Zinnia Hope, author of multi-genres and erotic romances; also writing as J. Emberglass

A Freya's Bower Author. Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting Do you dare read my novels? Are your panties wet yet? If not, no worries because they soon will be.

Sunday, August 27

Okay, chicken kicking time—and some therapeutic bitching.

Writers are somewhat neurotic. A female writer suffering PMS is called A Neurotic Blubbering Bitch on A Caffeine Sugar Buzz. I don’t brandish a weapon when I’m pms’ing, but I sure as hell throw a lot of books, slam doors, and kick every chicken that crosses my path. Watch me walk into a room and see six boys scatter like cockroaches when a light’s flipped on.

The thing that really pisses me off is that when I get like this, I can’t write. It only lasts a day, maybe two, but if I force myself to write when I get in one of these moods I only type crap.

Men are baffled by the PMS syndrome. What’s to be baffled about? Really? I’m curious. A woman’s hormones go berserk inside her body, she screams, cries, and threatens to push the little red button if you piss her off just one more time. It’s been proven that a woman’s brain swells during this time of the month, which also causes erratic behavior and mood swings. I ask again. What’s so freaking hard to understand about PMS???

But the writer gal who’s in a foul, hormone-induced mood, who can’t write because of the foul hormone-induced mood, is the one to really be wary of. She lies in wait of the unwary chicken to step out of the coup for a few choice bugs in the grass. WHAM! Said chicken is punted to the moon—or the nearest garage roof—and she scores!

Do not ask the writer gal what’s for lunch ninety-nine times from the safety of the living room. A can of Campbell’s Soup can reach you. With the proper angle and a good ricochet off the stovetop, that can of soup will nail your ass where you sit in the easy chair with your feet up as you watch yet another Spongebob Squarepants re-run.

Beware of the pms’ing writer mom who can’t find the chocolate because one of her six sons has found and eaten it where she had it hidden in the tin on the top shelf behind Grandma Maggie’s good dishes. She will choose the most perfect moment to pounce. She will lace the next chocolate bar with habanero pepper and carefully wrap that lovely flavor bomb chocolate bar just like it was before, placing it in the tin for next time. Hoowee baby! Can we say fart fire?

And never ever—not even if you’re wearing armor AND a bullet proof vest—bother me when I’m trying to write while pms’ing. It’s like signing your own death certificate. Just ask the chickens. (So far, 47 out of 50 have the imprint of my Champion sneaker treads on their feathery asses.) I’m in a foul mood as it is, my hormones are raging, the words aren’t working like they normally do, so that red crazed glint in my eyes and the appearance of hormonal fangs should tell you something, right? Right???

Last time I looked, two kids were hiding under the sofa, one was in the living room closet, two had gone upstairs to their rooms, and the oldest was swinging by the seat of his pants from the ceiling fan in the family room...hey, he pissed me off over the chocolate. What can I say? It’s the PMS.


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Wednesday, August 23

Thank you M. E. Ellis for my new look! And another hearty thanks to her wonderfully talented husband who revamped my header too! I’m so thrilled with the changes!

I’ve been scarce the past few days because I had to finish up a last minute revision on my Bites for Freya’s Bower, and now I’m immersed in revisions for Conspiracy of Angels. In between revisions, I’ve begun a new project. It’s still in the outline stage, and I’m chomping at the bit to get started on the actual writing.

I belong to several Yahell groups that center on writing. One thing I’ve noticed is the unbelievable amount of promos that go through these groups and the next-to-nothing discussions. I swear, trying to get a discussion started in some of these groups is like asking people to attend church services with you. Everyone hides their heads and stampedes to the door screaming, “I’m too busy!”

I’m a mover and a shaker, but I do it in fits and sputters. It depends on how much energy I have, lol. I promo; sure, we all do. But, I have to wonder if it does any good. The net is a tough market to crack. It’s easy to send out promos, and a writer is limited to what he or she can do on the net regarding promotion. You can code up something or not (I try to make a nice-looking promo) and paste it in, hitting send. My question is how many people actually read them? It’s like getting snail junk mail. You see it, maybe spend a whole five seconds to glance at it, if at all, and promptly toss it into File 13.

Do I read promos? You can bet your ass I do. It's a sure fire way to save me the trouble of going to an e-Publisher to check something out. If the blurb and excerpts are poorly written and lack good editing, I don't bother to go to the e-Publisher site. Note: I am no way implying I'm the supreme author, but I know well written and well edited material when I see it. Some authors who read here might take offense at that, but I find using chickens to kick field goals is good therapy.

Honestly, my theory is that out of 1,000 readers, maybe 50 to 100 might actually take a moment to read a promo. Same thing applies to e-book contests.

What’s the point of a promotion post if no one bothers to read them? I do well considering how much competition there is in e-Publishing. There are so many e-Publishers that pop up on the net it’s mind boggling. Swing a cat and you’ll hit one, gar-un-teed!

Once I get Conspiracy of Angels revised and see it in print, my fun writing e-books is done for a while. Yes, it’s due out in trade paperback this autumn. Woot! Things are about to heat up in the writing area for me again. On the flip side, the growing season is winding down ‘cept for the melons, pun’kins (that’s hick talk, lol.) and gourds. I have a short story coming out in a hardback volume next year too. Plus, a few agents have requested partials of my more serious work, and enough time has passed now that I should hear from them soon. My longer WIP’s are calling, no, screaming for me to return to them, so that’s what I’m going to do for a few weeks.

Oh, btw, The Sexual Science of Witchery was officially released this past Sunday. You can read about it HERE.

I’m waiting on my oldest to get finished with football practice, then I’m off to do a bit more school shopping. I must be shy a few brain cells to keep putting myself through such misery, but it’s gotta be done.

Once again, M.E., thanks from the bottom of my heart for the kickass look, lady!



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Tuesday, August 15

I've been so busy with farm work, kids getting ready to go back to school and my writing deadlines that I'm an exhausted mass of misfiring brain cells. I got a great laugh the other morning that let off a lot of pressure from my harried brain.

I had all my boys in the SUV and drove to town to drop two of them off at football practice before I took the other four school shopping. (Yes, I know. I'm certifiably insane for taking four of them at one time.) I rounded a hairpin turn, and a mourning dove flapped its wings, raising its tubby body from the edge of the road.

Now, doves are lovely birds, but they're not the smartest foul in the world. Unlike chickens, doves are more of the passive agressive of birds. They look at you as if to say, "I'm fat, I'm fluffy, I'm too rotund to move, so you'll have to do ME the courtesy instead."

Too bad SUV's aren't more understanding.

The dumbass bird flew--or at least what it thought was flying--and veered across the road instead of into the roadside weeds or trees. I couldn't swerve since another car was approaching.

"Mom!" My next-to-the-youngest yelled. "You're gonna hit that dove."

"Get out of the way!" I shouted at the overweight feather factory.

It flapped its wings like mad, its tail fanned out in hopes of more areodynamics. I swear, if I had a workout like that I'd probably burn 1,000 calories a minute.

The oncoming car passed, the dove, however, didn't. It hit the windshield.

"Jeez, Mom!" the next oldest boy said. "You just splatted a bird!"

"Really? What was your first clue???"

The dove bounced off the windshield. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw it glide into the trees like it should've done to begin with.

"It's fine," I told my sons. "Dumbass bird."

"I'm scarred for life," said the son in the seat beside me. "Its butt hit the windshield. Never thought an asshole could be so scary."

I blinked. When my son's words fully penetrated my brain, I had to pull off the side of the road because I was laughing so hard I couldn't see through the tears.

"Mom! We're going to be late for practice!" The older two complained.

My life is never dull.


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Saturday, August 12

My Bites, The Sexual Science of Witchery, will be available this week for $2 from Freya's Bower.com. Below are two excerpts; one from each story.

Zinnia Website

The receptionist finally stopped at one of the numerous doors lining the corridor and ushered them into a chamber, its walls, floor and ceiling done in vivid crimson. Off to one side, an adolescent girl waited, her expression neutral. A tall, elegant woman stood in the middle of the room. She wore only a white silk robe that fell to her feet, creating a striking image against a blood red backdrop. The garment hung open, showing her naked, willowy form and large pert breasts.

Tom gaped at her. What an incredible woman! He studied the crescents of her creamy breasts and her long midnight hair, wishing he could bury his fingers in that thick, silky mane while he thrust deep and hard between her legs. His gaze met her startling blue one, and she offered him a knowing smile. Breath quickening, he wondered if could get her off to the side to schedule a little rendezvous.

“Hello,” she said, her voice soft and yet powerful. “I am your VisionPast sorceress."

“What do you have for us?” Garnet asked.

Turning to an ornate chest, the witch-woman motioned for them to join her. She lifted the lid and scooped up a handful of gold coins before allowing them to cascade through her fingers.

“These are ancient,” the sorceress said. “Choose one, and perhaps you will find a piece of an ancestor’s past.” Shrugging, she added, “Perhaps you may discover someone else’s.”

Tom didn’t believe in sorcery, but he still experienced a bud of curiosity. “Where do the coins come from?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just know that they are very old.” The sorceress smiled and indicated that everyone should select a coin. “You should be more concerned with what vision you receive, so choose wisely.”

* * *

The Science of Magick
copyright 2006 Zinnia Hope
Publisher Freya's Bower

The same receptionist sat at the desk who had been working the day before. Upon noticing Garnet, the woman rose and motioned for her to follow. They traversed halfway down the long, white corridor. The secretary stopped and opened a door to a sapphire blue room. The walls, ceiling and floor gleamed with the rich color, and for a moment, Garnet was almost convinced she was deep below the ocean’s surface. In the center of the room, a chaise covered in indigo velvet sat in a large circular indention. Strange illumination added to the chamber’s deep ocean effect.

“The sorceress will be with you shortly,” the receptionist said and gestured toward the chaise. She turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

“Please sit,” a young feminine voice said.

Garnet gasped and stumbled back, her high heels screeching on the polished floor. She hadn’t noticed the adolescent enter the chamber. Her legs shaking under her, Garnet sat down on the lounger, the velvet rough against her hands. She crossed her legs, the dim light catching the neon colors on the tips of her clear stilettos, and watched as the attendant placed a gold coin on the tip of a thin post. Light shot from the floor to the ceiling, encircling the chaise and nearly blinding Garnet.

A grand banquet hall stretched before her. In one corner, musicians played lutes, pipes, harps and lyres, their sweet melody drifting over the room like dandelion fluff. Rich tapestries of warriors in battle hung upon the stone walls. Reeds, straw, pillows and naked bodies littered the floor. Twosomes, threesomes, and many in writhing, groping masses uttered sounds of pleasure and climax. Garnet realized her mouth hung open and shut it firmly. Why would the sorceress want her to see a palace orgy?

On a pile of embroidered pillows, two well-built men caressed one another. She couldn’t help but admire their tight asses and muscular bodies. A man with a dark beard and hair acted as the dominate one over the other with long, raven-black locks. Why are the good-looking ones always gay, Garnet mused.

The bearded one rolled his partner over, revealing the other man’s face. A startled cry slipped from Garnet’s lips, and her hand flew to her mouth.



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Thursday, August 3

Zinnia Website

Coming Soon: Bites - End of August

What's it about? Well, I haven't written a blurb for it yet, but I'll take a stab at it, so keep that in mind, please, lol.

The Sexual Science of Witchery: VisionPast is all the rage in Tom's and Garnet's world. On a night out, they find out how VisionPast melds science and magic, giving customers glimpses into their past or someone else's. Tom finds out he's connected to royalty when he sees a ghostly king in a tomb, but Tom's biggest surprise comes after the session is over.

The Science of Magic: Upon receiving an invitation from the sorceress who runs VisionPast, Garnet sneaks away from Tom to meet the woman. A free session reveals a palace orgy, giving Garnet insight into Tom's womanizing ways. However, what shocks Garnet even more is the sorceress's true intentions.


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