RFW: Wedding Writing Prompt

Don't forget the huge competition celebrating the release of DOGNAPPED? 

is still running. 

It closes 7th July. For details and entry, visit:  

WIN A KINDLE FIRE AND AMAZON GIFT CARD

And from the 23rd to 25th June, DOGNAPPED? is FREE!

Romantic Friday Writers have a great writing prompt for June, and that's a wedding!  Go over and sign up, write yourself a short story or scene that includes a wedding theme - will your bride wear white?

I Do...Do You?

It’s embarrassing for me when you say goodbye and I don’t leave. My linger becomes uncomfortable for us both. So, I think, my dearest, that you should stop saying goodbye.

No, don’t speak. Keep this moment suspended, I hope forever. I know I’ve said it before, many times, too many to recall. But I’m here with you where I always want to be.

My sweet, beautiful love, oh there, I’ve said it first. Love. I thought I’d be afraid once the promise slipped my lips. I’m not you know. It feels right. Love. A truth that passes between us.

I’ve declared what we both already knew. There are no questions left. This must be done. Tell her. It really is the kindest thing to do.

The crease of your brow betrays your worry. Bad timing. I know. She’s somewhere right now sliding into that ridiculous white gown. She’ll be devastated. Calm your concerns my darling one. When she sees what must be she’ll forgive us. And she will see, for neither of us could conceal our feelings anymore, we glow with our love, our future intertwined reads like a happy neon sign upon our smiles. She’ll be happy for us, and it will free her. You could never care for her the way you care for me.

Tomorrow will be too late, so I won’t go. Don’t say goodbye, I’ll never leave. Don’t say 'goodbye', or 'get out' or 'I have a restraining order'. Those are just words.

Your denial cuts me. It slices through my soul, a ribbon on its handle. My pain gushes from the wound. How can you pretend to be unaware of our connection?

I see I’ve hurt you too my love. There’s shock in your eyes, they reflect the red of my open wrists, the stain of our destiny. It’s not too late. And you, my handsome groom, can join me. My sister may have the white taffeta dress, but I’ll have you. My blade of truth punctures your sweet throat and now your love finally flows and mingles with mine. As we crumble, our vows spread into a glossy red heart, framing us, this will be our wedding portrait.

365 words

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Writing for Challanges - RFW - and Win a Kindle!

A great way to keep your writing skills sharp is to challenge your writing. Romantic Friday Writers provide great prompts each month. This month the challenge was to tell a story in letters. I've had a go with a 'love' story (okay, I'm yet to successfully write a romantic story) using blog posts:

Smash the Rules! Darren's Blog

Posted Jan 21, 2012

Wassup dudes!!!

It’s official. Dead Lizards have disbanded!!! Josh reckons he’ll be this big star on his own now just 'cause he made the cut for 'Teens got Talent'. That show sucks big-time, I’m glad I didn’t get it—the judges were so full of themselves.

Anyway, I’m still jamming, banging away my beats. Need a new kit, but the olds reckon I can make do with these old drums. They keep naggin’ me to get a job. As if. It’s bad enough Jenny has to work so many extra shifts lately—we hardly see each other! Need that dosh though for when we move in together. So it’s all good.

Keep Rockin’ dudes!

Posted July 12, 2012

Haven’t posted for a while. Yeah, a bit of a hiatus. Last time I blogged was January. Wow. You guys still out there? No? Dust-bunnies? Reading my last post blows my mind. Everything was so much better then. 

Now it’s dark times my friends, dark times.

Jenny bailed. Kept saying she was too busy to come around. Her Mum told me what was going on 'cause I kept ringing and, get this, Jen wasn’t even living there anymore! She’s shacked up with Scott! Now he’s a freakin' finalist for that crap show. I swear it’s rigged. No way are people voting for him.

If you’re reading this Jen, I’m all changed. Not touching the weed and I’m looking for a job—just like you wanted. Inbox me. We need to talk girl. Shit’s no good without you.

Posted August 20, 2012

Still no job. Interviews suck anyway. One dude actually told me I have a 'bad attitude'. They can get stuffed.

No Jen. I called her mobile a million times. Eventually freakin’ Scott answers and threatens to bash my head in if I don’t 'leave her alone'. Left her a few ripe messages letting her know I hate her anyway and what I’d do if I saw her. She’s such a bitch, she got the cops on me and now there’s a 'restraining order'. My olds went ballistic.

Posted November 24, 2012

The olds threw me out!

They found my stash and said it was 'the last straw', whatever that freakin' means. They reckon they’re sick of me sleeping in every day and lying about the drugs. Well, derrr! Of course I take drugs, I’m bloody depressed ain’t I?!!!

Anyway, my phone’s out of credit, so I’m posting from the library. Who ever thought I’d step inside one of these?

Got no digs for tonight, but it’s all cool. Got a plan.

Going out in a blaze of glory! Blaze of freakin’ glory.

Look out Jen, might stop by your new place on my way out. Show you what I think of your f*%#ing restraining order!

Gotta go, the stuck up bitch librarian keeps giving me the evil eye.

If there’s anyone left in the blogasphere reading this, how about taking part in my new poll? Most votes decide.

You think Darren should:

A. Tell them all to get f*%#ed

B. Smash Scott in the nose

C. Blaze of Glory

Thanks for popping by today. Don't forget to enter the competition to win a KINDLE FIRE just by blogging or downloading my new book, Dognapped? A Dog Show Detective Mystery. To find out more, check out the post: Win a Kindle Fire!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Choosing Your Detective

Romantic Friday Writers provide an interesting writing prompt every month. I try to join in when I can because it's fantastic practice and allows you to get feedback on your stories. This month I was extra-excited because the prompt is:

I love crime novels, especially mysteries. On the Romantic Friday Writers' site, I posted an article about the need for a strong motive in mystery stories. Another essential element is a great detective. Who will solve your crime? Will it be the:

• world-weary detective who's seen it all before;
• young enthusiastic copper, who makes too many mistakes;
• suspended police officer working outside the law;
• criminal only slightly more moral than the perpetrator;
• old lady playing amateur detective; or
• a child or other innocent, now exposed to the harsh truth of life and death?

I've been consuming a lot of kids' mysteries lately and here are some of my favourite child detectives:

Miranda from When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead. Beautiful story about friendship. Read a review from 11yr old Milly at Paper Dolls.

Phyllis from Phyllis Wong and the Forgotten Secrets of Mr Okyto. Reviewed at Paper Dolls.

The Masked Avenger in The Amber Amulet by Craig Silvey.

Here is my flash fiction for the prompt Driven to Murder (if you're motivated, feel free to critique for improvement):

Grisly Business

'Think it’s too late Sergeant?' Officer Sarah Camden hurried to catch up as Sergeant John Hart trudged across the gravel parking lot.

He looked up from his extended sigh. 'Too late for what?'

'For the woman sir. I mean, if someone grabbed her between here and the tavern then it was an opportunity attack—not likely they’re keeping her somewhere.'

'Yes, I’d say it’s too late for Donna Locke.'

'Think we’ll turn up something on the CTV cameras?'

'Nah.' John clicked the button on his keyring and the Commodore’s lights flashed once. With his hand on the door he added, 'What we’ll find Camden is that Donna Locke did indeed walk home alone at 2:15am this morning after her friend’s hen’s night and that her walk was relatively uneventful.' He got into the car and shut the door.

Sarah rushed around to her door and scrambled in.

'You don’t think she’s really missing?'

'Oh she’s missing to some, her friends, colleagues, and her children. She’s missing to them.'

'Think she’s pulling a Fairly Arrow Sir?' Referring to the hack pop singer who’d faked her own abduction in the nineties, hoping to gain celebrity status on her 'miraculous' return.

John grunted as he fastened his seatbelt and adjusted the rear-vision mirror. 'That’d be the best outcome. But no, she didn’t strike me as the type.'

Sarah pondered this for a few moments and slapped her knee. 'A lover! Donna Locke met up with a lover and chances are she doesn’t know there’s a search on for her.'

'Hmm, maybe.' John checked over his shoulder and the car rolled out of the lot.

'What? That’s logical.'

'Yeah, except she made no calls. How would this fellow know where to meet her?'

'She jumped in a cab?'

'I’ve got Johnson on that now, don’t reckon it’ll turn anything up. Hope I’m wrong.'

'So if she didn’t get grabbed or take off, why didn’t she make it home?'

John indicated and merged into the traffic. 'That’s just it Camden, experience has developed my gut feeling, and my highly-trained intestines are telling me she did make it home.'

'Then why… the husband?'

'Usually is.'

'You think he killed his wife, dumped the body, then reported her missing?'

John sighed again. Thirty years with Robyn, they’d had a lot of rough ones. Even now there was no knowing if things could be repaired. Still, the act of murdering your spouse? It was just so… final.

'But Sergeant, why’re we putting out a media release to find Donna Locke?'

'Two reasons, I’m hoping to pick up an eye-witness who places Donna entering her apartment around 2:30am, and, because I don’t want Damien Locke to suspect we’re onto him. There’s evidence in that apartment and as long as Locke thinks he’s in the clear, the better the chance he’ll slip up.'

A horn blasted, and a silver Audi zipped around them. Sarah glanced at the speedometer, as usual the Sergeant was driving ten kilometres under the speed limit.

'Sir?'

'Hmm?'

'You think he did it because of the affair?'

John raised an eyebrow at the girl.

'I mean… if there was an affair.'

He shrugged. 'Jealousy or money are the most common motives, although money usually wins out.'

Sarah opened her mouth to speak again a few times, but the deep furrows across his forehead and the weariness in his eyes stopped her. 

They pulled into the station car park.

'Grisly business Sir.'

'It always is.'

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10 Tips for Writing Fan Fiction or Granny Weatherwax in 'No Game of Chance'.

Romantic Friday Writers have hosted another great writing prompt. To write up to 1,000 words of fan fiction into a romantic scene. I'm always suggesting writers try genres outside their comfort level. I'm not strong with the romantic scenes (and you'll discover that hasn't changed yet) and I've never written fan-fiction, so I figured the exercise would test me. 

What are the rules of writing fan fiction? Here's a few:

1. Remember the characters have already existed elsewhere. You can put them into a new situation or setting, but you can't change their past (unless you introduce a Doctor and TARDIS, then you probably can).
2. Know the voice of your character. Don't try writing about a famous character you've never read or studied. Learn them. Become an expert. Fans will know if Ron Weasley speaks out of character.
3. Study your setting. Not just the layout, but the feel, the mood of the setting.
4. Try to keep to the writing style. You don't have to exactly keep the genre (although fans will appreciate it if you do) but don't do a serious drama based on characters from a comedy. That's not the type of fiction the fans are after.
5. Add a little something. Despite what I said in number 4, you should add a little touch of your own style to the piece. Otherwise readers may as well just stick with the original text.
6. Share! There will be fans who will get a lot of entertainment from reading their favourite characters.
7. Toughen your skin. Die-hard fans may love your work, but some may hate it because you've dared to toy with their beloved characters. Don't take it personally. It really is them, not you.
8. Cite the original work. Be open and let people know who you stole your characters from. Don't take credit for someone else's work, otherwise it's not fan-fiction, but a sneaky form of plagiarism. Some people like to use a disclaimer (there's some debate over wether this is helpful or not). You can find an example here: http://www.ehow.com/how_8532096_write-disclaimer-fan-fiction.html
9. If it's erotic fan-fiction, warn the reader. And if you're taking characters from a children's novel for erotic fiction, be very very careful. You may spark anger from the original author (or their lawyers). Parody is legal, but it could still be a pain.
10. Have fun! Fan-ficiton is for enjoyment. Don't try to live up to the original author, or prove yourself better, just have some fun while you strengthen your writing skills. I had a real laugh writing my scene between Granny Weatherwax and Death.

If you've still a moment and want a giggle on me, here is my fan-fiction based on characters from Terry Pratchett's Discworld series. 

Disclaimer: I do not own Discworld or any of the characters in this story. They are owned by Terry Pratchett. It's hard to believe any mortal could own Granny Weatherwax, but I believe her and Sir Pratchett have an understanding. This story was written for my own perverse fun and I shall not profit from it in any way (a little like my own writing then).

The prompt was to be a romance scene between famous lovers, but I may have wandered off from that idea, not sooo romantic, but hey, there is the suggestion of almost nudity. Shudder.

If you're one of those poor people who've never read Terry Pratchett, but you're curious, these are the characters I nicked, um borrowed, okay nicked, from Pratchett (click on them to see their Wikipedia page):

Nanny Ogg

Granny Weatherwax

Death

No Game of Chance

'New wrap?' Nanny Ogg ogled the soft black fabric replacing the worn battered coat usually draped about Granny Weatherwax’s shoulders.

'No it ate’nt.'

'Now you mention it, I do remember you wearing it once or twice before.' 

'No you don’t, you remember me wearing it many times before.'

'Uh huh.' Nanny Ogg nodded, but when Granny turned she leaned in with a pair of shears drawn from her knickers (where she keeps everything she needs) and snipped off a price tag dangling down Granny’s bony back. Always better not to argue with Granny, or you’d likely find yourself wanderin' the forest void of memory, or craving shell-fish even though you’re allergic, or… well, it was just best not to.

Granny paused at the door. Just a moment, but long enough to show a mix of smugness, sadness and nostalgia in the crinkling of her eyes. Strange combination, but Granny was the oldest witch to ever live, and she’d plenty of time to master these unusual amalgamations, like her infamous 'mischievous-amusement, gleeful-hunger mingled with disappointing resolve to kill you' gaze.

Then her knobby hand turned the… knob and she was off. At this time of night? Granny claimed to be a traditional witch, but she couldn’t abide late nights. Nanny Ogg peered up at the grandfather clock (who’d once been a young wizard). Its hands inched close to twelve. They wobbled with fear, because although Granny insisted it be set to gong at midnight, it would infuriate her if it woke her. Only wood and mechanics now, still, the clock retained enough memory to fear aggravating the old crone.

'She looks like she’s got a date with destiny,’ Nanny Ogg confided to the trembling clock.

'Oh I wouldn’t call 'im that,' Granny Weatherwax mused as she approached the old barn up the hill from the cottage. There was no point questioning how Granny could hear a mumble from the other side of the property and yet not respond to the calling of her name up close. Sometimes whispers were just louder than everyday talk. Like his whispers. Oh she knew he was coming and she knew what he wanted.

Granny lit every lamp until they flickered brilliantly. Good. Strong lighting was very important for this rendezvous.

She sat at the small fold-up table and smoothed her hand over the iron-hard grey bun. Not a hair out of place (it wouldn’t dare). She pinched her cheeks and the last few surviving capillaries cracked.

I may not 'ave the curves and complexion of a young woman, but I’ve me own allure. She was wrong. There were curves. Just not in the right direction.

She didn’t hear his arrival, but felt it.

'Esmerelda Weatherwax?' A deep voice resonated through Granny’s bones.

She didn’t turn. Wasn’t quite ready to gaze into that face. She knew what she would see, or wouldn’t see.

'Call me Granny, or Esme if you must.'

'Uh, alright, Granny Weatherwax?' but the theatrical air of impending doom was lost on the second attempt.

'You’re late.'

'It’s been a busy night.' His voice echoed everywhere and nowhere.

'Ave a seat.' Granny waved to the chair opposite.

'We should be going—'

'Come on, said yerself you’ve had a busy night, rest a little.’

'I… uh… thank you.' Death smoothed his robes and sat. 'Now Granny, you’ve had a long life, don’t you think it’s time you came along… peacefully?'

'No. I don’t.' She wiggled a gnarly finger at the place where his face should be. 'You’ve been around longer, I reckon you know the world needs people like me. I’ve still got a lot to do.'

Death sighed. 'I don’t make the rules Granny—'

'No but you can bloody well break 'em.'

The elderly were always the hardest, they could be so stubborn. 'I can offer you a challenge, that’s the best I can do.'

'I know.'

'It’s not really a chance, I never lose.'

'I pick the game?'

'Yes.'

'Good.' Granny reached into her carpet bag, pulled out a deck of cards and started shuffling. The cards flipped and arched through the air then were skillfully dispersed.

'Poker Granny?'

'Strip poker.' She winked.

He shuddered.

Just as the sun began to push pink and orange through the sky, Nanny Ogg knocked on Granny’s door. No answer. She went in. Granny wasn’t there. She stepped out again  and peered up and down the lane. Nothing. She turned her gaze up the hill to the old barn. Nothing. Wait. The door was open and there was a flicker of lanterns in the dim morning light.

Nanny Ogg hitched up her skirt and hopped from foot to foot through the long grass in a straight line for the barn. Just as she arrived huffing, a figure emerged. Or didn’t. Or he did emerge, but he wasn’t there. He most definitely wasn’t there and he was grasping his bundled black robes. He looked guiltily at Nanny Ogg, or didn’t, and hurried on his way.

Nanny stepped into the brightly lit barn just in time to see Granny doing up the clasp of her brassiere. 

'Don’t you knock?'

'Um, sorry Granny, it’s only, was that Death leaving just now?

Granny chuckled. 'Yep, don’t think he’ll be back for a while.'

'He come for you?'

'Tried to, but I bested him.'

Nanny Ogg helped Granny into her wrap—it was still brisk out. 'But how? Death can’t be beat at any game.'

Granny wore a smile combining knowing, victory and gas. 'Yep. But he didn’t want to win this one.'

Nanny Ogg saw Granny snatch up the cards and it all came together. 'Ooh, you’re a sinful old hag Granny.'

'I still ate’nt dead.' And Granny winked.

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Art Prompts Fiction - Romantic Friday Writers

Is it just me, or do his eyes follow you around the room?

My writers group (Vannguard Writers) took an excursion to Queensland Art Gallery. Ok, so the art gallery is right next door to the State Library where we have our writing sessions, so it wasn't a big excursion, but still it was a nice change in routine.

Denise Covey, friend and fellow Vannguard writer, hosted this arty session with some creative writing exercises using the artworks as prompts (you can read more about this excursion on Denise's blog). One of the exercises was to imagine yourself as a character in the painting, or put yourself as an extra character into the scene. I flipped this around and took my character out of the painting... literally.

Getting yourself out and about, using prompts to inspire can freshen up your writing, and new layers and textures. Maybe you could visit a museum and write about the interesting items or times, or, a restaurant and write about the smells, tastes and atmosphere.

This week Romantic Friday Writers are hosting a horror blog challenge, and I decided my response to our art exercise would fit in nicely. So if you're up for a bit of afternoon horror, here's my take on the requirement of a scary tale with a touch of romance... (1,000 words - FCA as always, I welcome critique and am not at all sensitive to feedback)

John Opie's Portrait

Christina tugged at the chrome armchair. It was heavy, but with some focused grunts she managed to pull it across the large glass doors. She sighed. Her arms burned, but she couldn’t stop now. She’d have to make sure he couldn’t push those doors open. Exhausted but determined she manoeuvred all six armchairs shoved up against each other.

Feeling safely hidden for the moment she allowed herself the luxury of sinking down to the floor. He would come for her, she could only pray the doors would hold. Outside she heard the wailing of mechanical monsters. So many inventions in this world! Like the voices. When she’d found that poor man in the darkened corridor crumpled in a pile, his uniform patch announcing Chubb Security, Christina had bent to see if she could help him. Too late, she knew as soon as she saw his life spread  to form a dark stain. She’d spun to run, but heard them. The voices. Looking back she thought they came from the dead man. Crackling demons taunting. But there was a box by his side and someone called Doug was checking in on Larry. She didn’t know what checking in involved, but she knew a worried voice when she heard it. She called to the voice, begged him to come, to send help. She warned him the devil himself was loose. 

The only response was a repeat for Larry to check in. She could hear him but some dark magic kept him from hearing her. Maybe help would come in time? She’d didn’t think so. Each time she was pulled from the dark into a newer version of her world, he’d come for her. That was all she could remember. Everything else was hazy. There was only him, his need for her.  And John! It was coming back now. John had warned her, tried to save her each time. Did he succeed? She didn’t think so. If he had, all their souls would be at rest. Instead she kept being ripped from that horrid painting. 

It was always the same and yet Christine could not conjure a clear memory of how the events would run.

She looked around the room only dimly lit from outside. The walls were adorned in many paintings and small round tables displaying pottery and china under glass boxes. She pulled herself up and moved about the room, treading softly so as not to make a sound. She squinted at the plaque by the door, there was just enough light from the hall to read Brisbane State Art Gallery. She knew not of Brisbane. The last time she emerged from the painting she was still in London. The painting had been shipped to this new location. And those foolish teenagers had obviously known the legend and snuck in here on this ungodly night to conjure their own dark magic. But to summon him? Surely the stories of his violence and taste for blood had survived the hundreds of years since the fire. John had made sure the world knew about the Count, the monster he really was. 

But the girl, maybe sixteen with witches eyes and sharp metal swords and rings pierced all over her face, had thought she was resurrecting a lost love. The love between Christina and the Count. It may have started that way, but John Opie came riding his carriage into town, armed with scientific equipment, little pins wobbling along measuring unknown entities and vials of hissing and foaming liquids. He’d been tracking the Count for years. He claimed the charismatic man was actually a demon sent from the depths of hell to devour human souls. Christine had laughed off the claims about her husband. But girls started to disappear. One by one. All of Christine’s servant girls. The Count in turn accused Mr Opie. 

The Newspaper clippings had convinced her. One for each of the places the Count had lived and visited. Missing girls. It was true.

Fire is the only way to return a demon to hell. Christine slipped from her husband’s bed and burned their home down. She would have made her way out too, out to her beloved John. But her husband awakened with a vigour and caught hold of her.

‘Then we die together,’ he’d snarled. And they had. As the flickering heat enveloped the room she saw their wedding portrait remained unharmed. Mocking her through the the flames. 

The teenagers had frightened her with their chants, but she was more terrified when she turned to see the Count smiling beside her. She’d screamed and run.

In the darkened art gallery she’d stumbled about until she’d come full circle. There were the teens. Dead in a heap. She ran on. The man with the Chubb badge stretched across the floor. The sound of the Count calling to her.

‘Christine, my love, wait!’ He appeared, arms stretched to reach her. She spun to the right and ducked down a corridor. Now she hid in the darkened room alone. Or was she? A shadow moved in the corner. She wanted to scream but was too weary with fear.

The silhouette stepped forward until the moonlight through the window revealed his face.

‘John!’ She leapt into his arms.

‘Christine, you bought me back,’ he smiled down at her.

‘I’m so sorry, I tried to come to you, but he held me back, I… I couldn’t get out.’

‘Shhh, it’s okay now. I was there too. I came for you.’

Christine stepped back. ‘But you couldn’t have. I sent the servants home and locked every door.’

‘You remember how this goes?’ John smiled.

‘I don’t understand, I’m confused…’

‘Christine!’ The Count banged on the glass doors.

She gasped and leaned into John’s strong protective arms. 

‘Christine!’ The Count yelled, ‘It was him, he’s the monster, run Christine!’

Christine spun to look up at John, but his face had changed, his teeth exposed, long and pointed. She tried to run, but it was too late.

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Why, How and Where of Social Media

This week I was honoured to be invited to speak at a Strathpine Library to a writers group on the topic of social media. It was a fun night and the group was very welcoming and participated enthusiastically.

Here are some of the points we covered:

Why use social media?

1. Connect with your peers - Writers share a supportive and encouraging community. You'll find other writers who are learning the craft and willing to share their findings as well as professional authors offering tips and advice online. My online writing buddies have helped me by sharing links, bringing competitions to my attention, guiding my marketing plans, and making recommendations for service providers.
2. Keep up with industry news - You can follow agents, publishers and other industry experts to learn of opportunities and guidelines for submissions.
3. Reach an audience. Readers use social media too and they love making a personal connection with the authors they read. Social media is a great way to make readers aware of your books.

Marketing yourself:

1. Be consistent. Most writers will spread themselves over more than one social platform. Have one suitable profile picture, preferably of yourself and not your dog/cat/kids/favourite cartoon character. When people connect with you, they want to feel it's really you. Using the same profile pic on all platforms means follower won't be confused by your identity. 
2. Entertain, educate or engage. This is the only reason you post. If you can be humorous, go ahead, share a joke (appropriate to your target audience). Followers will also appreciate tips and advice. Plus don't forget to respond to other people's posts, make a connection.
3. Some people believe you must follow everyone who follows you. I feel you should follow the people who's posts interest you, don't worry if they follow you back.
4. Stand by your own standards and ethics, don't criticise other peoples decisions online. For example, there's a lot of criticism about certain authors paying for reviews lately. I choose not to pay for review, but those authors who do have the right to make their own choices. 

Where to go?

There's many options for social media, here's my choices:

1. Blogger. I tried Wordpress and looked at others, but for me Blogger was a nice simple and clear platform. It's very easy to update and to follow through Google friends. I also like that Blogger links to my Google+ account.
2. Facebook. This is not my favourite platform, but it's where my friends are. I don't like the way you have to request a friend acceptance from people you want to follow. It is handy though for creating fan or group pages.
3. Google+. I like the way this platform flows. The circles are a great idea, you place people into the groups you want to use. My circles include writers, marketing, internet experts, artists and friends/family.
4. Twitter. This is great for finding and sharing links. You're limited to short posts, so sometimes it can feel a bit like everyone is posting at you rather than interacting, but it is the platform that has generated the most sales for my ebook My Zombie Dog.
5. Goodreads. A good site for gaining reviews.
6. Amazon. You can create your own author page.
7. YouTube. I follow some wonderful authors who offer vlogs (video blogs) on this platform. It's also good for hosting your book trailer. YouTube does attract trolls (people who leave nasty comments just for the sake of upsetting you) so don't post vlogs unless you're thick-skinned.

In this digital age the culture of writers has evolved to include social media, it's important that we evolve to fit within this emerging culture.

And for some online fun, why not take part in this blog challenge: Write a short story for halloween with a romantic spin and post your link on Romantic Friday Writers:

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Insecure Romantic Writing in 3 Pages

I am a prolific writer.

Um, not always.

Actually that first line is an affirmation I repeat when I meditate. I know I CAN be a prolific writer, I've had days when I poured out pages and pages of work. I even managed the 30,000 words in 3 days challenge. But then life starts seeping back in. During those times I struggle to write anything. One suggestion I've come across many times is to write morning pages. 

When you wake up, you write three pages, free-writing style. It doesn't matter what you write, it can include grocery lists, dreams, grievances or story ideas. The idea is to dump all the clutter in your brain, so you're free to write. 

In my morning pages I've come across a character called Rosie. Rosie is in her late 30's, single, overweight and has a bit of an attitude problem. She pops into my morning pages with snarky snippets of her life.

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