter within the box.
"Is it not a camera?" asked the young man.
"A camera? No, not in the least." He stopped twisting and a hum rose in the air. Soft, at first. Then, vibrant and alive and filling the space surrounding them. "But what I have lost has been captured by this as would a face in a photograph."
The stranger set the queer device on the steambike's seat and returned his hand to the saddlebag. He brought out two thin iron plates set in worn cherry frames.
"The object of my desire has been deconstructed and delivered to another...moment."
"You mean it's lost in time?"
"Precisely." The stranger held flipped the two plates under the young man's gaze as would a magician demonstrating that his cards were true.
"This plate represents a moment in the past," said the stranger as he jiggled the plate in his right hand. "This other plate represents this moment."
"Which moment?"
"The 'now' moment."
"You mean, right now."
"Precisely." The stranger gave the plates to the young man with explicit instructions. The idea, the stranger explained, was to retrieve the object as it passed between then and now.
The young man held the two plates as instructed and waited. "What, exactly, are you trying to intercept?"
At that moment, a voluminous airship crept above the meager skyline. From it, that omnipresent hum reverberated.
"Nevermind the dirigible," said the stranger. "Concentrate on the plates."
An audible crack broke the monotony of the hum. The stranger groped at the hole that appeared in his chest.
"Sir!" The young man helped the stranger as he crumpled to the stone street. "You've been shot!"
"Indeed," said the stranger.
The hum warbled louder and the young man looked behind him to find the airship closing the distance between them.
"Lad," gasped the stranger. "The difference between this moment and the last is all you need."
"What?"
"Take the box," said the stranger as he pointed weakly over his shoulder. "It will bring you...."
The old stranger exhaled the last of his breath, and he slipped into eternal rest.
The airship let down a steep ladder. A man fit for military occupation stepped out of the airship by way of the ladder. He carried a beast of a rifle.
The young man gathered the plates and the device and headed around the corner of a coffee house. He turned the device over in his hands and found two slots that could hold the plates. He slid the plates into the device, unaware of which needed to be where, and he pulled the lever on the top.
The gears turned and the hum became a screech and then a loud pop blew it all away.
The young man stood in the darkness of the shadows cast to the side of the coffee shop. He recalled that he just left his shift on the docks, unloading coal. Then, he heard something familiar.
Again, the rattle of a triple-piston steambike echoed across the pavestones of the desolate main street.

***

The Clock is Ticking

2009-07-25T14:04:00.004-04:00

It seems like the deadline for the contest is rapidly approaching, so I thought I'd send out a reminder. It's not too late! Seven hundred word maximum by Monday, 8 AM EST. Last call!

I will have the entries posted by late Tuesday, along with a voting poll. Be sure to come and vote for your favorite entry.

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Calling to My Muse

2009-07-23T09:32:00.025-04:00

Artwork by Heidi Taillefer

With my edits complete and sent to my agent, I found myself returning to the next book in my series. It had been over a month since I had last worked on it. After a quick read of the hundred or so pages I had written, I sat down to pick up where I had left off.

At first there were no problems. The story came with ease, several pages added. And then it slowly puttered to a stop.

I found myself writing a couple of sentences, and then checking my email. Writing a few more, and then checking facebook. Then AQ Connect (a fantastic site for writers, by the way). Then trying to figure out whether I should make burgers for dinner or a curry. Of course I'd go back, but it was only to tap out a few words here and there. Perhaps a complete sentence, even.

Now, I'm sure this happens to all writers. Their muse goes on holiday and abandons them to the deafening silence in their head. So what do you do? Personally, I force myself to write with hopes of tempting my muse back. And usually it works.

I know part of my problem stems from the fact that I write with no outline. Nothing but a vague idea as to where the story is going. Not that I haven't tried outlines, chapter summaries and character sheets. They just don't work for me. My characters tend to have a mind of their own and refuse to behave themselves. They're so very bad.

However, if my manuscript has gone nowhere in over a week's time despite my best efforts to write, and I'm still in a muse-less hell, then I know I've taken a wrong turn somewhere. I've taken the story down a road it does not want to go down, and I've written myself into a corner.

For me, there is only one thing to be done, an extreme measure to be sure. I look over the storyline and try to find where I took the wrong turn. And then the hard part. I highlight pages and pages of text, and with my heart pounding in my head, feeling as if I might pass out, I hit the delete key.

Okay, so I've got a copy saved. Just in case. But chances are those pages will never get used if the story has gone down a different road. Hours, days, weeks of writing. Useless. *Sigh*

A sacrifice made in my muse's name. She is once again pleased.

***

A Little Bird Twittered Outside My Window Calling Me With His Sweet Song

2009-07-22T08:18:00.009-04:00

I guess it had to happen sooner or later, and I'll admit I had been trying to avoid the fact that it even existed, knowing it would only offer another distraction in a world filled with many. But when a friend decided he would try a new style of writing using the ever popular site, I cringed as I read his request for others to join him, knowing I could no longer avoid the inevitable.

I speak of course of twitter. His proposal was a simple one. Write within the constraints of 140 keystrokes, no abbreviations allowed. Flash fiction, prose, non-fiction. Just write.

And I must confess, I have found it delicious to write something so confining.

So will you join me and my friend, Maxwell Cynn? This is a call to all the writers out there. One hundred and forty sweet little keystrokes. Do you think you can do it?

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Tie Me Up

2009-07-16T16:19:00.015-04:00

I must confess, one of the things I love about writing steampunk is the opportunity to describe the clothing of that time period. In particular, corsets. Now, don't get me wrong. If I were forced to wear them on a daily basis, I would likely have a drastically different opinion on the matter, but since I don't, the novelty remains.

There's just something innately sensual about a corset. The way the snug fabric hugs a woman's curves, highlighting a small waist, balanced by a fullness of breast and hip. The restriction of one's body within fabric and steel. The lacings pulled taught, resulting in a smooth firmness of fabric and flesh.

And when things start to heat up, I can never resist drawing out the tension in a scene by making my characters go through the slow and methodical unlacing of a corset, passions rising as pearly skin is exposed an inch at a time.

So, what's your favorite period article? A tophat perhaps? A full bustle? Or is it something simple like a monocle or walking stick?

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The Devil's in the Details

2009-07-14T23:59:00.009-04:00

In the age of Twitter and IM-ing, it seems as though many novels are starting to reflect our fast paced society. The action is quick, the details few. However with steampunk, we are dealing not only with a different time period to modern day, but an alternative reality, a world all our own, and it is those details that pull the reader into our world and allow them to experience it.

I myself tend to write very few details on the first pass. When starting to write, my mind races to get down the actions and emotions of the characters, wanting to get to the meat and bones of the story. It isn't until the second and third pass that I go through and force myself to fill in the details, and build my world, a layer at a time.

I, personally, try to avoid clumping all my details, and instead prefer to sprinkle them throughout, so as not to slow down the action. I don't mind making my reader wait to find out the details, and I hardly ever describe a room to great length, unless it is important to the story or unique in some way. Trying to find a balance between enough detail to pull the reader in, and not so much that it bogs down the story, is my ideal situation. However, if you can transport the reader with your details, not just tell them what something looks like, but actually transport them to that very place and time so they experience it instead of just read about it, then I think you could go on for pages.

So, how do you handle details? What are your challenges?

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The Steampunk Short Story Contest is Here!

2009-07-13T21:07:00.016-04:00

We are officially open to submissions!

Email me your submissions, cut and pasted into the body of the email, to asteampunkreverie@gmail.com . I will not open any attatchements.

*It should be no longer than 700 words.

*It can be part of a larger story, as long as it's a complete story within itself. I don't mind if it's been published on other sites, but please, nothing that's been officially published in print.

*For this first contest I will not pick a topic, other than it should be steampunk.

Submissions will close Monday, July 27th, 8:00 AM, EST. That gives you just under two weeks. Once submissions close, I'll post them anonymously along with a poll so that everyone can vote. The author's name will be posted once the contest ends along with the results.

I think for this first contest, we should have a small prize, since I came across this cool brass etched pin on Etsy. It's not much, but something nonetheless.

Please let me know if you run into any glitches. Happy writing!!

***

Is anyone up for a contest?

2009-07-13T01:29:00.008-04:00

I had a thought. Now this is a rare enough occurance, I'll grant you, but despite its rarity, I think it might be a good one.

Since this is a blog about steampunk and writing, I thought it would be nice to give my fellow writers the opportunity to share some of their work. Perhaps a little contest where fellow readers can vote for their favorites? I think it could be fun, and if nothing else, it might get those creative juices flowing.

A maximum of 700 words, perhaps? And for this first time we'll leave the theme open to all steampunk. So who's game? Give it some thought, get those gears turning and I'll post the details over the next day or two.

Come on... you know you want to.

***

A Case of Genre and The Market

2009-07-11T17:24:00.016-04:00

I've always written what I like to read, and I think most writers do the same, and if they can follow a trend, then usually it's all the better. Right? I'm not so sure.

The one thing I found is that too often the market becomes flooded with writers hoping for a chance to get published once a genre becomes popular. I'll hear writers claim that paranormal fiction (or YA, fantasy, etc.) is currently big, so that's the genre they're going to write. The unfortunate part is that every other writer has come to that same conclusion. This usually means writers are competing against all the other writers that had that very same thought, thus diminishing their chances of getting published.

This isn't to say that you won't get published if you've written in a genre that is currently experiencing a rise in popularity, I just think, in my limited experience, that your odds are greatly reduced since the competition is great. After all, if an agent has his/her choice of two hundred vampire, young adult romances, what are the chances for your vampire, young adult romance?

Obviously the ideal situation would be to write in a genre just as it starts to experience a rise in popularity before everyone else catches on.

What are your thoughts or experiences on the matter? What genre do you currently write and have you given other genres any thought for the sake of a better chance at getting published?

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Welcome!

2009-07-11T11:43:00.009-04:00

I wanted to welcome you all to my blog. I had debated for some time as to whether or not to start one, but with my first steampunk novel completed and the second in the series underway, I thought it would be a good idea. As I've gone through researching my book, I've come across such a wealth of information on the victorian age, in addition to steampunk, that I thought I would share.

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