A Guest Blog: Lisa M. Collins and Archaeology

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Lisa Collins is an online friend of mine, a lady after my own heart for her interest in several sciences. So when she put out a request to guest blog for her latest release, The House Bast Made, I said, "Sure!" despite the fact that my blog has been inactive for several months. (Hopefully this will change in future; it seems that the various social media have not followed through on the intended charges for "advertising.") So here she is, to tell you a little about herself.

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Archaeology and Me

by Lisa M. Collins

I have a deep and abiding love for all things ancient Egyptian. When I was little, I found an old, worn book about the country, which I still have to this day. Imagine me out in the backyard doing excavations trying to find bits and bobs of interest. In my mind, I was a great archaeologist. As time moved on, other subjects took the place of archaeology in my heart. By the time I graduated college, I considered myself a historian. What most people don’t understand about degrees in the humanities is that you must be able to communicate in written form. Without words how would the world have learned from Plato, Aristotle, the Prophets, Bertrand Russell, or Martin Luther King, Jr?

The written word is what accurately preserves ideas, leading to thought, and then to action. This drives me to present my words, thoughts, and ideas in writing. I studied not only the masters like Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Hemingway, Austen, Woolf, Mark Twain, Frederick Douglass, and Maya Angelou, but also speech writers for the White House and newspapers. Any time I find a writer who draws me into their story, I study how they accomplished the goal.

My desire to write starts off with a sad tale and a dash of memory. In 2008 the company I worked for downsized and I was one of the many who were let go. I had a small severance package so I didn’t immediately have to hit the byways looking for work. There I was, looking for what to do next and I was reminded of how, when I was little, I would tell stories to entertain my friends. To figure out how to begin writing my imaginings down for others I went to the wisest ‘person’ I know—that’s right, Dr. Google! I came across NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. Being a total fiction n00b, I decided to take up the challenge and write 50,000 words in the month of November. Believe it or not, right out of the gate, I did it!

Later I got a job working for the State of Arkansas, but the itch to write never fell into the background. I kept dabbling and learning from others. Eventually, I had several things published in non-fiction venues, such as the state newspaper and journals, but passion was to write fiction. One thing you need to know about me is that I love goal setting and lists, so I set a goal of producing one new short story a month, and a secondary goal to find publishers who would print my work. As any of you out there in publishing already know, I got my fair share of rejection letters. My very first one hangs on the wall by my desk.

Rejection is hard, but I didn’t let that hold me back. I went back to the drawing board. Read books on craft. Read novels like I wanted to write. The day finally arrived in early 2013 when my first science fiction short story, The Tree of Life, was accepted into an anthology! I was over the moon! Rejections, however, still happen. I have come to the realization they are part and parcel of the writing life. Each one I receive proves to me I’m not standing still, I’m working, and I will prevail. Also in the last five to ten years a new way of presenting work to the public has exploded into the mainstream. Indie publishing. Now writers have the opportunity to showcase work directly to readers without a go-between. Some writers do all their work independently, others only work with publishers, but I find myself in between these two. I am both traditionally published and indie published. I love the freedom to chart my own course.

When I was writing my latest novella, The House Bast Made, I got to put my archaeology hat back on. It felt good, like I was revisiting an old friend…you know, the kind that gets you into trouble, but you love every moment. This book was such fun to write. I knew the setting in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings was going to be perfect for some fantastical paranormal fun. Our archaeologist, Reid Cannon, comes to the realization—myths need not be fairy tales. Reid and his friends get embroiled in a war between gods and goddesses that has raged for eons. Reid and his crew must come together to save a friend from the brink of death and the world from utter chaos. My hope is that you will enjoy your time in the Valley of the Kings and join us next time when Reid Cannon travels to South America!

Where can readers find out more about you and where can they buy The House Bast Made?

Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Lisa-M.-Collins/e/B00PPV5QYO/

Twitter http://twitter.com/coolvstar650

Facebook http://www.facebook.com/lisaauthor

LinkedIn https://www.linkedin.com/in/lisacollins

Pinterest http://pinterest.com/coolvstar650/

Google+ http://google.com/+LisaMCollins/posts

Instagram http://instagram.com/coolvstar650

Soundcloud https://soundcloud.com/lisa-matthews-collins

Pen and Cape Society: http://penandcapesociety.com/lisa-m-collins/

Wookiees for Cookies Racing Team https://wookieesforcookies.wordpress.com/

For Deep Fried Dixie Goodness follow Lisa as Tea and Cornbread https://twitter.com/teaandcornbread https://www.facebook.com/teaandcornbread

And at the Tea and Cornbread blog http://teaandcornbread.wordpress.com/

Looking for more of:

Healthy Writer Series https://lisacollins.wordpress.com/category/healthy-lifestyle/

Author Interview Series https://lisacollins.wordpress.com/category/interviews/

Sign up to get the latest info on book launches and special newsletter only promotions!

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A little more about Lisa:

Lisa M. Collins has always been interested in Outer Space, Adventure stories, and Southern culture. She was born in Dixie and has always lived south of the Mason Dixon Line. She graduated from the University of Arkansas with a bachelor’s degree in history with specializations in American and Russian history. Lisa lives in central Arkansas with her husband and an adorable cat, Baby Girl, who believes she is Lisa’s co-author. Lisa has one adult son who is married to his high school sweetheart.

Lisa’s non-fiction has been published in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette and the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. . She copy edited and researched on Understanding Global Slavery by University of California Press. Her science fiction story, The Tree of Life, is in the 2013-2014 anthology by Holdfast Magazine. These days she edits for Metahuman Press, and is an upcoming creative contributor with Pro Se Productions and Mechanoid Press. She is a Sally A. Williams Grant winner from the Arkansas Arts Council for writing.

Meanwhile, as the blog break gave me a chance to get a brand-new book out the door (more about THAT later!), I'll try to get my act together and start posting again on a regular schedule, guys.

-Stephanie Osborn

http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Interlude: Islands, A Guest Blog by Sara Stamey

by Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com

Today I present to you an excerpt from Islands, by Sara Stamey, for your consideration as you do your holiday gift shopping! Also Sara and I have arranged to give you a sneak peek into the cover art for her NEXT book, The Ariadne Connection!

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“Arrogant jerk.” I was rooted on the dark path among shadowed trees, staring into the night, hands fisted as I recalled the meeting with my “host.” I shook my head and pushed impatiently on, picking my way along the twists of the narrowing trail in the gloom, ducking under boughs. Laura had given me “the spiel” about the Caribbean plantation’s history and the restoration of the eighteenth-century Great-House by her employer’s grandfather, but not much about Leon Caviness himself. He was a dealer in rare art, who often entertained visiting clients. Laura hadn’t been very informative about her own role as social secretary for the bachelor’s estate.

Pat MacIntyre’s Cheshire Cat grin floated on the darkness.

I thrust past it, through a curtain of sweet-flowering branches. The shrouded path ended in an open expanse of black volcanic rock dropping away over a steep cliff. A nearly-full moon sailed above low cloud drifts, spilling white light and black shadows over the cliff, repainting the night in stark otherworldliness. Darkness seemed to ooze from the rock itself to absorb the moonlight. The narrow point dropped in fissured fault blocks, giant stairsteps down to the surf. To the right, a sheltered bay mirrored the shimmering trail of the moon, and to the left, the open stretch of ocean hurled wind and waves to crash in white foam against black rock.

Something held me motionless in the wild spot, breathing the salt wind, soaking in the night. The place gave me neither welcome nor warning. I was only an insect perching there. The sheer mass of rock, imbedded in water and moonlight, reduced the nearby presence of lights and cars to a fitful dream.

Almost. I belonged to that smaller, civilized world.

In another existence, I might have thrown off my clothes and danced homage to the moon, embraced the stones and flung myself into the cool arms of the sea, seeking their magic release from my grief.
Turning brusquely back to the path, I stopped short, then dropped to my knees near the rocky cliff edge and brushed a vine aside from a flat shelf of the stone.

A glass jar tipped and rolled over the rock with a clatter and the scent of rum. I caught it reflexively, staring down at what looked like a freshly-severed chicken head lying on a mound of grainy flour. Beside it, a crude face stared out of the stone.

The moonlight suddenly rippled in dizzying waves, my heartbeat echoing in my ears. No, it was a drum, beating out an urgent rhythm, overriding my pulse. The stone beneath me throbbed like a tautly-stretched hide, and the beat shuddered through me, demanding, my blood pumping to its rhythm, not my own. An indignant protest rose up in me, but there was something, some blind force in the night, in the echoing rhythm, that brushed this logic aside.

*the pounding beat is a live being. It takes my senses, the pores of my skin, opens them wide to greedily drink in the heat and the moonlight and perfumes of rum and flowers. It dances my feet to the driving rhythm*

I jolted back from the carving, skin crawling with irrational fear. I shook my head and took a deep breath, let it out. “Get a grip, Doctor Dunne,” I muttered.

Leaning forward, I studied one of the carved stones I’d come here to research. Moonlight and shadow highlighted grooves scored into the rock, a very basic petroglyph, one of the common designs found from Australia to Africa to Alaska. Nose and eyes, an elemental watcher looking out to sea. My hand felt oddly detached from my will, reaching down to trace the lines of the carving. The ancient face almost looked ready to find its tongue and speak.

“Wha you do here?” The harsh voice came from behind me.

I lunged on a burst of adrenaline to my feet, spinning around, startled into clumsiness as I stumbled backwards. A man clutched my arm and yanked me from the verge, a glimpse of boulders pawed by the sea below.

The face revealed by the bright moon was not reassuring. It was broad, black, and scowling. Long woolly hair hung over his brow and down to his shoulders in unkempt dreadlocks. His clothes were patched together from multi-colored rags of shirts and cutoff trousers, and he had thick legs and arms and big hands. A scar ran across his left cheek and pulled his upper lip into a sneer.

“Wha you wan here?” It was a slurred, single-word burst. “You wan trouble?”

Pulse thrumming in my ears, I remembered Pat MacIntyre’s warnings about the violent “Dreads.” There was no place to go except the path the man was blocking. He stepped closer, the whites of his eyes glimmering.

A crooning noise in his throat. “Liddy missy scare?” He chuckled nastily.

“Mr. Caviness is waiting for me at the Great-House.” I cleared my throat, injected some authority. “Now please move.”

“Huh.” A contemptuous thrust of the hand. “You go. Stay way!”

I needed no urging. The man stepped aside and I hurried through the bushes onto the path, fighting the impulse to run, the back of my neck prickling. I managed to retrace the twists and turns in the dark, tripping over roots in my haste. I stopped at the edge of the pool terrace, heart galloping.
Movement and voices inside the Great House, and a muted progression of piano counterpoint. Bach. Intricate harmonies, impossibly cool and civilized amidst the humid air and riotous foliage. Chords spilled through the night, pebbles dropping into a moonlit pond.

~~~

And now for the surprise. Sara and I proudly present to you the cover art for her next book, The Ariadne Connection!

AND -- Don't forget to pick up a copy of Islands by Sara Stamey for your friends and relatives today!

-Stephanie Osborn
http://www.stephanie-osborn.com