Book of the Day – Books Aren’t Just for Reading by Laina Turner

Trixie and her friends, Berklie and Sophie, are excited about the opening of Read/Wine their new business venture of a bookstore/wine bar. All is going well until they happen to find a dead body in the shop and that wasn’t part of the business plan. All signs pointed to Berklie since it was her ex-husbands lover who was murdered. Trixie knew Berklie hadn’t murdered Sylvia so who did?

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Genre –  Romantic Suspense

Rating – PG

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Book of the Day - The Orange Moon Affair by AFN Clarke

ONE

Mojave Desert – October 2012

Flying a helicopter requires a clear mind, concentration, balance and a delicate touch.

Flying a helicopter you are unfamiliar with, in the dark, with two nasty bullet wounds in a body that has not slept in thirty hours, is an exercise in surreal survival. I had ten hours flight time in this model MD 902 Explorer, so it wasn't total guesswork.

I made sure Julie was strapped in tightly and flipped on the switches. There wouldn’t be enough time to sit and let the engines warm up completely. We needed to get airborne before the local police showed up. In the distance beyond the factory building, where the car exploded in the arroyo, a pall of smoke billowed into the moon lit night sky.

Once I got the machine off the ground, stabilised and then flying on the heading Danny had given me, I asked Julie to call him and write down the co-ordinates of the destination, then talked her through entering the figures into the GPS navigation system while I concentrated on the instruments. All I had to do was make sure I didn't hit anything flying at an altitude of fifty feet across the desert, following the route on the EFIS from Mojave to Desert Rock airstrip, wherever the hell that was in the vast expanse of the Nevada desert.

As we flew, the rising sun glimmered just below the horizon to our left. Dark sky turning light blue just before the sun appeared as an orange-white ball throwing shadows across the desert. The distant terrain rose in craggy rock mountains, rising ever higher to about five thousand feet, and I had to fly the aircraft through the narrow gorges maintaining the pretence of a special operations training flight at ultra-low level.

“Can you see if there are any sunglasses in the side pocket,” I asked Julie, feeling my left arm begin to stiffen.

“Here you go.” Her voice sounded strangely distorted in my headphones. Or perhaps it was just my mind beginning to shut down as my body leaked valuable blood onto the seat from the wound in my side.

“Thanks.” I tightened the lock on the collective and flexed my left arm, ignoring the pain, just trying to get some feeling back into it. Estimated flight time was just under an hour and a half, and I wasn't confident of being able to last that long.

“I'm sorry I got you into this,” I said stupidly, as if what I said would make any difference.

“I could have said no.”

“But you didn't.”

“Nope. Don't ask me why, but I didn't.”

“Did you get the bug into the computer before they ambushed us?”

“I did.”

“Well at least one of us accomplished something today. How's your head?”

“Hurts like hell. How's your...?” she paused looking across at me. “Everything?” She laughed. A desperate sound hurled against a bleak outlook.

We hurt more than either of us could describe.

We didn't know what the future held for us, but we laughed anyway as the sun rose across the desert, and I banked the helicopter into the first of the rising mountain ravines.

After an hour throwing the helicopter through the narrow canyons and rocky gorges, I could feel my strength and concentration ebbing slowly away. But that seemed inconsequential in the surreal experience that was the excuse for reality.

Julie massaged her temples, and when she spoke her speech was slow and slurred. I knew she was concussed and slipping into shock.

By 'red-lining' the helicopters engines I could force more speed, but as the sun came up the temperature would rise, and everything could go very wrong very quickly.

But there was no choice.

I inched up the collective, dropped the nose and advanced the throttle a touch, watching the gauges creep toward the danger zone.

Waves of nausea blurred my vision, so I used the only tool I had to sharpen my mind.

Pain.

By wriggling in the seat I could press against the wound in my lower abdomen, not too much, but enough pain to sting my sagging consciousness into wakeful concentration. Now was not the time to sink into peaceful, blissful oblivion. I had a precious cargo to deliver, a woman I loved more than my own life.

At any other time, flying low level through the desert canyons as the sun rose above the horizon, would have been an extraordinary experience. One of those almost vivid adventures that stays in the memory forever. But I wanted this experience to be over as soon as possible.

Every part of my body and soul willed the airstrip into view.

Flying is a slow inevitability.

You know you're going to get there, and yet the more desperate you are to arrive, the more time drags.

Another rising ridge after fifteen minutes of undulating desert, and the sweat dripped down my face, arms and back, seeping into the wounds and causing more pain as my body salts stung raw flesh. I glanced quickly at Julie who sagged forward against the seat harness, semi-conscious, head flopping as the helicopter rose, fell, and banked through the ravines. I just wanted to take her in my arms, hold her and tell her everything was going to be fine, but now was not the time to drift into sentimentality, there was still the task of getting this machine on the ground.

The gauges swam in front of my eyes as I struggled to pick out the speed dial. That and the vertical speed indicator were my guides as we crested the ridge and Desert Rock airstrip lay in front of us just beyond a dry lake bed.

Was it a lakebed or a mirage?

I dropped the collective and pulled back slowly on the cyclic, slowing the aircraft down, establishing an approach to the runway. The speed bled off and I nosed down a little to keep the aircraft's forward speed at forty knots, but my eyes refused to focus properly, and darkness appeared at the corners of my vision as if I was looking through a telescope at an image that kept getting smaller. No matter what my mind was telling my body it wasn't responding, running out of blood and slowly shutting down.

But not before I got this machine on the ground.

Only a few more feet.

Maybe twenty-five, maybe thirty-five, maybe....

I didn't know anymore.

Then I saw the FIM-92 Stinger ground-to-air missile spearing up toward us from a far ridge.

My reactions were slow and for a fatal moment I watched the white smoky trail from the rocket motor arc its way through the sky. I pulled on the collective and kicked the anti-torque pedals to port, almost escaping the oncoming death, but the rocket slammed into the tail boom.

The earth spun in a lazy arc as the helicopter arched over backwards at fifty feet above the rocky desert as I lost control, spiralling to the ground, pieces flying in all directions, the only section remaining relatively intact being the forward cockpit, saved because the main rotor head deflected the impact.

There was no pain, just a smashing, grinding, splintering sound. I felt a violent lurch as my head slammed into the side door, then silence. Almost lying on top of me, held by her seat harness, Julie stared into my eyes, blood dripping from her nose and ears, trying to speak.

“Julie,” I gasped trying to reach up and touch her face, but my arm wouldn't move.

Car engine noises.

Voices.

I was struggling with consciousness.

With reality.

Where was I? What had happened? I didn't know.

Images from the past flashed through my mind.

My father's dead face.

Julie naked on the catamaran.

Julie. My Julie.

Then nothing.

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Genre – Thriller

Rating – PG13

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Website http://www.afnclarke.com/

The Passion of the Christoph by Christoph Paul (Excerpt)

The Infinite Jest of Picking Porn Titles

While getting my MA in creative writing I managed a porn store in northeast DC where the most important job was picking out which new releases we would carry. To do this job well I had to make picks based on our clientele, who was 80% older African-American/African, 10% Hispanic, 7% slumming gays from DuPont Circle, and a few old white guys who thought the Internet had spies and/or communist rogues. To make this important decision all I had was a fax paper listing the brand, theme, and title of the movie, with no pictures of the covers.

Yet each week I would pick videos that ended up selling, leaving my boss very impressed. So along with recommending we give out free watermelon gum (yes, we really did), he said he wanted me to create a report for a new employee on why I chose or did not choose a new release video so the uninitiated employee could learn the ropes.

As an aspiring writer, I took great pride in the assignment to show this new employee that we were not just picking videos, but engaging in the all-important subjects of the humanities. To finish the report I left the new employee a bibliography to back up my choices and educate him on The Infinite Jest of Picking Porn Titles

WHITE GHETTO—SHEMALE “MY GIRLFRIEND’S GIANT COCK”

I will have to get at least one shemale video. Though this is a good title; one of our most popular tranny series is Transsexual Prostitutes¹⁰. I once received a call from a concerned customer’s wife worried that her husband might actually be seeing transsexual prostitutes. I calmed her down and said that this is a fad and men only watch these videos but do not act on them. She cried a little and said something in Spanish¹¹. I felt bad for her and tried to comfort her saying, “It is very popular in the Hispanic community, but I don’t know why.” She then said she married a maracone¹², and hung up.

I am not sure why but the predominant customers who rent tranny movies are Hispanic men, who I assume to be in the closet. I asked this hot Hispanic girl¹³ who cooks hamburgers at my favorite establishment, The Korzo Haus¹⁴ why this was, and she said it was because no one is thought to be gay in the Hispanic community and if anyone asks he could say it wasn’t that “Maraconeish” because she had boobs. That aside, a big penis on big breasts is always a good transsexual movie. I will select this one unless Tranny Prostitutes is available.

ABIGAIL—LESBIAN “LONDON KEYES”

The actress London Keyes¹⁵ is a quite possible lock; she is a special combination of an Orientalist Fetish¹⁶, an hour-glass figure, and a generous backside. She is also a fan of anallingus¹⁷ which can be appreciated in the porn renting community. Though these are all positive attributes, the African-American majority does not care for lesbian videos¹⁸ and she does not fit the Caucasian Orientalist Fetish; I would have to pass on Mrs. Keyes. (Though I appreciate her style and sexual proclivity; it is not about the writer–it is about the customer.) Also the brand Abigail sounds artsy and like art films, art porn is not appreciated by the general porn public. In the end, people want to see Transformers over The Tree of Life.¹⁹

CHEATER’S CLUB—CUCKOLD “CHEATING WIVES”

Cuckold movies²⁰ do very well. There is a surprising amount of white men that come in and buy these videos. They usually look like accountants or the managers you would see at Bennigans who never excelled in sports like Dodgeball. There are some interesting theories about why many men would be into watching or getting cuckold: Evolutionary, male-to-male competition or what Dr. Robin Baker coined as “Sperm Wars”²¹ has played a role in reproductive strategy. The theory is that we could be programmed to be turned on by infidelity to make sure to produce other fighter sperm. This also plays into the idea of concealed ovulation and women liking certain types of men when ovulating²². Or it could just be the decadent times we live in. There are no easy answers to this phenomenon but until it gets figured out the writer would look for covers of dorky guys looking upset while their wife is being banged by a big penis stud.

HUSTLER—SHEMALE “SHEMALE SUPERSTARS”

This would be the second shemale pick unless Tranny Prostitutes 74 is available. The Shemale Superstars Series has very much tricked the writer. Every time the writer looked down at the face on the cover and found the woman very attractive, then looked lower and enjoyed the breasts, and then went lower to check out the vaginal area the writer saw a very large penis²³, being tricked every time. These men have such attractive feminine faces that it fools everyone who looks. Another popular title is Tranny Surprise, if that or Tranny Prostitutes are not available then I will select these two tranny films and will continue to look too low when it comes to tranny covers; it is very much porn store Groundhog Day.²⁴

POWERSVILLE—CUM SHOTS “COLLEGE SPUNKFEST”

Now the owner suggested we get one blow job film but we officially call them facials. Our customers would refer to them as “head joints.”²⁵ If you look on the back cover you will usually see a young girl with what looks like Elmer’s glue falling off her face. The philosophy and symbolism of the facial is quite a novelty and could appeal to the sense of power, as if to say, “I have so many sexual options. Instead of leaving my semen in your vagina for reproductive purposes I will leave it on your face.” On a side note, the image I’ve seen for this certain sexual practice will always be a girl at a beauty salon getting ready for a facial (the one for beautification purposes) looking in a mirror and seeing a large cock with sperm coming out toward her face. Not sure if it’s a lack of creativity or if this is the best way to advertise for the genre²⁶?

CABALLERO—GAY “THE 300”

Now this would be a good pick for gay men of all colors. The title would suggest the men would be rather buff, have good-sized penises, and I noticed gay men want a minor story they can watch after eating a good meal or after they have watched a design show on Bravo²⁷. Another definite yes.

With a biting sense of humor, sarcasm, and a unique worldview, Christoph Paul’s “The Passion of the Christoph” exposes readers to an unprecedented commentary on every topic. Paul’s take on sex, religion, politics, sports, to name a few, will leave you transformed as you absorb this insightful compilation of satiric and hysterical essays.

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Genre – Humor / NonFiction

Rating – NC17

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Website http://christophpaulauthor.com/

Orangeberry Book of the Day - Family Magic by Patti Larsen

Chapter One

I batted at the curl of smoke drifting off the tip of my candle and tried not to sneeze. My heavy velvet cloak fell in oppressive, suffocating folds in the closed space of the ceremony chamber, the cowl trapping the annoying bits of puff I missed. I hated the way my eyes burned and teared, an almost constant distraction. Not that I didn’t welcome the distraction, to be honest. Anything to take my mind from what went on around me.

Being part of a demon raising is way less exciting than it sounds.

The bodies of the gathered coven pressed close, shrouded in the same black velvet, the physical weight of their presence making it hard to breathe. I struggled to censor my clichéd thoughts and focus on the task at hand. The glow of other candle flames floated around me, barely lighting faces, enough for a serious case of the creepies. A low hum sounded from every throat, filling the room with an almost physical presence.  I participated half-heartedly, wishing I was anywhere but here, knowing despite my personal preferences I had no choice whatsoever.

The group swayed as one as the hum grew in volume. The first hint of power made its way around the half-circle. I felt my own power being drawn away, connected and shared despite my reflexive attempt to pull free. As much as I suppressed my magic from day to day and refused to use it at all, the draw of the coven and my attachment to it made it impossible to deny.

Totally crappy. Especially since anything to do with magic always made me feel slightly nauseated and off balance.

I wiped a smoke-laced tear from the corner of my eye and blinked at the pentagram etched in the stone at my feet. The lines of the star began to glow faintly blue, the candles at each point flaring as though with the heartbeat of the whole, the breath and life of each and every soul in the room. I wondered if anyone ever checked to see if our hearts really did beat in sync. Wouldn’t that be special?

I stifled a sigh as a tall, elegant form flowed forward from the circle to the center of the pentagram. She swept back the hood of her cloak, her long, thick and perfect black hair a flawless halo around her gorgeous face. Her eyes glowed with joy, cheeks flushed from the rush of energy coming from the coven, her coven. Miriam Hayle was everything every woman wanted to be. Beautiful, graceful, commanding, the perfect witch, the perfect leader, the perfect everything.

My luck? She was my mother.

I blew on the smoke from my candle as subtly as possible while barely managing to still the jiggle starting in my left knee. Somehow I always ended up in exactly the spot where a tiny little breeze pushed the white vapor the wrong way. A part of me was sure it was somehow contrived that way as an extra level of punishment piled on to my particular little corner of hell. And forget the sacrilege of blowing the candle out.  It’s not a whole lot of fun being the center of the displeasure of fifty-odd witches of varying power, so I suffered.

Oh believe me, I suffered. Every day, every moment, every breath. I, Sydlynn Hayle, sixteen-year-old all-American girl, was a witch. My mom was a witch. My grandmother was a witch, if a crazy one. My sister, my mom’s best friend and every single other person in my life, much to my disappointment, fell in that category, with a couple of exceptions. Lucky me. Except I spent my entire life wanting nothing more than to be normal, average, ordinary and just like everyone else.

Hard to do in a family like mine.

So there I was, another Saturday night, no friends, no social life, just the stupid coven and another stupid coven ritual. Could one girl’s life really suck that much?

I glanced down at my little sister as she stared at our Mom, rapt in attention, beaming a smile. Meira glanced up at me, red-tinted skin and amber gaze aglow as the power in the room built, triggering her demon blood. In the ‘real world,’ Meira had to disguise her unusual coloring, her overlarge eyes and cute little horns peeking out of her silky black curls. Within the safety of the family she was free to be herself and I know she loved it.

I always envied my eight-year-old sister her eagerness to embrace her birthright while I simply did everything I could to ignore it. Easier for me, I suppose, with my plain, dark brown hair and ordinary blue eyes, my white skin and handful of freckles. I did what I could not to look the part, to forget our dad was a demon.

Meira grinned at me, her candle’s trail curling perfectly upward toward the ceiling in an endless swirl. I waved at my smoke again, the tickle in the back of my throat and nose getting worse. Meira watched me struggle like she always did. With laughter wrinkling her upturned nose, she waggled her fingers at my candle. I felt her power reach out, the thin film of it forming a delicate tube around the wick. My smoke immediately behaved. She winked before turning back to Mom.

I felt stupid. So that’s how they did it…! Sixteen years of this crap, and it took my little sister taking pity on me to finally get the joke. Of course, if I ever paid attention or agreed to do magic, maybe I’d have known about it a long time ago. But the fact my suspicions were so dead on, that Mom obviously instructed the others to let me figure it out on my own or continue to suffer, made me grind my teeth in frustration. She would do anything to get me to use my talent, short of putting me in danger, and I even wondered about that.

I tried to focus on the stupid ceremony and not my urge to throw the dumb candle in her flawless face.

Yeah, that would go over well.

Mom, either unaware or not caring about my present state of mind, raised her arms, robe falling into a perfect puddle at her feet, revealing her model’s figure in a black satin gown, polished silver jewelry at wrists and throat. She positively glowed with power, vivid blue eyes in rapture. How pathetically stereotypical. I wanted to throw up.

I felt the strength flow out of me in a rush and struggled as I always did to control the weakness in my knees and the slow roll in my stomach. I tried to catch my breath as secretly as possible, furious this always left me on the verge of passing out. Of course, no one else showed any discomfort, just little old me. I guess knowing how to use your magic and being willing to share made the whole transfer easier. That’s me, fight tooth and nail, even to the point of pain.

Sometimes I wondered why I was even invited.

At least I had the diversion of being responsible for my grandmother. She stood next to me, as usual, about as into the whole thing as me, but for different reasons. She hummed softly under her breath, her watery blue eyes crossing and recrossing as she studied the tip of her protruding tongue. She turned to me, wisps of white hair escaping from the edges of her black cloak, fanning back and forth with a life of their own. Her powder white skin fell in crumpled folds, but her expression was pure childishness. She cackled, winning me a silent warning from my mother. I rolled my eyes at Mom before sneaking a caramel out of my pocket and slipping it to Gram. She made a face. Chocolate was her favorite, but I hadn’t time to track some down. Okay, honestly, I forgot and raided the candy dish on the way. I prayed the offering would be sufficient.

Ethpeal Hayle had once been an influential witch. When I was just a baby, an evil coven challenged our family. She stood against them alone, cutting herself off to protect the rest of us. The Purity coven fell thanks to her, but the fight scrambled her sanity. So, I waited for the old woman to make up her mind about the candy and tried to be patient. It wasn’t her fault she was nuts.

I saw the flicker of rejection as her wrinkled old mouth puckered and knew if I didn’t act right then the scene she could create would probably level the house. The fight with the Purities may have left her one fortune cookie short of a combo plate but it did nothing to reduce her power. Knowing I only had one chance, I curled my fingers and started to pull away.

Her hand shot out, dagger-like nails brushing my palm as she snatched the sweet and stuffed it into her face. She grinned at me, nose wrinkling, eyes full of mischief. I tried not to react, knowing yet again we were saved by careful manipulation of my crazy grandmother.

I returned my attention to Mom with some relief as, oblivious to the disaster I averted, she turned slowly, pivoting on manicured toes. I made a face at her fuchsia piggies, just in time to catch her disapproving frown. I could practically hear her whole body screaming at me to pay attention, the little hairs on my arms vibrating from it. I flashed her a half-grimace, half-smile so she would stop. Her expression softened. She turned away. Thankfully. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep up the whole fake happy thing without bursting into flames.

She faced the altar at the back of the room and the life-sized stone effigy of an impossibly perfect and handsome man with large muscles and tiny horns on his smooth forehead. She pushed magical force toward it.

“Haralthazar,” she glided closer to the statue, “we summon you this third night of Power, nine days and nine nights from Samhain Eve, to tighten our bond with you and your realm.” She knelt at the foot of the altar, the picture of the submissive handmaiden. Could she be any more ridiculous? Seriously. “My love, come and be welcome.”

The blinding flash leaping from her to the statue continued to pour out of her in a deep blue rush of light. I turned my head slightly to the side, squinting against the glare, grateful for the edge of the cowl and the shadow it made. The whole room started to thrum, the floor vibrating with condensed magic as Mom used the energy we gave her to make the doorway permitting my father through to this plane.

When it happened we all felt it rather than seeing it. The power swirled around us, drawing us all closer, forming us into one entity, one spirit, a seamless conduit to the other dimension. I always hated this part, the total and utter lack of self that came with the opening of the door. Every time I went through it I tried to pull back, but my own demon blood wouldn’t allow it. Even more so than the other witches in the room, my being was tied completely and without choice to what was happening at the altar. I was always helpless, tapped into, taken, and ended up on my knees behind my mother, Meira at my side, as the effigy of my father came to life.

The blue flared to gold and Haralthazar, Demon Lord of the Seventh Plane of Demonicon, flushed and filled out. Still with the properties of stone but the appearance of flesh, he materialized from a burst of light as the gateway to his plane slammed open. For a heartbeat he stood there, haloed in the back glow of his dimension before the power propelled him the rest of the way forward and he stepped through and into his statue.

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Genre – YA Urban Fantasy

Rating – PG

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Orangeberry Book of the Day - Characters In Search of a Novel by Molly D. Campbell

Dottie Mulcher

Her children adore her. As a matter of fact, all children adore her. My Lord, she’s an Earth Mother! You know those fertility idols that are imported from Africa that they sell in posh gift catalogs? That is what Dottie looks like: big breasts, wide, childbearing hips, and low slung—just right for dropping the babies in the field and continuing to toil.

Dottie sets an example for the rest of us that we simply can’t live up to. For instance, she makes these delicious molasses cookies with raisins in them that are to die for, and even though she has given all of us the recipe, none of us can make them to our children’s satisfaction, so they just bring fistfuls home from Dottie’s house.

Oh yes. Speaking of perfection: Dottie sews. Who does this, nowadays? She runs up Halloween costumes that are the wonder of the neighborhood. Last year, her twins were Tweedledee and Tweedledum, and I swear, they looked just like the ones in the Tim Burton movie! While I struggle filling garbage sacks with leaves and attaching a string and a label, praying my children will love the “teabag” idea, Dottie makes her daughter a “Big Bird” costume, complete with real yellow feathers.

Dottie’s husband is really good looking. I know; it’s catty of me, but really—how does a woman with big hips and peasant thighs attract a man with a six pack and silver hair? Is it those cookies, for Pete’s sake? Ron Mulcher, despite his name, looks at home in a bomber jacket and moccasins with no socks. Dottie wears her nightgown to drive the kids to school, and I don’t think she knows what mascara is. This is not fair.

I asked my husband if he thinks Dottie is attractive. And guess what? He said, “Well, she looks kind of edible.” Good God. I go to Pilates three times a week, shave virtually every hair that isn’t on my head, I dye my roots regularly, and look pretty good in jeggings, but Dottie is edible? I give up.

If I could, I would hate her. But here’s another thing: Dottie is wonderful to everyone. She makes delish casseroles and brings them over whenever one of the kids gets strep, because “I know no one is getting much sleep over here.” She grows beautiful roses, and distributes little bouquets around the neighborhood. For Christmas, we all get little bags of rosemary-roasted cashews. She buys full size Hershey bars and saves them to hand out to the kids in the neighborhood, rather than the “fun sized” ones she gives to all the other children. She never gossips.

I really don’t know how she manages this. And did I mention that she has buck teeth?

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Genre - Fiction / Short Stories

Rating – PG13

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Website http://mollydcampbell.com/

Author Interview – Gaelen VanDenbergh

When and why did you begin writing? I have always been writing, since I could hold a pencil. I remember when I was very young my grandfather used to type up my stories on his old typewriter, making them look very official.

How long have you been writing? Forever. I have taken some steps back from writing over the years, but it’s all I want to do and all I know.

When did you first know you could be a writer? I’m not sure. It’s always just been a huge part of my life. I’m always creating, it was never really a choice of doing it or not, it became more an issue of finishing something. I tend to work on several projects at once.

What inspires you to write and why? Everything! I could have a conversation, or overhear a conversation, that could become someone’s story. I live too much in my head. My mind is always taking a thought or a feeling or an experience and turning it into a larger story. I draw a great deal on my emotions as well.

What genre are you most comfortable writing? Contemporary fiction. That’s the only genre I’ve touched.

What inspired you to write your first book? My now ex-husband was always dragging me to look at dilapidated old houses in very remote, miniscule towns, and insisting we live there. As we were having our share of problems at the time, I became suspicious that he was plotting to dump me in one of these places. That started Running Against Traffic, and then the characters took over.

Who or what influenced your writing once you began? I never write about something I know nothing about. It has to be real to me, so I often draw on my own emotions, like a method actor. I am also very curious and pay close attention to people, their motivations, relationships, how they hurt and save one another, and why. I find it all fascinating, and it is what I like to write about. Earlier writing pulled more from direct experiences, and these novels will come out eventually.

What made you want to be a writer? I think when you are a creative person, it’s impossible to live a fulfilled life without a creative outlet. I would have to do something. I read, I play violin, but I have to create. My mind would melt down if I didn’t. My soul would wither.

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For a limited time only, $2.99

Genre – Contemporary Fiction

Rating – PG13

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Cathy Dixon - Trivia

Cathy Dixon - Trivia

Updated 23rd May 2013

Please choose one answer and submit via Rafflecopter.

All answers for these trivia questions can be found in Frequent Traveller by Pandora Poikilos.