Tuesday, May 15, 2012

My poetry video reading with excerpts and tidbits. Enjoy!

Video reading from Amorphous Angelic, Selected Poems, by Jacqueline Howett.

My poetry ebook is free at Smashwords until the 31st May. On June 1st the price returns to $4.95 
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/38047


Click on YouTube videos to listen to my sample poems from this blog!







<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/A9z5tsZzkWQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>


If you enjoyed my poetry, I'd appreciate your leaving a comment at Smashwords, or Amazon when you have a moment. Thanks!


        Amazon Kindle Link to Amorphous Angelic, Selected Poems by Jacqueline Howett: $4.95

Product Description

Amorphous Angelic, selected poems by Jacqueline Howett are Metaphysical poems of wisdom, death, rebirth, and the inner workings of the souls journey. They are also 35 selected poems of love, inspiration, wonder, visions, hope, faith and connecting to the higher self, the sad & strange, to elevating out of darkness to reveal the mystery of life. They cover an important time factor in the poets life between 1980-1985, and have remained her most memorable poems. They were to be the last poems  written from old England, before moving to America

Presently the Kindle free sample only gives you one poem. I shall try to reformat it so it shows at least another free poem. To sample a few more poems from the book, check out my official website from My other poetry.


Enjoy.

Being in our time with life which remains

Being in our time with life which remains,
Sudden death we greet inside our fragile frames,
New seeds of life are death to higher planes,
Nobody wished before to have explained,
To counteract our existence with death,
This material corpse, our body frames,
Comes this magic 'life' which it contains,
In the cosmic state without the desire,
To acknowledge universal loving,
With life and death, new seeds grow to show,
And all that's required of our minds to know,
Death is the step in our many lives in breath,
In one body we meet there many times,
And life goes on and out once like a star.

Copyright ©1983-2012 Jacqueline Howett



Looking beyond this river from death's face

Looking beyond this river from death's face,
A clear pure warm sun is reaching out upon new life,
From distant lands its echo is carried.
Buzzing new life is near to tread once more,
Unhindered by its touch, this sun gives warning,
Distant new life looks upon steps in breath,
Upon healing scars warms this living flesh,
As marks of wisdom upon folly,
Cautious steps made are felt upon the heart,
Knowing the sun, moon and stars meet life as death,
Bravely walking through aware, unmasked,
Reveals a fret not to be feared,
As death's parade lurks about everywhere,
For it knows it carries you out of darkness,
That which bravely endured life's countless mistakes,
To reveal a true face, although grown rigid and tight,
Is born again, transformed in holy glory,
Reflecting self onto a mask that fits.
(C)1983-2001-2012

Immortality's fountain
Beyond mountain tops I did reach,
To a new world I did greet,
No fairer plains did I ever meet,
To challenge my wits as a passing fleet,
Oh! What treasures you now reveal,
Such splendor alone, secrets seal,
No man can utter what we feel,
Hearts true glory and soul that's real.
We freeze, yet move beyond the speed of light,
To experience alone gifts of sight.
Searing forever higher above the clouds,
Gone the illusions out of the shrouds,
With the truth one experiences alone;
And here the spiral from a timeless zone,
We end the story to the unknown,
Knowing it's faith that brings you home,
To immortality's fountain.
Copyright ©Jacqueline Howett 1984-2012




Hi guys!


Hope you enjoyed the poetry excerpts and video.  With time, maybe I shall be able to afford some dental implants that will give you all a better video face-lift of me. LOL.

I have to say, these old poems and the language I used in them way back then in England, made me realise how much I have evolved since living in America. Although I'm sure I would have still evolved just as much if I had lived in England. Its just that I wonder how I would have evolved. When I wrote them, I was stuck in the classics for a time. I remember I had some amazing hosts of spirits about me that put words in my head, and I had to keep looking up these new words in a dictionary to really see if I knew what they meant.
I had left the world of Sex, Drugs and Rock N' Roll, and crazy dancing for a night out in night clubs. Did  I mention dancing? Yeah, you have to know there was plenty of my creative dancing. LOL. I say it like that, as every time I hit the dance floor, it was like the red-sea opened up for me to give me space. I then covered all my mirrors of vanity, and only once in a while came back to play sounds like, Off The Wall by Pink Floyd while drinking a little too much wine. I played it just to remember what all that kind of music represented to me at the time. I was also just re-discovering my literary self, and how my life  had evolved into holding a pen constantly.


I became a celibate hermit and I loved it. I opened letters with a fancy knife letter opener, and polished my desk daily where my typewriter sat, playing classical music like, The four seasons by Vivaldi, or Brahms, and Jazz/Blues musicians like John Coltraine, Billy Holiday, and Nina Simmone. And oddly enough, this was the time I began playing the violin, and I picked up the flute again. I became a gourmet cook, experimenting on Arabic, and French, and Greek recipes from the countries I had visited, and places I had not visited, like India and China. I really had no problem cooking just for myself. It was just another one of my passions. Although I polished the furniture, I loved the cobwebs that had formed in the corners of the room. I was experiencing a major death/rebirth, in my redemption. I began collecting books like they were going out of fashion, while computers got busy emptying the shelves of hard copy data.


Really, the late 70's and early 80's were impressionable days.  I also think it was the thrill of re-discovering the writer in me, after a period of time with just living my crazy life. Like love when it first blooms, it's the wonder, that in-spite of  having lived through so many situations and circumstances, it was the writer within that seemed to have the greatest hold over me, returning to me like an old lost friend. At the time it seemed like I gave up the whole world for just pen and paper.


My other poetry books still in the works are titled, SANDS OF TIME and MY GREEKSIDE.

Click here to get your free copy of my poetry book, (ebook version) titled, Amorphous Angelic, Selected Poems before prices go back up to $4.95 on June 1st, 2012.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/38047


 Thanks for stopping by.
Jacqueline


Sunday, May 13, 2012

                                  Happy Mothers Day to you all!


Monday, April 23, 2012

Jacqueline Howett interviews Kris Bock


I’m happy to announce we have Guest author Kris Bock of Whispers in the DARK here today.



Now on with the interview.

Q. Where do you come from?

I was born in Illinois, but I’ve lived in 10 states  and one foreign country (Saudi Arabia, in an American camp as a child). I went to high school in Alaska, college in Rhode Island, grad school in Boston, and I lived in New York City and the Seattle-area before settling in small-town New Mexico. I’ve lived here 10 years, the longest I’ve been anywhere, and it feels like home.

Q. What made you write this book?

I didn’t read classic romance for most of my life, but I loved “novels of romance and suspense” like those by Barbara Michaels or Mary Stewart, where an ordinary woman gets caught up in something unexpected and mysterious. I paired that with my love of the Southwest and interest in archaeology. The specific story in Whispers in the Dark was inspired by a visit to Hovenweep National Monument, a small ancient site in the Four Corners area, which seemed like the perfect place for a romantic adventure.

Q. What other books have you published?

As Kris Bock, my first book was Rattled, another Southwestern adventure. It follows two women friends who head into the New Mexico desert in search of a long-lost treasure cave. But they’re not the only ones who want the treasure, and they face dangers from wild animals, wilder humans, and the wilderness itself.

I also have 16 books for children published under the name Chris Eboch. The Eyes of Pharaoh is a mystery set in ancient Egypt. In The Well of Sacrifice, a Mayan girl in ninth-century Guatemala rebels against the High Priest who sacrifices anyone challenging his power. Read excerpts at www.chriseboch.com or visit my Amazon page to learn more. I recently released Advanced Plotting, a guide for writers, based on my years of experience as a writing teacher and workshop leader.

Q. Which authors have had a significant influence on your writing?

The authors I mentioned above provided inspiration. My brother, Doug, has helped me a lot. He’s a scriptwriter – the original writer on the screenplay for Sweet Home Alabama – and he has a great blog about writing at Let’s Schmooze. I learn a lot from his blog and also from the conversations we have about our work whenever we visit.

Q. Do you like to listen to any music while you write?

I don’t mind having music playing if it doesn’t have words (which can distract me from my own words). But I rarely play music, because I dictate my manuscripts with voice recognition software, and music could confuse the system.

Q. What do you think of the changing world of electronic books?

I think it’s exciting! I know some people mourn the death of “real” (paper) books, but I like the choices offered. As a reader (especially one in a small town with no bookstore and a small library), it’s nice to be able to get a huge variety of books any time.

As a writer, I love that I can reach out to readers directly. I spent years in traditional publishing, and had some wonderful experiences, but I also know how many great books don’t get published, and how much writers can get hurt by bad contracts, publishers going bankrupt, and changing market trends. And I love that now I can make my books available for a few dollars and still make money.

Q. Do you have any other books you can talk about that you’re writing?

I’m writing another romance/mystery that was inspired by my own experience stumbling upon a crime scene. The current title is What We Found, but that might change. It’s set in a small town in New Mexico and involves falconry, a current interest of mine. I’m also considering releasing a writing craft book on Voice, since Advanced Plotting has been well-received.

Q. If there were three books you could only take to a desert island what would they be?

Tough question! Can’t I take a well-stocked e-reader? I guess I’d be tempted to take some really big collections, like The Complete Works of Shakespeare. If they could get the complete works of Nora Roberts into one book, I’d take that, since she’s published 200 titles, but it would be hard to choose just one. One of my favorite books is Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, a comedy about the end of the world. It’s packed tight with jokes and thought-provoking ideas, so worth multiple reads.

Q. What do you have to offer other aspiring authors out there?

It’s a wonderful time to be an author. You have more options and control than ever before. However, with power comes responsibility – in this case, the responsibility to make sure your work is really ready for the market. Self-publishing is another path, but it’s not a shortcut. Work on your craft first: take classes and read advice books (like my Advanced Plotting, hint, hint) or writing craft blogs (like mine), and get professional feedback. If you do decide you’re ready to publish, hire a professional editor and proofreader, so you can do it right. But if you just want to write as a hobby, that’s wonderful – enjoy it and don’t get caught up in the drive to publish.

Q. Is there anything else  you would like to say about your self and your work?

I enjoy connecting with other writers and readers, so please feel free to contact me via any of the ways listed below!

Thank you Chris for visiting with us  today.
Q. How can readers find you and follow your progress?
Whispers in the Dark Amazon book page http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006M6P6FA
Website with blog and contact button http://www.krisbock.com/ or www.chriseboch.com for children’s books
Write like a Pro! blog: http://chriseboch.blogspot.com
E-mail: krisbock (at) krisbock.com


Description from Whispers in the Dark by Kris Bock.


A young archaeologist seeking peace after an assault stumbles into danger as mysteries unfold among ancient Southwest ruins. Can she overcome the fears from her past, learn to fight back, and open herself to a new romance?



Here is a free excerpt from the novel

Chapter 1



What had I gotten myself into?
I closed my eyes. Yes, I was driving, but a moment of distraction seemed safe enough, since I hadn’t seen another car in half an hour. Even the jackrabbits and rattlesnakes were hiding in the shade, leaving the road clear of everything but rocks and ruts.
I was starting an adventure. I had to remind myself of that—an adventure. I wanted to be here. I wanted to get away from the city, the classroom and office, the people. You couldn’t get much farther away than this, a tiny cluster of seven-hundred-year-old ruins in the Four Corners area of the Southwest. I had found the middle of nowhere.
As I had wanted, I reminded myself.
The car bumped into a pothole and my head smacked back on the headrest. Maybe I needed to pay more attention to the road after all.
The vast landscape drew my attention, the open space leaving me a bit breathless, a reverse of claustrophobia. At a glance the scene lacked color, a wash of parched tan that spoke of emptiness, drought, death. I clenched the steering wheel and breathed through my nose to filter out the dust pouring through the open window. I’d shut off the air-conditioning hours ago to keep my wreck from overheating.
It wasn’t like I’d have to live in this dusty wasteland forever. I wanted to test myself in unfamiliar terrain, face life head-on, and prove I had healed. Then I could go back to normal life, stronger and ready to face more ordinary challenges. I didn’t have to love it here; I only had to survive.
But my eyes, adapted to New England’s green trees and grass, slowly started to appreciate this different palette. A painter probably could have named a dozen shades of brown, along with the soft reds—gentle shades of pink and orange and rust and purple—from the sandstone mesas. The scant vegetation added muted, dusty green. The rare patch of yellow wildflowers looked shockingly bright. And above it all lay the vast sky, incredibly blue and so bright it hurt my eyes to look up, even with sunglasses.
I gave a low whistle. “You’re not in Boston anymore.”
I saw a bump on the horizon, a tan cube that stood out against the undulating mesas only because of its straight lines and sharp angles. I took a quick breath and felt my heart rate speed. Almost there. I blamed the churning in my stomach on the spicy food from lunch and turned up the short drive to the visitors center.
I had my choice of a dozen empty parking spots. I only saw one other vehicle, an aging pickup pulled around the side of the building. I spent a minute brushing my hair and pulling it into a ponytail. A glance in the rearview mirror told me that nothing but a long shower would make up for the dust and sweat turning my brown hair muddy. I wasn’t likely to get a shower for a while, but fortunately people expected archaeologists to look grungy. Maybe today I’d avoid the raised eyebrows because I looked too young to be a real archaeologist.
I couldn’t think of another excuse for dawdling, so I took a deep breath and stepped from the car. “You wanted this,” I muttered. “Now take it and make it yours.”


...
My watch said 5:40, and the sun was well above the horizon. I had enough time for a hike around the canyon. The map said the Towers Loop was only a mile long. I grabbed the map and filled a bottle of water, then started walking.
I hurried along the trail until I reached the canyon rim, where I stopped and grinned. The canyon cut across the land in front of me—maybe more of a ravine, really, several miles long but only a quarter-mile across and a few hundred feet deep. The bottom looked shady and cool, while the sun lit up the small ruin to my right.
The now-roofless structure wouldn’t impress anyone but an archaeologist—except for the way it perched recklessly atop a thirty-foot boulder. The boulder sloped at a sharp angle, so it looked like the whole structure should slide into the canyon. And it had been there for over 700 years! I skimmed the pamphlet and confirmed what I remembered: Stronghold House was part of a large pueblo that once filled the canyon slope below. Ironically, the lower floors built down in the canyon had crumbled and been washed away, so now only the top story remained, safe on the enormous boulder.
I spotted carved hand and toeholds in the rock, leading up to the low doorway. I tried to imagine the Anasazi living there centuries before, scrambling up the steep side of the boulder as easily as I walked up the stairs to my second-floor apartment. I half-closed my eyes to blur my vision and tried to picture the way it must have been before the walls crumbled and the roof collapsed. I imagined small, tanned people in loincloths, women on the roof, crouched over their work, children playing nearby, men returning from hunting or working their cultivated fields. I could almost hear their cheerful shouts.
I opened my eyes and turned down the path along the canyon rim, humming with pleasure. For the next few weeks, this would be my playground.
The next site on the map was just a vandalized rock shelter, and the trail guide complained that people had torn down the walls before it could be excavated. Only part of one wall and a jumble of stones remained. But the guide also mentioned that the site might have yielded storage jars or food remains, had it been left for archaeologists. Since my interest was ancient food, I decided to creep down for a closer look.
I moved carefully, so as not to disturb the loose rocks, and squatted near the biggest pile of rubble. I gently lifted a few broken pieces, putting them back in the same place after I’d examined them. I couldn’t do much with the fragments, but as always, I marveled over touching something from the past.
Tomorrow would be soon enough for scientific method, for testing and hypothesizing. Tonight I only wanted to touch the magic of this ancient world. I closed my eyes and tried to feel some ancient presence, to hear whispers from the past. The air seemed to tremble with possibilities. If only I believed in magic—
A shout slashed the air. I twisted so fast I tumbled onto my backside.
I gaped up at the man towering over me. Bare chest, muscular and bronzed. Black hair pulled back from a face full of sharp planes and angles. Dark eyes fierce under scowling brows.
My heart jolted painfully. I’d come face to face with an ancient warrior. He was gorgeous.
And furious.
At me.


Feel free to tweet this post.

Monday, April 16, 2012

Nucking Futs and tidbit links

Nucking Futs was inspired in part by my misfortunate viral mishap written up in the Guardian last year.  Now playing at Bats Theatre in NZ, from 12th-21st. The Play is a comedy about Life and Literature online. With its trademark dark humour, full.stop.theatre uses Nucking Futs to explore how the internet can feed delusions of grandeur and prey on people's naivety for the amusement of others.

Written by Cherie Jacobson and Alex Lodge
Directed by Ed Watson
full.stop.theatre

at BATS, Wellington
Until 21 Apr 2012


Hi Guys,
Being I'm a bit of a Playwright myself, I thought I'd share this! And seeing that I haven't written anything as yet on my blog about Plays, why not start here?

Apparently this dark comedy Play had a full house and was hilariously funny! I wish I could have been the fly on the wall, but I don't think I'll be catching any flights to New Zealand to see it. I guess were just have to wait and see if it plays in a theatre near me! There are two main reviews. In reflection I found John Smythe's review to be quite interesting. John Smythe is the managing editor and critc of theatreveiw.org.nz.  His also a writer of plays for stage, television and film.

Have a great day!

Jacqueline





Links to reviews

New Zealand theatre reviews, performace reviews and performing arts directory


Nucking Futs – from the team that brought us Tea for Toot – is inspired by the phenomenon of independent writers self-publishing e-books online in the virtual (but not exactly virtuous) minefield of blogs, Facebook, Twitter and 'reality' television.


Cleo has launched herself with a romance novel called Her Moist Abyss, which involves caving. A subsequent incident at a Whanganui Writers Week Q&A session – captured by way of a prologue – has led to her taking time out to meditate at what she is pleased to call a spiritual retreat and health spa.
She has also hired "a documentary crew to make a self-promotional film about ‘the woman behind the words'," as the media release puts it. The detail of who is paying what for this is glossed over, but it does become apparent Cleo has not retained any sort of editorial right over what footage gets used and how. She is not allowed to call "cut" and Chip the cameraman keeps saying he can make no promises about what may or may not be used, although it is not clear who he answers to or who holds what rights over the accumulating footage (or do we call it bytes these days?).

Comment excerpts from John Smythe's review.

Thanks for that, Martyn.  I do have a note about Rod's Reads, following the first Insecure Writers' Support Group scene and before the reveal about Raoul. I just didn't clock it as the catalyst for "the whole show". Perhaps I missed a time-shift thing, or was it a bit of backstory exposition. Does Cleo respond to the Rod's Reads review, and to the responses to her responses, within the present action of the play?
I'll come again on Tuesday (prior to Other People's Wars) and if I realise I have factually misrepresented the play, I will add a correction to this thread.  

"On the second viewing I do see how Nucking Futs aims to confront the phenomenon of internet cruelty. Right at the start Cleo reports that she got a bad review on Rob's Reads but she's carted off before she can give us the guts. Later she and Diane deliver some expository reportage on what happened. But nothing in the present action of the play allows us to either empathise with her outrage or fear for what will happen to her, given her behaviour.

(Spoiler alert) Chip the cameraman and Raoul/Trent the predatory blogger do collude to exploit the delusional vulnerability of Cleo. Chip is a film school grad trying to get a break (so presumably is doing this for nothing) and Trent … Well I still don't see why he is going to all the trouble of physically entering her life to mess with her. (ends) I mean most 'meanness by meme' happens on the net in a series of mindless passing moments where the perpetrators don't stop to think about the actual person they are making fun of. That is the nature of what the play sets out to explore."

Yes it's quite entertaining – very sometimes – in its idiosyncrasy. But there is little drama, no build up of tension and so no release, built into the dramatisation. And there is no opportunity to engage empathetically with Cleo. If the play allowed us to first feel tempted to laugh at Cleo, then realise the ridicule had gone too far and feel compassion for her, while questioning our own attitudes and responses, it would be much more effective, theatrically and socially.
As it stands we just get to appraise the situation objectively. 


Click Here to read the full review by John Smythe 
http://www.theatreview.org.nz/reviews/review.php?id=4700





Stuff.co.nz
About LIfe and Literature online: review
http://www.stuff.co.nz/dominion-post/news/local-papers/the-wellingtonian/arts-entertainment/6693595/Downloading-a-meltdown







Bats Theatre: Tickets.
http://bats.co.nz/







For those of you unfamiliar with my side of the facts back then, concerning the Big AL incident, I wrote a blog titled: In retrospect. A public, viral announcement: 



http://jacquelinehowett.blogspot.com/2011/05/in-retrospect.html













Do feel free to Tweet this post!

Sunday, March 25, 2012

The Greek Seaman novel re-edited, coming soon!


Just thought I'd keep you posted, the re-edited version of my novel The Greek Seaman will be available shortly. TJ, at TJ Proofs is an excellent proofreader, who comes highly recommended. She is now in the last phase of proofreading. If you're interested in her service, check out her website for published authors she has represented.


Here's the link to TJ's Blog.






Product Description to The Greek Seaman novel

The thunder clapped and the mysterious voice of the sea made itself known about them, and as the ship made its sudden precipitous descent once more it rendered them powerless to move.

The captain shook his head. "This is not a hurricane, this is something else. I have never seen a hurricane like this before, have you?"



What is an eighteen year old newly wed doing travelling on a massive merchant ship anyways? Hadn’t she gone to Greece on tour in a ballet as a dancer? These are questions Katy asks herself while travelling the high seas with Don, her Chief Officer husband. However, little do they know a smuggling ring is also on board for this ride. When explosions, injured sailors, and threats to sink the ship for the insurance turns into the smugglers perfect cover up plan, Don and Katy must try to save themselves.  Various ships pass in the night, and the smugglers must finaly try and reach their last contact aboard a rescue operation coming from Crete in order to complete their blue diamond exchange.

This is an exciting sea adventure with just enough suspense and romance. It take's you on a voyage to experience magnificent, soothing wonders of the sea before you enter storms and hurricanes, where Katy also finds herself at times alone on the bridge navigating through it with a seasick crew. From Piraeus, Greece, you'll visit the ports of Lebanon, and Libya, and enjoy the exotic magic of the bazaar. The love between Don and Katy in their ordeal at sea makes this a memorable story.







Happy Spring Break and a little time out.


Lately, I have been so very busy with that other stuff on my "to-do" list that's not so glamorous. And yet, I can't help but stop and find moments in life to enjoy. Right now, it's Spring Break in Florida, and here on the beach where I live, life is really buzzing. You just can't help but be a part of all that feel good energy when running around town. It's moments like this I realize how fortunate I am to be living here.





An added note: A to Z challenge.

Thanks for the bloggers who have passed by from the A to Z challenge, but I have decided not to be part of the A to Z challenge this year, after all. But I will try to get around to some of your blogs and leave a comment. I'm afraid I have too much else to do at the moment.

Hope you're all having a great week and happy blogging to you all!

Jacqueline

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Jacqueline Howett interviews Annalisa Crawford.

Click on book to Buy. $2.99 Amazon/Kindle USA
 I’m happy to announce we have Guest author Annalisa Crawford of Cat & The Dreamer here today.


 
Now on with the interview.

 
Q. Where do you come from?
I was born in Plymouth, so I grew up spending my weekends playing near to the Mayflower Steps where the Pilgrim Fathers sailed from. It's one of my favourite places; I love the feeling of being surrounded by history. I now live just across the boarder into Cornwall.
 
Q. What made you write this book?
There was a spate of people in the UK dying as a result of suicide pacts, and I wondered what would drive people to enter into something like that. Then, I wondered what if you tried but failed. I already had a character in mind who didn't want to live in the real world, she hid in fantasy, and I knew that something terrible had happened. The two ideas fused together.
 
Q. Which authors have had a significant influence on your writing?
Suzannah Dunn, who's much more well-known for her historical novels, started her career by writing stories similar in tone to what I was writing at the time. Her first book was a novella and her second was around 55,000 words. I'm drawn to shorter books, because I struggle to write anything past 60,000 words, and finding these books convinced me I wasn't wasting my time entirely. Apart from her, I love Margaret Atwood, Chuck Palahnuick and Daphne du Maurier's short stories.
 
Q. Do you like to listen to any music while you write?
Yes. I listen to Absolute Radio because they have a no-repeat policy, which means you're not constantly hearing the same Top 5 songs. If not radio, then CDs - sometimes, to get into the right mood with a particular MS, I'll just have the same CD on repeat. Some songs have actually inspired stories. I've mentioned before, on my blog, how False Alarm by Cherry Ghost inspired a story I'm currently polishing for submission.
 
Q. What do you think of the changing world of electronic books?
For my novellas, which I know would have a hard time finding a print publisher, it's fantastic. I still love books, but I think the two can live side-by-side very happily. There are so many opportunities for writers, at the moment - it'll be interesting to see how it develops.
 
Q. Do you have any other books you can talk about that you’re writing?
The story I mentioned earlier is part of a collection of three novellas, all set around the same town, similar to my own town but with some creative alterations. The town is haunted on quite a dramatic scale. There's another suicide, a murder, a bad psychic, and it includes my all-time favourite character - very sexy, charismatic guy with long hair and dreamy eyes!
 
Q. If there were three books you could only take to a desert island what would they be?
Pride and Prejudice, which is my all time favourite book.
The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom.
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.
 
Q. What advice do you have to offer other aspiring authors out there?
Purely on the creative side - because I'm still learning the publishing side - listen, observe, be interested in people, enjoy the stories you're telling. And, don't write what you think you ought to write, write what you HAVE to write.
 

Thank you Annalisa for visiting with us today.
Thank you for having me.


Q. How can readers find you and follow your progress?

 



Blog - Wake up, eat, write, sleep  annalisacrawford.blogspot.com




Book description:
As a teenager, Julia survived a suicide pact, while her best friend Rachel died. Julia’s only escape from her guilt, and her mother’s over-protection, is her imagination. When Adam arrives in the office, Julia’s world takes a startling turn as she realises reality can be much more fun than fantasy. Finally she has someone who can help her make the most of her life. But can she allow herself to be truly happy?

 
Here is a free excerpt from the novel of Annalisa Crawford, Cat & The Dreamer: 
Today is Rachel’s birthday. Born 29 November 1981: a bundle of joy, no doubt, for her doting parents, who wrapped her up in a fluffy, pink blanket and brought her home in time for Christmas. Fifteen years later, on that very day — on this very date – she was buried; right here, right where I am standing now. Buried under years of untended grass and weeds, neglected since her parents divorced and moved; wrenched apart, torn away. The gravestone, once gleaming white marble in the shape of an angel, is weathered with green moss and dirty rain; some of the lettering is starting to wear away.
I hate that angel. I hate the way she smiles benevolently, the way she stands proud above the other graves, observing the rest of the cemetery with her smug, gloating face: Yes, I’m dead as well, but I am still better than you.
I throw the bouquet of pink roses at the base of the statue without much regard for presentation and kneel for my annual prayer: Dear Lord, thank you for saving me. But, the more I say it, the more I think I should be admonishing Him for His failure to let me die as well.
I stand; I sigh. I stare for a while because I cannot muster the enthusiasm to leave. I’m only going home; there’s nothing much for me there, except my mother waiting to dish up dinner and my father muttering to himself about some news item that’s offended him today. I’ve tuned out his latest rant. Single mothers, gay marriages, the unemployed loafing around as though they have the right to sponge off his taxes: he has opinions on everything, and no one listens anymore.

When I walk through the front door, my parents are lying dead in the hallway. There are blood stains along the carpet, trailing out from the living room. I stare at the scene for a moment, trying to take in all the information. All I can truly think is, I’m an orphan. In the living room, the furniture has been turned over, the cushions slashed open; the drawers have been pulled out of the dresser, the contents strewn across the floor. Nothing obvious is missing; the thieves — for there must have been more than one to attack both parents at once — were looking for something specific. It seems as though my father’s secret life as a spy has been compromised.

When I walk through the front door, my mother is humming along to Radio 2 in the kitchen as she pulls plates down from the cupboard and rummages through the drawers for cutlery; my father is sitting at the table reading the paper and ignoring the fact that he could be helping.
“Julia? Is that you?”
One day it would be so nice to walk into the house and to be alone. I consider not answering; I consider turning around silently and running back down the path. “Yes,” I answer obediently.
“You’re late.”
I peer into the kitchen. “I didn’t go to work today, remember?”
“That bloody grave again,” Dad mumbles from behind the Telegraph. “Can’t be good for you. Can it, Mags?” He leans back in his chair and raises his voice, as though Mum is in another room. “It can’t be good for the girl, going off to that bloody cemetery all the time. It’s best forgotten, that’s what I say.”
“It’s not all the time. You know it’s not all the time. I don’t know about Mum, but I’m getting bored with hearing what you think.”
“Don’t talk to your father like that.”
“Like what?” I drop my handbag to the floor and kick it into the corner. I slump into my chair and wait for a plate to appear in front of me. I am suddenly a fifteen-year-old girl again being chastised for some perceived transgression. I visibly shrink three inches to inhabit that gangly awkward body. My head swarms with all the years I have not yet lived.
We eat in silence, because it’s usually best and usually the way all meals end up. I collect the plates, wash them, and put them away. I wipe the sides, make coffee, and hide away in my room. It is half-past six and my day has come to an end. No friends to meet for a drink, no evening yoga class, no date.
I change into my pyjamas and curl up to watch a James Stewart DVD. Mostly I stare up at the ceiling. I’ve watched The Philadelphia Story so many times that I know exactly what will happen in this scene and the next. I deliver Katherine Hepburn’s lines alongside her, but then I’m bored and give up.
The moon shines brightly, casting silvery shadows around the room when I turn the light out at half-past eight. There’s a whole world of people out there who haven’t even eaten dinner yet. They’ve returned from work, sat down with a glass of wine with their husbands and wives, or taken their kids to the cinema as a treat for getting good grades. They’ve considered cooking, then decided to eat out at their favourite restaurant, because these people that I’ve created have favourite restaurants. My parents have one restaurant that they use for birthdays and anniversaries; the rest of the time, Mum cooks meat-and-veg because Dad won’t consider eating anything else.
Every night I fall asleep with the curtains open, and every morning they are closed. Mum comes in and tidies around me late at night as though I’m not even there; she folds my clothes; she stacks books that I’ve left open with the pages face down because I couldn’t find a bookmark, the spines twisted and cracking. I’ve asked her not to, but she ignores me. And if I mention it a second time, she reminds me that this is her house and she is allowed to go wherever she likes, and I should remember that.

“This is really your life?” you ask, appearing in front of me and peering around the room in disdain. “This is really what you do every night, every single week? Just sit here and vegetate?”
“Yes, this is what I do.” I can confront you because you aren’t real right now. “What did you expect? Extreme sports? An evening job as a lap-dancer?”
You shrug sadly. “Perhaps it’s unfair of me to judge you. Why can’t we be different and still get along?”

Ah, Cat, why are you so understanding in my dreams and so ghastly the rest of the time?
That’s you: you’re called Cat for this little romp. Because that’s how I think of you, like a cunning and calculating cat. You are tall or short, always slim, brunette or blonde or red; you are always perfectly dressed, whether smart, casual, bohemian or sporty. You have friends who always agree with you because they know the consequences if they do not.
You’ve been following me for years, assuming various disguises. You were the PE teacher who singled me out in front of the entire class because I couldn’t hit the baseball. You were the girls behind the make-up counter who ridiculed me when I tried to buy my first eye-shadow, aged seventeen. And you were the bloke at my first job who sent me a Valentine’s card and then told everyone I was frigid when I ignored it.
I know it’s you, because you cannot conceal your spirit, your eyes betray you every time. Whenever I meet you in yet another incarnation, you always impart that identical, brief but unmistakable, echo of recognition.