I just found out from Otterbein University that the room we will be holding my Reading and Q&A in has been changed. It will now take place in Towers Hall, room 110.  So you don't even have to climb stairs for this. 
The info on the Reading:
For those of you in the Columbus/Westerville area - I am having a book reading and Q&A on February 8th, 4pm at Otterbein University. Towers Hall, room 110. I'd love to see you!

I will be visiting Otterbein University in Westerville, Ohio throughout the day on February 8th. Then at 4pm I will give a short history of my writing and my time at Otterbein, read from my novels and answer questions.

For those of you in the Columbus/Westerville area - I am having a book reading and Q&A on February 8th, 4pm. I'd love to see you!

I will be visiting Otterbein University in Westerville, Ohio throughout the day on February 8th. Then at 4pm I will give a short history of my writing and my time at Otterbein, read from my novels and answer questions.

This reading will be held in the beautifully restored Philomathean Room on the third floor of Otterbein's Towers Hall. It dates back to the 1870s and was used as a meeting place for the Philomathean Literary Society. I remember reading my own writing at Quiz and Quill poetry readings in the 90's when I was a student, so this feels like coming home!

Very excited to say that Beth Cato sent me an excerpt! This excerpt from chapter 1 offers an introduction to geomancy.
 
Whimpers and moans welcomed Ingrid to the junior classroom. Nearest to the door, a dozen boys half sprawled over their desks. A blue mist overlay their skin, and beneath that mist were the sure signs of power sickness—skin flushed by high fever, thick sweat, dull eyes. The rest of the class stared, their expressions ranging from curiosity to horror. Some of them still showed signs of very recent recovery in their bloodshot eyes. None of these boys was older than ten; the youngest was a pudgy-faced eight.
 
"There you are!" The teacher scowled, as if it were Ingrid’s
fault he’d been so inept with his accounting. Biting her lip, she held out the bag. He snatched it from her fingertips.
 
The chalkboard laid out the terminology of the lesson, one
Ingrid had seen taught dozens of times: hyperthermia, hypothermia, and the quick timeline to a geomancer’s death. These young boys experienced the hard lesson of hyperthermia. The last earthquake noticeable by the wardens had taken place
three days before. These students had been directly exposed to the current and hadn’t been allowed access to any kermanite. As a result, they spent the past few days bed-bound in misery as though gripped by influenza.
 
Thank God none of them were as sensitive as Ingrid. Another direct tremor would cause their temperatures to spike even more, and could even lead to death.
 
The teacher adept pressed a piece of kermanite to a boy’s skin. He gasped at the contact. Blue mist eddied over his body, the color evaporating as it was pulled inside the rock.
 
If she could see the kermanite in the adept’s hand, the clear crystal would be filling with a permanent smoky swirl. It took a trained mechanic to rig an electrical current to tap the trapped magic as a battery. When the energy within was exhausted, a crystal turned dull and dark. Once that happened, kermanite became a useless rock.
 
The young boy sat up straighter. "Thank you, sir," he whispered,
voice still ragged. It would take him hours to fully recover.
 
Ingrid looked away, that familiar anger heavy in her chest.
Wardens and boys in training carried kermanite openly from
watch fobs and cuff links, or most any other accessory where
stones could be easily switched out once they were full.
 
She had to be far more subtle. Her kermanite chunks clinked together in her dress pocket. She had to take care not to touch them today, or the energy she held would be siphoned away.
 
Ingrid loved this slight flush of power, because that’s what it was — power. It sizzled just beneath her skin, intoxicated her
with how it prickled at her nerves. Certainly, if she absorbed
any more energy, she’d use the kermanite. She didn’t want to feel sick, though she could hold much more power than these boys, or even the wardens. Mr. Sakaguchi said she took after
Papa — that she stored power like a bank vault, while most
everyone else had the capacity of a private safe.
 
When it came to her natural skill, Ingrid often regarded herself as a rare fantastic or yokai — not like garden ornamentals like the kappas or naiads sold to the stuffed shirts on Market Street — but like the geomantic Hidden Ones Mr. Sakaguchi so loved to research. She was a creature relegated to idle fancy and obscure mythology, and aggravating shoes.

I read a good deal. By that, I mean anywhere from two to five books a week. Most of those books are in the Fantasy genre. With a habit like that, I read and reread books in my collection as well as buying and discovering new authors. Unfortunately, I find that my tastes are not completely mainstream. Nor are they particularly literary. I can't count on either the New York Times bestseller list or reviews in prominent magazines because I'm usually disappointed by books on either (or both).

What do I love? An amazing story that carries me along. Characters, especially female characters, whose skin I can ride around in for a while. A setting that transports me away from where I am actually sitting. I also like a bit of well-written romance, though it isn't a necessity. As my already-read list grows, so does my need for plots and settings that are written with a twist or in a new and original way. I love books whose writing doesn't get in the way of the story. Where, when I've read for a few moments, I no longer see words. I instead see a moving picture in my mind because of seamless writing, fantastic characters and wondrous settings. I want the book that is so much better than a TV show or film that I don't mind missing my bedtime.

Epic Fantasy is my "carry me away" go-to. But Urban Fantasy is a close second. And of course I'll pick up a bit of alternative history or Steampunk if it's amazing. Science Fiction has to be completely character-driven (and I usually only like SciFi when written by a woman) or I read a chapter and set it down. These days there isn't much difference between Young Adult Fantasy and Adult fantasy so I read it all and probably won't notice who it was directed at.

I've decided to start sharing the books I read that I love. Some will be rereads and have been released years or decades, some will be new. Some I will be rereading because another in the series is coming out and I want the world to be fresh. There is a massive influx of books on the market these days - between self-publishing, vanity publishing, regular publishing and publishing I'm too old to know about the market is flooded. I've learned to my chagrin that much of it is really, really bad. Luckily I read quickly and can tell within a chapter if something is worth my time. This is my way of plucking the gems out of the silt I am sifting and presenting them to you as a reader.  I doubt I'll waste my time on the ones I didn't like. I like focusing on the positive and as a writer know that every book is the author's baby. I don't believe my opinion is the defining well of wisdom.I despise many books that other readers adore and vice versa. So why hurt an author just because I wasn't the audience they were directing the book to?

If you find you like some of the books and authors I'm reading, then this may help you decide future purchases. If you find you hate the books I review then find someone who reads what you love and don't bother me about it. I'm really not interested in hearing that you hated something I loved - this blog is mine not yours and I don't need your narcissism. I will delete negative comments and arrogant jerk posts. Because life is too short to respond to trolls - and way too short to read books you don't love unabashedly.

Today I'm thrilled to post a special Blog entry by an amazing writer Bishop O'Connell, whose book The Returned releases today. Enjoy!

We’re all familiar with the term; someone tells you something you love, and probably put a lot of work into, is wretched and worthy only of contempt, and thus, you’re a complete failure. Well, at least that’s what most of us hear, and hopefully for only the first few minutes. But what we should be hearing is that something we love, and probably put a lot of work into, is not the greatest creation of the human animal. That’s good news, stay with me here, because it means there’s room for improvement and a chance to hone our craft. If you’re like me, you might’ve had some similar experiences. I’ve been a storyteller for as long as I can remember. In first grade I started writing short stories, which the teacher would read to the class at story time. This provided my first taste of adulation. It also provided my first taste of how far some people will go to express their dissatisfaction with the quality of your work. Was the lost lunch money worth the praise? Well, I’m still writing, so there’s your answer. I’ve been writing, or making up stories in one form or another, since I was a kid. Learning of the long and proud history the Irish have with storytelling brought me a lot of satisfaction. I’m exceedingly proud of my heritage and storytelling is another way I bond with it. I did some stage acting for a while, which to me is another form of storytelling. In fact, being a performer was once a key part of storytelling. In time, I grew used to people telling me I was good at telling stories and should pursue it. What I didn’t know was that storytelling and writing are two completely distinct things.

When I entered the work force and began my adult life, my book in progress never seemed to get finished. Yes, I was “that guy” for a while, and I sincerely apologize. Most of my problem stemmed from constantly rewriting what I’d already written and making little or no progress forward. I still struggle with this a bit, but I digress. When the manuscript was finished, I felt convinced I had a good story, strong characters, and something worthy of being my introduction to the literary world. No, I didn’t expect to get a letter from the president of a major publishing house asking where I’d been and saying the world was so glad I’d finally arrived. But I thought I’d written something at least as good as what I was finding on bookshelves at the time. Many, many rejection letters later, some of which were less than gentle, I decided to try again. I wrote another book. This one practically wrote itself and I was thrilled with the outcome. I’d bought some books on dialogue, character development, and such, and thought I applied them well. Then I decided to take advantage of making a good living and hired a professional editor to look it over. I knew it wouldn’t be cheap, but I also know that reading through a full book and making notes isn’t something that can be done overnight and, as a professional in a different field, I respect the value of a professional’s time. I chose a respected editing firm, run by one of the authors of perhaps THE book on self-editing, Self-Editing for Fiction Writers. My beloved urban fantasy was eviscerated. Or that’s how it felt. While there was some genuine praise (not that I saw much of it), it was just enough to keep me from jumping off a bridge. I started to wonder why I ever thought I could be a writer. But I’ve always been someone who doesn’t like being beaten down. In fact, I sort of thrive on spite. When someone knocks me down, I’ll get back up just to tell them they can’t keep me down. I think it’s the Irish in me. I took time, looked over the comments, and decided to apply them. I changed some of my beloved characters, which was like amputating my own leg, with a plastic spork, then I removed large pieces of the story and rewrote others. Several rounds of editing later (it took several hits with the two-by-four) the book was something different. The story was still there, but now the writing didn’t get in the way. In fact, it actually improved the story. What a concept!

I learned about repetition; telling something and then saying it again. When you show people what happens, but worry the reader didn’t quite get it so you make sure, or just hammering the same point home again over and over. See what I did there? I will say when I saw, for the tenth time or so, my editor commenting “Repetition, don’t treat the readers like idiots.” I had a good laugh. He’s skilled at his craft, but apparently didn’t recognize, or appreciate, the poetry of that. Or perhaps he did and was laughing his ass off as he wrote it.

I also learned about having good subtext (and trusting your reader to pick it up), the concept of exposition (when to reveal something and just how much of it to reveal), and about all of the other common problems most first time writers fall into, and trust me, we do.

Mostly though, I learned you can’t write in a vacuum. You have to have someone else look at your work, and if you can afford to hire a professional, do it. When we write, most of us make all kinds of typos, miss entire words, or have sentences that start one way and finish another. We can catch some of these on our own, but we’ll read the sentence with the missing word and our brains will fill it in, so we’ll never see that it’s missing. You need someone who isn’t in the trenches, and isn’t emotionally vested in your story as it is, to look at from above and get the whole picture. A published author, I can’t overstate what a benefit it is to have a professional editor looking over my work.

But the hardest thing I learned was when I received comments, from friends or editors, was to read the comments, and then walk away. You need to get yourself away from the story and criticism. Get angry if you want. Swear, stomp, beat on a punching bag for a while. Whatever you need. Maybe even write a scathing reply then, and this is very important, DELETE IT. Once you’ve calmed down, go back and read the comments again. When you feel your emotions building up, rinse and repeat. When you can really listen to what you’re being told, consider why the person thinks that. Now, they could well be wrong. Even after four books, there are times I just plain disagree with the editor and kept things the way I want, or I go in a different direction entirely. If you have a friend doing this for you, be grateful, especially if he or she gives you more constructive feedback than “I liked it,” or “it’s good.” If you managed to find a good editor, and be sure to do your research, remember that this is someone who’s professional and knowledgeable; likely they have a degree, or plenty of experience, and likely both. Also remember, you’re paying for his or her advice! No point in paying if you’re going to ignore it all because the editor doesn’t suggest you’re the next J.K. Rowling or Stephen King. There should be examples in the comments of what you’re doing right. If there aren’t, don’t assume everything you’re doing is wrong, ask. But keep in mind an editor isn’t paid to blow sunshine up your backside. His or her job is to help you make your book/short story/novella/screenplay/poem/manifesto the best it can possibly be. An important lesson I’ve learned over the years is that different editors have different opinions, so don’t be surprised if you work with two different editors and they contradict each other. The literary world is capricious at best. It’s not just enough to have a good story that’ll sell. You have to get said story in front of someone who recognizes it as such, and do it when that person is open to seeing it.

When I first wrote this piece, I hadn’t yet landed my publishing deal from Harper. It’s now two years and four books later, and this piece still holds true. Over the course of my writing career, both and pre and post publication, I’ve learned some hard lessons. Some of those were costly; sometimes in ego, sometimes in cash, and sometimes both. Before getting my publishing deal I received more rejection notices that I care to think about, both with and without reviewing the manuscript. But I kept writing because I had to, for me. This is still the case. The Returned marks the end of my current contract with Harper and I’m going through the familiar panic of wondering if I’ll get another. But I keep writing, and I’ll keep writing no matter what happens. Just as before I knew that one day I’d get published and see my book on shelves—this was a great day—I know now that I’ll get another publishing deal, and one day I’ll make a living on my writing. I know this not just because I’m published now, but because of what I knew before that happened: No one has ever succeeded who gave up. The people who succeeded say you can too, the people who gave up say you can’t. As one of those who made it, let me add my voice to the chorus. You can do it too.
Who are you going to listen to? Me, I was, and still am, too spiteful and stubborn to give up.

Bishop O'Connell is the author of the American Faerie Tale series, a consultant, writer, blogger, and lover of kilts and beer, as well as a member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America. Born in Naples Italy while his father was stationed in Sardinia, Bishop grew up in San Diego, CA where he fell in love with the ocean and fish tacos. After wandering the country for work and school (absolutely not because he was in hiding from mind controlling bunnies), he settled Richmond VA, where he writes, collects swords, revels in his immortality as a critically acclaimed "visionary" of the urban fantasy genre, and is regularly chastised for making up things for his bio. He can also be found online at A Quiet Pint (aquietpint.com), where he muses philosophical on life, the universe, and everything, as well as various aspects of writing and the road to getting published.

Blog –  https://aquietpint.com/
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/AuthorBishopOConnell
Twitter - https://twitter.com/BishopMOConnell
Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/bishopmoconnell/
Amazon Author Page - http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00L74LE4Y
 
The Returned ebook:
HarperCollins
Amazon
Barnes & Noble

On Wednesday, June 22nd at 3pm Eastern and 9pm Eastern, 18 Voyager authors (including me!) will be answering questions on Twitter under the #SFFchat hashtag. Each chat will last an hour. We're also doing a massive giveaway of Voyager e-books and print books, which you can enter using the widget below. All are welcome! Please join us if you want to talk about SF/F and maybe win some free books.
If you're an author seeking representation or publication, we hope you'll also join the #SFFpit Twitter pitching event on Thursday, June 23rd.
BONUS: And the Voyager authors have started a Facebook group just for SFF fans called SFF Junkies. It's a new place to hang out and talk SFF books or even writing. You can find it in the rafflecopter or use this link.

Enter the Giveaway:

I love when I can spread awesome writing to people I know. I have fallen love with Beth Cato's writing, along with many other people. Her Clockwork Dagger novel was nominated for a Locus Award last year, and this year her novella Wings of Sorrow and Bone is up for a Nebula award. So I jumped when she said she had an excerpt of her newest novella, set to release Tuesday April 26th, if anyone wanted to post it.  Yes! A sneak peek at her newest work! If you haven't read her novels - do so! But buy this little gem as well. Beth is also an incredible cook and her blog Bready or Not is worth following for the delicious recipes as well as great writing advice!

Captain Hue hoped he was rid of his troubles once Octavia Leander and Alonzo Garrett disembarked from his airship Argus. But he was quickly proved wrong when his ship was commandeered by Caskentian soldiers. He is ordered on a covert and deadly mission by the smarmy Julius Corrado, an elite Clockwork Dagger.
 
Now Captain Hue must start a mutiny to regain control of his airship, which means putting his entire crew at risk—including his teenage son Sheridan. As the weather worsens and time runs out, it’ll take incredible bravery to bring the Argus down… perhaps for good.
 
An excerpt of the very beginning of the story:
 
I stood at the rudder wheel of my airship Argus, in command of a ship I did not truly control. We flew north, destination unknown. A soldier stood several feet behind me. His pistols remained holstered—he wasn’t daft enough or desperate enough to fire a weapon in the control cabin of an operating airship—but he had already proven adept with his fists. My co-pilot, Ramsay, was currently getting patched up, as the sarcastic commentary he had offered was not kindly received.
 
Throughout the cabin, tension prickled beneath the surface like an invisible rash we couldn’t scratch. Everyone stood or sat rigid at their posts, gazes flickering between their gauges, the windows, and the soldiers in our midst. These were soldiers of our own kingdom of Caskentia, in green uniforms as vibrant as the sprawling valley below. They had occupied the Argus since that morning.
 
This was the second time in as many weeks that my airship had been commandeered. The previous time, rebellious settlers from the Waste had claimed it by force. I rather preferred them. Wasters made for an easy enemy after fifty years of intermittent warfare. This occupation by our own government was ugly in a different way.
 
My fists gripped the wheel as if I could leave impressions in the slick copper. The futility of our situation infuriated me. I couldn’t stop the Wasters before. And now I couldn’t stop this, whatever this mysterious errand was.
 
My son, Sheridan, was on board somewhere. I needed him to be safe, not snared in any more political drama. The Wasters had used him as a hostage to force my hand; I didn’t want these soldiers to do the same.
 
“Captain Hue, sir.” My co-pilot saluted as he entered the control cabin. I assessed him in a glance. Bandages plugged his swollen nose. Blood still thickened his thin brown moustache.
 
“You are well enough to resume your duties?” I asked.
 
“Yes, sir. I’ve felt worse after a night of leave.”
 
Ramsay knew his job; if only he could control his fool lips. I stepped back to grant him control of the rudder and leaned by his ear. “Corrado said this would be over in days. Bear through.”
 
I saw my own frustration mirrored in his eyes, and in the other crew as I walked from station to station. I muttered what assurance I could and exited the control cabin. I needed to find my boy.

Like the start of the story? Read the whole thing for just 99-cents--and that includes the first chapter of Beth's novel out in August, Breath of Earth!
 
Amazon: http://amzn.to/24d40yd
Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-final-flight-beth-cato/1123178823

Beth Cato is the author of the Clockwork Dagger steampunk fantasy series from Harper Voyager, which includes her Nebula-nominated novella WINGS OF SORROW AND BONE. Her short fiction is in Clockwork Phoenix 5, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and Daily Science Fiction. She’s a Hanford, California native transplanted to the Arizona desert, where she lives with her husband, son, and requisite cat. Follow her at BethCato.com and on Twitter at @BethCato.