Are There Sales After Recommendations? SURE THERE ARE!

Every author knows how hard promotion is. We've gone into it recently, haven't we?
So here's a point which can be question: if those readers who like your book (okay LOVE your book) recommend it to their friends does it help to sell your book? In a word, YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!

Look, you're in the EVERYTHING HAS CAUSE AND EFFECT BUSINESS now, guys!

It helps if people know your name, they like you--if they like what you say, how you come across.
Now HOW you come across is key! I detest hard sell, I don't think it works. You need to find the right balance.

THIS IS HOW NOT TO DO IT:



I've read books I've loved and told my friends because I wanted them to enjoy the book too. And sometimes, a book so hits you that you find you are bursting to tell someone. You do this at gatherings, parties--wherever and whenever the situation presents itself.

And you don't just concentrate on your little miracle either, writers! We're all out there competing in a tough market. Put in a good word for another writer whose book you really liked.
Spread the word, increase the good karma and do some good!

Let the books go forth and find new readers to enjoy stories they didn't know were out there!

Friday Flash Fiction: Everlasting

         

          She was young this bride and sad, now for her husband was distant. The spark that had flamed their passion was gone or if not gone it seemed to be dying.

          He had as good as his word taken her to live in his magnificent beach house, a veritable mansion. How she loved it.

          She had always been drawn to the sea and so she often stood beneath the star filled sky, making wishes in the wind.

          Lately she wished alone.

          In the beginning he’d come out too and whisper his feelings to her and then they’d couple there in the great bed with the French doors open and the sea breeze blessing them both and sanctifying their love.

          But then in what seemed a short time her husband grew remote and refused to be with her.

          His mother came soon after.

          “No I will not speak to her there isn’t anything to say…”

          How she cried. For she didn’t know what she had done. “Please,” she begged. “I’ll be different, what is it you want me to do? Just tell me and I shall do it!”

          He’d cry too on those rare occasions he condescended to speak to her. “I’m sorry Alice. It was a mistake we aren’t suited…that is…”

          “You’ve been listening to your mother again. She never liked me, I knew from the first she didn’t!”

          Sometimes he argued and sometimes he didn’t. “I can’t talk now…” 

         “Don’t go. Stay with me please. I love you.”

          Occasionally he would stay, holding her and trying to comfort her. And she’d fall asleep happy but he was never there when she woke.

          Finally she just couldn’t stand it any longer. So she stole out of her room in his beautiful house. Down the passage she tip toed. There at the end of the hall she saw them talking. She waited, when she was certain she would not be seen she slipped silently past the open door to hurry down the stairs and out onto the verandah.

          The water looked inviting. She decided to die, to walk out and let its cold black embrace carry her off to death where she would no longer feel any pain or sorrow.

          “I’m glad…”

          And she was but then as the water began to overwhelm her she found she regretted her action. She wanted to live now.

          She splashed and screamed as she tried not to drown.

          And then suddenly, unbelievably she saw a boat. “Over here!”

          A voice, the kindest of voices called to her telling her to wait.

          “Yes I’ll wait.”

          While she waited, she heard a flute’s soulful notes—sweet notes that floated lightly upon the wind—a refrain so haunting it made her cry.

           And as she wept she began to rise up from the water, ever more until she stood upon the surface of the sea!

          “What am I doing—what--?”

          Her words were cut off, for there on the deck of the boat she saw men and girls dancing to the flute; how slowly and gracefully they did move.

          Before the question formed in her head she had a reply:

          “It is the song of death…played for you!”  The flutist called.

          She nodded, for she wasn’t fearful any longer. Something warm was comforting her and all the fear and sadness was gone.

          “You will be lonely no more, child! He will come soon, he loves you.”

          She nodded at last understanding. For there in the moonlight she could see her destiny, if the dead cross the River Styx, this was her own river of passage.

          “I pass unto death...”

          “No,” the flutist replied. “You are already dead. You are amongst your undead kin and will dance with them forever.”

          Now for the first time she did see they each bore death’s savage mark. For they were rotting corpses: though she was barely one, for her husband had taken her quickly back from her grave.

          And when his mother insisted he return her, he had wished himself dead.

          “He began to die that very day. You heard him because he is close to death…”

          “And he heard me too?”

          “Yes!” the zombies cried. And cry they did. For they were moved by the suffering of others like themselves.

          Soon all their cries became part of the song, a sad song of love and regret as the sound of their crying mingled with the music of the flute.

          He would come to her before too long, and with his mother’s blessing for she would rather have him leave that way than bury him.

          And if some night she would hear the song and watch them dance she would know they go on dancing in death with their love everlasting, unmarked—perfect and whole so unlike themselves.

         (799 words)

 Copyright  © 2011 Carole Gill

Friday Flash Fiction: The Ointment

The Ointment

          Yes, it is I—Eco, the son of a fallen angel and a human mother. Eco, the demon spawn who lives his eternal existence glorying in his damnation. Eco, who was sent by Satan to see him whose birth was prophesized.

          But the babe was just a babe and nothing more. Truly, I was not particularly impressed I have to say, not at first. It was as a man that I was struck by him: by his voice and what he said.

“Pray for those that persecute you!”

Could he mean it I thought. How could he say such a thing? The very logic of it was illogical, was it not?

I was thinking this when he looked at me. His eyes, seeming to go through me, piercing into my flesh in a way no being has ever been able to do.

Our eyes locked onto one another’s and I felt every bit the demon I was. And because I did I hated him and found I wished to destroy him. This hatred festering until it seemed to become its own separate being.

          I became like one obsessed and began following him from place to place being drawn to his words but at the same time hating them because I hated him!

          If I hated him others hated and feared him.

Rome considered him a threat to its power and so he was eventually arrested and tried for having this power or seeming to. That was the truth of it, whatever Pilate postulated.

Pilate, Governor of this hot, dusty troublesome place was Rome’s representative. Pilate who had been sent there for some infraction, Pilate, who would eventually commit suicide was now to move this entire thing to its earthly conclusion.

“Take him away…”

His final words.

I stood amongst supporters and enemies too, all of us witnessing.

And then when they took him away, I ran along and watched it all. There was screaming and shouting. There were onlookers tearing at their clothes and wailing for the Rabbi.

          It seemed to me he had more support than not! That’s when I began to grow fearful. If I felt the slightest bit of satisfaction at the suffering of this, my avowed enemy, I suddenly became aware of an awful truth, a certainty I knew to be a certainty! This Rabbi was going to be remembered! And it was going to be Rome’s fault because they were making a martyr out of him!

          My hand flew to my mouth as I considered the ramifications.

          And then the most amazing thing happened! The Rabbi looked at me! Oh yes he did! He turned around and found me instantly!

If his look had been one of condemnation before it was different now. There was calmness in his eyes. His expression was neither triumphant nor vengeful. If anything it was saintly. It was then that I knew.

          He was the Messiah! He was what they said, God’s son come to earth!

          I gazed Heavenward for a moment, and then I understood everything. No matter how much terror Satan causes or those in league with him cause, they will never defeat Him!

          I left then; I just walked through the deserted market, up past the city gates and onward.

          At last I came upon a man. “Have you seen him?”

          I knew who he meant at once. “Yes. They are taking him to crucify him!”

          The man nodded and hurried away. It was then that I heard Satan’s voice; it was as though he whispered to me. “Judas,” he said. “He is mine now.”

*

          “He died in agony,” Satan said nodding.      

We were sitting in one of his favorite caves just on the outskirts of Jerusalem. He looked very pleased. “I spoke to him in this very cave, you know! I offered him anything he wished. But—he kept talking that nonsense.” He glanced over at me. “But it is all done now, isn’t it?”

          He was so pleased. It didn’t occur to him that he could be wrong. Actually I never regarded Satan as overly bright. Frankly and I don’t mean to sound boastful, I find him to be (at times) a little on the thick side. You see he doesn’t quite get things others do. “I am sorry Satan, but I cannot agree with your pronouncement. I think they have made a martyr of him. I think this is the beginning and not the end!”

          He scowled. “I think you are wrong. I think he is gone now and the only thing left of him will be his rotting corpse. Why would his name be recalled when others have gone before and lie dead and forgotten?”

          I nodded, but said nothing.  I knew what I knew. Satan’s self assuredness would prove as wrong as Rome’s’ intention to suppress it all.

          If Hell burns, its flames are never as bright as Heaven’s light. Truth is truth after all.

          Ah! I have surprised you! Well, it is truth and demon though I am; I know truth when it stares me in the face.

          I knew something else as well. This truth was subjective. I was changed forever. Now for the first time in my existence I had become fully aware of my own limitations. Yes I was immortal but it was the other side that had the power. We could tell ourselves we were powerful but we weren’t and we never would be.

          All we could create were different levels of mischief of varying intensity. Yes, we would terrorize and torture, we would spread evil through willing vessels but in the end we were little more than insects, little more than flies in Heaven’s ointment.

          For Heaven’s ointment has the power to befuddle us always and forever.

*~*~*

           Please note: Eco is one of the characters in 'The House on Blackstone Moor' and is featured in  'Unholy Testament-The Beginnings and Unholy Testament-Full Circle.

           This short story is actually depicted in great depth in Unholy Testament - The Beginnings. Both Books 2 and 3 contain Eco's confessions documenting every sin he committed in the course of his immortal existence. .

The House on Blackstone Moor book 1 

AMAZON
AMAZON UK

Unholy Testament - The Beginnings book 2

AMAZON

AMAZON UK

Unholy Testament - Full Circle, book 3

AMAZON

AMAZON UK

Copyright © Carole Gill 2010

From Novel To SEQUEL?! OMG!!!

You finally squeezed out the novel. You know how it was. 
There was pacing and clock watching, a lot of pain--screaming too. But on a particular day at a certain time you brought into the world! YOU, the exhausted mess that did without sleeping and a social life! YOU!   

Yes, while friends and family clucked their tongues sympathetically AND WERE HAVING A GOOD TIME RELAXING, YOU WERE WORKING.

You showed it off. You burped it. Sat up with it. Kissed it, hugged it. And then you watched it take its first few steps.

And then suddenly you find yourself working on a sequel. Maybe you were going to do another book but somewhow the sequel got organized.

Well, you know there were readers who wanted it, and your publisher thought it would be a  good idea, but even if you self-published you might think its a good idea for the same reason which MEANS YOU WILL COMMITT YOURSELF TO WRITING A SEQUEL.

Now then! You know what you don't want! You do not want a rehash of your book. No way Jose.

In my case I am doing something different. I am being adventurous (help)! I am writing a novel that incorpoates a journal into the main action.

That is the journal is being read by my heroine who is seen to be reacting to what she is reading.
And there is a lot of reacting because the journal happens to be the confession of an immortal being, a demon spawn. It is his testament documenting an eternal life she is reading: a life lived through eons of time! She will read of his experiences in:  Ancient Egypt, Rome, the Dark Ages, the Crusades and the Black Death and more! Well you get the idea!

Know what? Truthfully I'm loving it but it is a huge challenge.

I guess sequels can be done in many ways, they can be actually prequels which I love! I mean what is more interesting than knowing what's gone before especially in a book about supernatural beings?

By the way, I'd love to hear from you if you've written a sequel, are writing a sequel or if you're a reader who adores sequels! That would be great!

Literary Horror! TIME TO MAKE IT MAINSTREAM!

My novel, The House on Blackstone Moor has been described by my publisher and reviewers as literary horror.
One reviewer Author Diane Kristen said:

"As a fan of 19th century British literature and all things gothic, I found, in House of The Blackstone Moor, all the elements I enjoy in a novel and all the elements of a classic. The moods of great works such as Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice, even Dickens (a la Oliver Twist and David Copperfield) surface throughout. Carole Gill presents great narrative, well-drawn characters, and has a marvelous ear for dialogue..."

From her review on Smashwords:.
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/33847

I'm not patting myself on the back here. I'm only quoting this to make a point about literary horror.
Guess what? When I began to write the novel, I did not sit down and say to myself, 'HMMM? I wonder if I can write literary horror?'

No! I just wrote the book that was in me to write. I did feel I was writing from the very depths of my soul, truly i did.

Back to literary horror--there is a place for it. There are people who enjoy reading stories like that. Libraries keep the classics available for people.

But what IF people who enjoyed the classics wanted something darker? Something MUCH darker and filled with horror?

And what IF readers who wouldn't necessarily read a classic took a chance and read something NEW, something written TODAY, NOW--! By me or an author like myself who wished to write LITERARY HORROR but wanted to make it intense, darker than anything that has gone before? What then?

It might work! Think of all the new readers that would come into the genre. They'd be queing up!
Literary gothic horror would have droves of new readers!

People all over the world would be excited! 
Just a thought, but from simple thoughts, revolutions in reading may take place!

Literary Horror is coming to a download/bookstore/library near you: NEW Literary Horror!

Get Fanged Interviewed Me!

An extra blog post to let you know about my latest interview!
Eva Layne of GET FANGED (the social network with BITE) interviewed me!

The questions were really insightful and I hope I answered them well. I surely enjoyed discussing my novel and writing in general.

I think you'll find the interview interesting, you might very possibly find out things you didn't know about me or how I came to write my novel!

Here's a TASTER (get it)?! 

"The plot of your novel, The House on Blackstone Moor, has some features of a Brontë or Austen novel. Was that something you aimed for deliberately? 

Yes! Let me explain. I read that the gothic romance genre was dead. I have always liked it although I think for it to appeal en-masse to today’s reader, it has to change. Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights had darkness in them but I’d like them to be darker still. I want to push the boundaries as far as I can. There are demons, Satan, fallen angels as well as vampires. Yet along with that, there is the gothic narrative and a strong romantic thread as well. It is really a blend of horror and gothic..."

http://getfanged.blogspot.com/2011/05/getfangedcom-interviews-carole-gill.html