Book Plug

I have gotten lazy about advertising my book these past few weeks. Well, life has been filled with many other things of late, and marketing has dropped below transitioning my daughter to her new room, removing clutter from our home, cleaning up the yard at my father's house, exercising to lose unwanted weight, and researching paleo recipes. So, I'm plugging my book in my blog this week.

"Season of Crows" is the first book of a pentalogy. I recently emailed the edited copy of book two, "Season of Madness," to my editor and am expecting publication later this year. I am now writing book three, "Season of Storms," and will spend tomorrow writing/typing with two other authors in the bowels of our wonderful local library.

An unusual fact about me: I write everything by hand. I don't like or trust computers, and I have seen other authors weep in frustration because their computers fought with them every step of the way.  The pen I use is a G-2 Pilot gel pen, and it's like writing with butter. I love it! When school comes around and supplies go on sale, I buy up several spiral-bound notebooks, and these become my paper of choice.

Although I now spend my days alone because the kids are in school, I can rarely write at home. The phone rings, the chicken get attacked, and the laundry is always calling me. "Season of Madness" was written almost entirely at Subway in our local Wal-Mart. I cried while writing some of the scenes, and that means I was crying in Subway. In public. For everyone to see. Sigh...

"Season of Crows," which is available in ebook and paperback at several sites (including Amazon and Barnes & Noble) took quite a long time to write. After writing the first half of the book, a tragic thing happened in my life, and I experienced eight solid months of clinical depression. The second half was written after that terrible period, so the book as a whole took much longer to produce than the second book.

Things have finally evened out for our family. Now I just need readers to give my book a chance. I wrote "Season of Crows" with middle schoolers in mind, but a number of adults have read and enjoyed my book as well. I am asking for readers of any age to give my book a shot. Librarians, teachers, fantasy fans, cosplayers, parents, kids, grandparents, anyone and everyone--give my book as a gift if it's not your type. Below are links to the paperback and ebook versions. And I would appreciate a review on Amazon when you have finished reading it. I review every book I read. It's important to the author who poured their guts onto the page.

 

Paperback:  https://www.amazon.com/Season-Crows-Evershade-Prix-Gautney/dp/1633731537/

 

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/season-of-crows-prix-gautney/1124763398?ean=9781633731530

 

Ebook: https://www.amazon.com/Season-Crows-Evershade-Prix-Gautney-ebook/dp/B01M3PW03L/

"Drought"

Excerpt from "Season of Crows." The drought settles on the land.

Mr. Barkwhistle had deepened his pond as much as possible, slinging layers of mud onto the banks and the exposed rim of his dam. And then one day he stopped. He grasped a large branch underwater to steady himself and floated motionless at the bottom of his pond, listening for a sound that had been his constant companion for so many years. He closed his eyes and turned his head slowly this way and that, hoping with every fiber of his being that the sound would find its way to his ears. But all he could hear beneath the dark waters of the pond was the noiseless void of stone cold silence.

Grimly, he let loose the branch and paddled along the bottom of the pond, following the gentle slope to the eastern edge where the Fray fed into it. Rings of thick ripples spread in all directions as the large beaver’s head broke the surface. He hauled himself out of the water, waddled up to the mouth of the little brook, and sat in the scorching sun to look upstream. The beaver grunted and made a clucking sound with his tongue.

The Fray was gone. The water that had fed his pond for so long had stopped running altogether, and now only a murky, stagnant puddle and damp patches of gravel dotted the streambed.

He shifted his weight heavily and looked across the dark waters of his little pond. “So, it begins.”

 

 

A New Adventure

Instead of posting either a story or an excerpt from "Season of Crows," I am simply going to announce that today I will begin writing the third book of the Evershade series, tentatively named "Season of Raging Waters."

Two author friends and I have recently begun holding write-ins at our local library. We bring our computers/notebooks (actual spiral-bound notebooks) and take a break from laundry, house, kids, phone calls, chickens, cats, and dogs in order to actually get something accomplished. And, hey, it's working. The three of us happen to be women, though we have a man in our larger group, Mid South Writers. 

It's amazing to me what women can accomplish when we close out the world for a few hours, when we put our dreams ahead of our home and family for a short time--it's astounding what wonders we can achieve. We craft entire civilizations and put our characters in impossible circumstances, then find a way for them to escape alive and relatively unscathed. Or, as in my case, we sometimes kill our characters. (Sorry, kids--killing my characters irks my daughter, and my son pointed out that there is death in the first paragraph of "Season of Crows." I didn't realize it until he mentioned it.)

It makes me wonder how many astronauts and oceanographers and chemists spend their days tied to a stove. How many professors and steel workers and engineers find themselves on the wrong end of a diaper for most of their waking hours? And how many presidents and prime ministers spend their days tossing fruit snacks and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets in their shopping cart?

As a general rule, women tend to sacrifice their own ambitions in order to allow others to follow their dreams. I say let's ALL sacrifice for our families and our homes--husbands, wives, AND children. Rather than burdening one person, when the sacrifice is shared it allows everyone in the family to pursue their dreams and discover what they were always meant to be.

So, today I will not wash clothes. I will not cook or sweep. I will not babysit the chickens. I will embark on a journey into another reality, and I will relish every moment of it.

 

"Peer Pressure"

Excerpt from "Season of Crows." Petal, the white mousemaid with creamy tan patches scatter across her fur, experiences pressure from others to copy them.

 

As the days grew ever hotter and stickier, Petal became so well-adjusted to life in Evershade that she frequently embarked on short excursions alone. She visited the Vaults for an acorn pot of mushroom soup ingredients and half of a black walnut. She made several trips to the stream for fresh water, and she even braved the critical eye of Maple with a visit to the bakery to compliment the plump mouse on her fruit ’n nut bread, which secretly pleased Maple so much that she gruffly sent Petal packing with half a dozen honeywheat rolls and a braided apple ’n onion loaf.

It was on one particularly hot morning that Petal came upon Willow and her friends cooling their paws in the creek. Willow was dangling the bonnet Ash had made for her down her back.

“Petal!” Willow exclaimed when she saw the pretty young mousemaid approaching.

“Hello, Willow. I see Ash finished making your hat. It looks lovely.”

“It is, isn’t it? Thank you for asking him to make it for me.”

“You’re welcome, but Ash is the one to thank. He made it well,” Petal replied.

“Yes, Willow, you should thank him,” one of Willow’s friends said, her words dripping with hidden meaning.

The two young mousemaids with Willow were the same ones who had accompanied her at First Harvest. The one who had spoken was taller than Willow and lanky, a permanent look of displeasure with the world and everyone in it etched across her face. The second mousemaid was the shortest of the trio and stockier. She glared at Petal suspiciously from behind the taller mousemaid.

“Petal, these are my friends. This is Aster,” she said, gesturing to the taller mousemaid, “and this is Thistle.”

Neither mousemaid attempted to greet Petal and instead stood staring at her for a few uncomfortable moments.

Petal cleared her throat.

“I love your markings. It’s called ‘tipping,’ isn’t it?” Petal asked, trying to get them to open up.

A wicked smile played at the corners of Aster’s mouth. She regarded Petal coolly. “Why, yes, it is. It is called tipping.” Aster's face morphed into a sinister mask. “Oh, I have a wonderful idea. Thistle, Willow, why don’t we show our new friend, Petal here, how to tip?”

Willow’s eyes grew wide. “I don’t know....”

“Quiet, Willow. Don’t you think tannin would look beautiful against such pale fur?” Aster said, taunting her friend. Willow said nothing. “What—are you afraid everyone will think she’s prettier than you?”

“No,” Willow said sullenly.

“Do you think Ash will think she is prettier?” Aster sneered.

“No—that’s not it at all!”

Petal looked from Willow to Aster and back again. The conversation made her uncomfortable, but she could not think of a polite way to leave.

“I think tipping is very interesting, and it makes all three of you look beautiful, but I’m not sure that tipping is for me.”

“Of course it is. Everyone does it. Even Ash did it,” Aster said. “You do want to fit in, don’t you?”

“Everyone has been so nice to me—I feel that I already do,” Petal replied, feeling as though she was being lured into some sort of trap.

“They’re just too embarrassed to tell you the truth. But I’m not. If you want to fit in here, you have to tip. There's no other way.” Aster rose to her full height and gazed down at her triumphantly.

Petal considered this carefully. It was true she didn't quite feel that she completely fit in because of her coloring. And tipping was almost a rite of passage by the sound of it. Besides that, she did admire the markings that Willow and her friends bore. It might be interesting to have her fur a different color for a change.

“I suppose it would be all right,” she said hesitantly.

“Mint!” Aster said as Thistle chuckled behind her. “Why wait? I have a pot of tannin in my burrow you can use. Come on.”

Before Petal could change her mind, she found herself being led away from the Fray where Willow, who watched them go, stood in place as a hint of fear rippled through her eyes.

High above, another set of eyes stared down at her from The Corridor.