Writers are a crazy bunch, and I say that with all the love
in the world. I am one, I have friends who are writers, I stalk enough authors,
in a word, I am dedicated to the trade… Yet we are as crazy as they come and
some of the things we say or do are just way too out there! So this is a
humorous take on the many little things that we say or do that drive our fans
and friends and families and pretty much everyone positively insane.*Insane
in the brain being shouted in the background for a little musical
Yes, we need to share with the world every time we’re at our
keyboards, typing away our stories. Why? Cause we’re sadistic little bastards
who like to keep their readers on edge. They have to know about each and every
phrase and sentence we add to the story they have been waiting for. We’re like
the ultimate teases, keeping people right on the edge, tormenting them for days
and weeks and months on end, but failing to provide the much needed release.
And we wonder why readers growl at us when we post yet another teaser…
“I’m not writing”
Writer’s blocks are just as big of a topic as the times when
we are coming up with new stories. We complain and when all else fails? We
write tips about dealing with writer’s block.We’ve obviously become very good at dealing with it.
Post our visual
Want photos of men and women to drool over? Follow a few
writers. The amount of toe curling images they provide is unmatched. You’ll sob
and swoon and fall in love every five minutes, I tell you.
Dance like a crazy
person when we get good reviews
Nothing like a good review, pouring love and appreciation
and everything cute and cuddly in the universe! The sun shines brighter, birds
singing are no longer waking us up at ungodly hours, they just delight our
ears, everything tastes better… You get the general idea!
At the opposite end are the bad reviews. “Any publicity is
good publicity! Any publicity is good publicity! It’s good, all good, I’m
breathing.Nooooooooooooo! That review
sucks, it’s mean, and unfair, and the reviewer does not get me… Oh, mother of
pain so profound!” Again, you get the picture.
Drink too much
coffee/tea or make huge amounts of chocolate disappear
It’s like our coffee or our tea or our sweets are what
powers our ability to write. Can’t write? Get more coffee! Those edits killing
you? Chocolate helps. We have evolved into these peculiar organisms that turn
their favorite foods or drinks into story lines and characters and conflicts
Get their revenge by
creating characters in your image and killing them off
Yup, that, or worse, making the character in your image the
most hateful one in the whole damn novel! So not only do I hate you, but I get
the whole world to hate you with me! Brilliant, isn’t it? While you read the
story, you know it’s you, and you can’t help but cringe at the world of pain
you’re being put through.
Worst off, you inspire a main character and writers show their
love for you by putting you through even more pain! Does not matter, it’s all
washed away in the end with a happy ending and the knowledge that you made it
out alive. Unless we’re talking George R.R. Martin or someone of similar
convictions and then… everybody dies!
You never, ever want to go through the browsing history of
an author. Ever! Everything from murder and mayhem and weird diseases to giant
beasts, enough legal procedures to make your head spin, to very detailed
encounters of the sexual nature, a whole lot of Tumblr and Pinterest, and
impressive amounts of time spent on Facebook… all that huge mess and
procrastination, all of it is actually research :D
Last but not least, writers do something that I’ve been doing
for the past… oh, almost 700 words! Admit to their crazy, embrace it, love it,
and go forth to victory with it!
About the author
Writer, traveler, and coffee addict, Alina Popescu has been
in love with books all her life. She started writing when she was ten and even
won awards in local competitions. She has always been drawn to sci-fi, fantasy,
and the supernatural realm, and has recently released The Edge of Hope,
the first novel in the Bad Blood Trilogy.
1) Living in
Bucharest, Romania, how much do you know about Romanian Tale of Der Grossman?
honest, I have no real clue about the Slenderman. Before seeing your interview
questions, I didn’t even know it was supposedly a Romanian folk tale. I did not
grow up with it, and I think it’s nothing but an urban legend born outside of
Romania. Why I believe this? Well, Sorina is a pretty modern girl’s name. Some
of our folks tales and fairy tales are a little twisted, granted, but this one
has nothing familiar about it and I honestly couldn’t find any information on
it from Romanian sources.
makes you excited to get out of bed every day?
excited dog? Does that count? Unfortunately, I don’t have time to wake up fully
or think about what’s exciting to me before he drags me outside to play with
his friends. Leaving all jokes aside, I am usually excited about everything,
because I happen to be a morning person and every beginning is wonderful to me.
Yes, I am one of those weird people that love Mondays.
3) Do you
have any rituals you do when you are writing, like listening to music?
music are almost always part of my writing process. I can do without either or
both, but I prefer to have them close by. I don’t need to be in a certain room,
or type on one laptop, or write at a certain time of day. Music and coffee I am
strict about though, but I don’t necessarily need to listen to my own music.
of music do you have a favorite song or band?
No, I don’t.
I have favorite songs and bands and solo artists, but I can’t come up with a
short enough list.
writing projects do you have for the near future?
currently working on book two of Bad Blood and an MM romance project that seems
to be getting most of my attention these days. It’s a fantasy/historical type
of setting, without any real magic or mythical creatures. It does have the
gorgeous, antihero warriors, the scheming and plotting rulers, and a pretty
difficult road to a happy ending for the main characters.
6) When you
are writing a book how much research do on the subject?
on the subject. In some cases I spend a lot of time on research, in others, not
so much. With my vampire trilogy, for example, the research was limited because
vampires have always fascinated me and I knew a lot on myths, literature,
ideas, real life cases… Also, most of the places I described in the book are
destinations I’ve traveled to before.
7) Have you
had any fans that have scared you by the way the act or things they have done?
lunched my debut novel, so I am relatively new at this. Nothing scary so far,
but I have been brought to tears quite a few times by artwork they did, the
support they’ve shown or the reviews they’ve written.
Hi, everyone! I want to
thank Jayson for hosting me!
I want to talk about M/M
and vampires!! Very Hot!
So, I wrote a vampire story
when the market is flooded. Why? Why not, lol. What I tried to do was something
different in this story. One way I did this was to add supernatural/magical
elements to an already varied depiction of vampires and their world.
Carson Locke is a rare Tabula
Rosa vampire. Tabula Rosa is Latin and loosely translates into blank slate.
When he bites another vampire, their mind is wiped clean, erased, creating a reprogrammable,
blank slate, which can take on any personality, including mindless killing
machines. That is why Carson has been sheltered his entire life and hidden
away. In the past, Carson was forced to bite someone he cared for deeply and is
haunted by the terror of that memory.
Commander Lincoln Samuels
is a Sanatore vampire. In Latin (I love Latin if you hadn’t noticed), Sanatore
means healer. Lincoln’s blood has the ability to heal other vampires. However,
there is a possible side effect - Lincoln could bond physically and mentally
with that vampire. In the past, Lincoln bonded with another vampire with near
disastrous results. Now, he must decide if he will save Carson and risk that
And, then, there is the
Salutem vampire...but to get into that would be a spoiler so you will have read
the story to find out about that vampire.
Add in a shaman with
supernatural powers and the ability to predict the future, and a destiny put
into place hundreds of years before Carson was born, and, I hope, this vampire
tale will satisfy the most die-hard fans of the genre.
Carson Locke is a Tabula Rosa vampire—a
dangerous rarity in the world of vampires. With one bite, he can wipe clean a
vampire’s mind, creating a mindless drone. Because of this, Carson has spent
his entire twenty-three years sheltered at home. That changes when his entire
family is murdered. Now on the run and near death, Carson meets Commander
Lincoln Samuels, a beautiful vampire who tries to heal him. In doing so, Carson
is bonded to the vampire and turned into something the vampire world has never
seen. When Carson is poisoned, he believes that someone wants him dead as well,
however there are greater plans for Carson put into motion hundreds of years
before his birth.
Lincoln is a Sanatore vampire with the
ability to heal other vampires. He heads a team in the New Vampire Justice
police force in Utica, NY. Late one night, he is called to a local Vampire
Blood Market where a starving Tabula Rosa vampire is about to be executed by
one of his officers. Feeling a strong connection to Carson, Lincoln wants to
heal the broken man despite knowing the risk in doing so. Healing Carson could
destroy Lincoln and cost him the chance to love again. What Lincoln finds is
that there is a greater evil threatening to take Carson from him.
Can two vampires who have loved and
painfully lost in the past, learn to trust one another, defeat the evil rising
against them, and dare to love forever?
Carson Locke was
starving. Thoughts of veins and warm blood flowing through arteries clouded his
thinking. His stomach had hollowed. His bones protruded and his muscles shook
from weakness. His self-control, held by a fragile thread, stretched to the
breaking point. When it snapped, he’d turn into the monster he’d avoided
becoming for over twenty-three years.
He needed food. He
needed blood. Now.
behind a Dumpster in the dark, the cold wind reached Carson, biting at his thin
skin. Ten days. Ten days since he’d last eaten. Ten days too long for a young
vampire. Ten days since he’d fled his home. Ten days since his mother and
brother and uncle had been slaughtered and he’d run for his life. They were all
dead because of what he was. Choking back a sob, he forced himself to focus on
the back door of the building he’d been watching.
This was his last
chance. If he couldn’t get the blood he needed here, that last thread of
self-control would snap and he’d attack someone. The memory of the last time
he’d been forced to bite—the screaming, the wide, vacant staring eyes, the
nothingness—still haunted him. Carson squeezed his eyes tight and drew in
several deep, steadying breaths. This task was too important to mar with past
horrors he couldn’t rectify.
Two women bundled
against the cold and a large, dark-haired man exited the back door he’d been
staking out. As the women shuffled off to their cars, the man punched numbers
into a keypad, securing the door. Carson clenched his fists as the man pulled
out a cigarette and patted his pockets, no doubt searching for a lighter.
“Just leave,” Carson
said in a pleading whisper.
lit, the man moved toward the parking lot. Carson held his breath as the man
disappeared around the corner. A siren blared in the distance, startling him.
He clenched his teeth, drew air in through his nose and blew it out through his
mouth. The beating of his heart threatened to fill the night air. He was
terrified, but he was more hungry than scared.
Creeping from behind
the Dumpster, Carson pulled his parka up over the lower half of his face.
Jumping up, he grabbed the bottom rung of the fire escape and struggled to pull
His arms shook with
the effort. Sweat broke out on his skin as he managed to get a foot on the
rung. The idea that vampires possessed superhuman strength was a myth, but
damn, he was about as strong as an eight year old. He just had to climb to the
roof, drop through the small window, and get the blood. Then he could worry
about bigger issues.
Carson climbed over
the ledge of the old brick building on shaky legs, propelled by his adrenaline.
Without that extra push, he would have been flat on his face. The night before
he’d been in this same spot on the roof and had jimmied the lock on the old
wood-framed window. Before he could enter, the sound of a door slamming
somewhere had scared him away. Being caught trying to enter the VMB could bring
certain death, but that was better than starving.
Carson sighed in
relief as the window slid open easily. His hands were so cold that he would
have been unable to jimmy the lock again. Feet first, he shimmied into the dark
room. He was on the third floor and unsure what he would find there. During the
three days he’d staked out the building, he hadn’t seen any lights on this
floor. Pulling out a flashlight, he surveyed the empty room and located the
The blood roared in
his ears, and his speeding heart felt as if it would explode as he opened the
door. Of course, the damn thing would
creak. Stepping lightly, Carson walked down a hallway filled with closed doors.
Undisturbed dust covering the floor spoke of the vacant nature of this floor of
the building. Within the corridor, the noises of the surrounding city were
faint, yet still pushed his heart rate faster. In the floor beneath his boots,
the constant hum, like an engine running, vibrated up into his legs. At the end
of the hall was a steel door with a small dark window that he hoped led to the
stairway. The longer he spent wandering, the higher his chances of being found.
Clenching his jaw, he pushed open the heavy door, the cold metal chilling the
sweat on his palms. His light flashed over the edge of a railing. He found
stairs going down to the left. Walking down one flight, he found another door,
but what he needed was on the first floor.
the flashlight flickered. Carson froze. Stopping to shake the light, he could
hear the beating of his overwrought heart in his ears, feel the knot of dread
expand in his gut. Gods, if he had anything in his stomach to throw up, he
would. Right now, he needed the blood that the Vampire Blood Market (VBM)
provided. Carson’s teeth had only sunk into a vein once and the nightmare of
that moment had forever been burned into his memory. Besides, from what he’d
heard, the bite hurt the donor like a bitch. That was mainly the sport of pain
sluts and adrenaline junkies who visited bars where biting was still legal. In
his isolated world of Gifford, NY, blood had always been supplied. Now, he had
to feed himself. Without money, that meant stealing what he needed.
At the bottom of the
stairs, he peered through the small window into the VBM. Walls of illuminated
refrigerated cases held blood in containers similar to milk jugs.
Unfortunately, stealing milk didn’t hold the same consequence as stealing
dangerousness of his mission, Carson grasped the door handle. What he feared
would be locked opened freely. Inside the VBM, the refrigerated cases hummed.
The air was cooler than in the hallway. Carson’s mouth watered and his empty
stomach clenched tight. Rushing to the first case, he pulled open the door. He
grabbed the closest opaque white container and ripped the top off. Just as he
lifted the container with the lifesaving liquid to his lips, the lights came on
and a voice shouted, “Freeze!”
Carson dropped the
container and gasped. His heart pushed into overdrive, his breaths barely
escaped his throat. He gaped at the three men and two women dressed in black
uniforms pointing guns at him. Carson tried to remain still but his feet moved
backward without thought.
“Freeze or we’ll
shoot!” A man with short black hair, who was larger than a truck, leveled a gun
at Carson’s head. The man could end all of Carson’s pain. The fear, the hunger,
the uncertainty, the agony of losing his family. Just charge at the giant—or
slip his hand into his pocket as if he had a gun—and the bullets would do the
rest. But as he ran into the wall behind him, his muscles seized. He was going
to die no matter what he did.
“Down on your knees
and hands on your head!”
Carson went down hard on his knees and rested his hands on his head. His head
swam from hunger, and his legs shook. It was all he could do to remain upright.
Carson closed his eyes and thought of his younger brother, Caden, and his mom.
He just wanted this to be over quick.
“Strip him,” he heard
the gruff voice say.
Carson’s chest locked
up as hands grabbed him. They ripped Carson’s parka over his head and then his
sweater and T-shirt were next. The chill on his skin sent a shudder through his
Please, do it quickly.
Hands held him by his
shoulders and arms, as if at any minute he might resist. There wasn’t an ounce
of resistance left in him, not an ounce of fight. Tears burned his eyes like
acid. Gods, his life had sucked so far. This was the perfect ending.
The large man stepped
forward. Heavy black boots scraped the floor. NVJ in large white letters
crossed his chest. New Vampire Justice.
The vampire equivalent of a SWAT team, there because Carson had been trying to
steal blood, an act punishable by immediate death.
“You have been caught
in the act of stealing blood from a certified Vampire Blood Market, an act
punishable by death by the Vampire Justice Act of 2003. Under the jurisdiction
of the New Vampire Justice code number 456.5, I, an enforcment officer for the
city of Utica, NY, hereby pass the sentence of death. Do you have anything you
wish to say before this judgment is carried out?”
About JC Wallace
JC Wallace started writing from a young age, but took
a break for marriage, kids, and college (in that order). He recently
rediscovered his passion and ventured out into the brave new world of
publishing with his short, Waiting for
Snow, and his first novel, Curiosity
Killed Shaney. At night and on the weekends, JC writes about all things
men, believing there is nothing hotter than two men finding and loving one
another, whether for a night or forever. An avid reader of M/M romance, JC
loves a good twist of a plot, HEA, HFN, or tragic ending. He also writes what
his bestie calls HUNK (Happy Until the Next Kidnapping).
In his daytime hours, JC works with individuals with
autism and behavior problems. He is owned by three kids, one grandchild and one
on the way, two dogs and one cat. He lives in the beautiful Adirondack
Mountains in Northern NY.