Tom Cruise and Oblivion...

I saw the new Tom Cruise movie Oblivion this week. Let me just say first that I’m not a big science fiction girl. Never have been but it doesn’t mean that I don’t like science fiction. That being stated though I liked this movie. I’ll try to speak in generalities but understand that it I might leak a few spoilers. If you want to see this movie, continue reading at your own risk. J

To anyone who hasn’t been living under a rock since the 1980s Tom Cruise is a movie star. There is no doubt about it. He skyrocketed to fame with the film like Risky Business and has never seemed to look back. He’s done the big budget action films like Mission Impossible and Top Gun. I’ve never been into that Tom Cruise. I like the Tom who did Rain Man and Jerry Maguire.

Watching Oblivion though realized why I liked those other two movies. Tom Cruise is never better than when he plays a character that it a little too sure of himself. You know that guy who knows his role in life. The man who not only lives on the edge but flourishes on it right until the moment he falls over.

Then viewers get to see what Tom does best. He takes this character that you think that you know, the one you have already invested thirty to forty minutes and spins him around. He makes choices as an actor that allows the viewer to feel as if they are a part of  the journey to self discovery.

In Oblivion, we meet Jack Harper, a futuristic electronic repairman who is two weeks away from completing his mission. Jack is another one of these characters who seemingly has life by the tail. It’s not until he begins questioning this that he realized that his “rebuilt” life isn’t what it seems.

The movie is not without its flaws. The pacing is a bit off and there is not nearly enough screen time for Morgan Freeman (but really I always think that.) The plot weakened as it needed more humans and less drones. But if you want to see Cruise at his best I highly recommend seeing it.

"Overnight" Success: Writer vs. Author

When I tell people that I’m a published author most are impressed. The next thing out of their mouth is “What have you written?” I then watch as the excitement drains from their face when they realize that I’m not E.L James (thank goodness!). We often hear about the “overnight” successes. People that sell a million plus copies of the first book they ever write. What we forget is there are more authors like me out there than E.L. James.

            I use the word author instead of writer because anyone can be a writer. Being a writer is easy. Being an author is hard. A writer doesn’t have deadlines to meet and can write whenever the "Muse" hits them. An author forces said Muse, at times at imaginary gunpoint, to meet the daily word count because the manuscript is due by the end of the month. A writer can doesn’t have to explain to his/her family why spending days at a writing convention is not only fun but more important than sitting on the beach with a margarita in hand.

            Writing is a hobby. Being an author is a career. Most of the authors I know balance full time day jobs with full time writing careers. Authors must able to multitask. There are deadlines to meet, edits to do, conventions to visit, publishing houses to research, swag to order, blogs to write…not to mention the BEAST that is SOCIAL MEDIA. If you want to sell your books you have to sell yourself.The actual writing is usually done in chunks (i.e. lunch breaks, car pool lanes, sleepless nights and predawn sessions).  

            Why do it? I can’t answer for anyone but myself. I am an author because it’s my dream. I’m a writer because it’s who I am. For a while I get to be anyone I want, go places that I dream and live in a fantasy world that is often better than reality.

Panic and the Attacks it Brings

Anxiety and panic attacks are words that often get thrown around in society these days. Anxiety is defined in the Webster Dictionary as: painful or apprehensive uneasiness of mind usually over an impending or anticipated ill.

Panic attacks are defined as: an episode of intense fear or apprehension that is of sudden onset and may occur for no apparent reason or as a reaction to an identifiable triggering stimulus (as a stressful event); specifically : one that is accompanied by usually four or more bodily or cognitive symptoms (as heart palpitations, dizziness, shortness of breath, or feelings of unreality) and that typically peaks within 10 minutes of onset

You can have anxiety without the panic attacks but I doubt vice versa. I suffer from both. There is not a time in my life that I can honestly say that anxiety hasn’t been a part of. I must say though that anxiety didn’t rule or ruin my childhood. I am a worrier. I think that it’s in my DNA. My mother is a worrier, my dad, sisters…I guess it’s just what we do.

Panic attacks are a different beast entirely. My first attack happened when I was about twenty. I worked the night shift at a big time shipping company (those who live in and around Louisville know who I’m talking about). A friend introduced me to a guy who I was interested in and one night I arrived early to work in hopes of getting to talk to him. I sat in my car running the script over and over in my head. You know the script where I came off as this amazing, funny, flirty, smart, so beautiful he will never be able to live without me type of conversation.

The longer I sat there the more nervous I became. I couldn’t catch my breath. My heart felt as if it was going to beat right out of my chest and I felt lightheaded. I didn’t know what was wrong. Was I sick? Having a heart attack? Whatever it was I just closed my eyes and prayed that it went away. It lasted about ten minutes and then I was fine. Twenty year old me chalked it up to nerves and went inside. BTW I did see the guy that night and was a big hit. Did work out you ask? That is another post. J

Over the years there were other “spells” and I admit they reached an all time high after the death of my father in 2010. Thankfully I’ve met others who suffer from anxiety and/or panic attacks. Through their advice and guidance I’ve been able to educate myself. I’m not on any medication but neither would I be ashamed/resistant if my doctor felt those meds necessary. My words to others dealing with this are you are not weak, weird or any other derogatory name small minded people come up with. You are normal…whatever that means….

Django Unchained Review

I just watched the much anticipated (at least in the eyes of this writer) Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained. Most of the reviews have been favorable but I must admit I was a bit scared that I would be seeing Kill Bill instead of a Pulp Fiction/Inglorious Bastards.

            What I saw was a film that was almost perfect. As I sit and reflect on the film I realized that Tarantino is a masterful director/screenwriter. This movie was about as perfectly cast as any film that I’ve seen in the last five or so years. Christoph Waltz was just as brilliant here as he was in his Oscar winning role in Inglorious Bastards. I read that Quentin wrote the part for Waltz and it shows. He showed off Waltz comedic timing and the off center intelligence that the actor is known for.

                        The other actor getting a lot of hype from this movie is Leonardo DiCaprio. From a girl that loves Leo as one of Titanic’s lovebirds I must admit I like a little of mean Leo. Calvin’s a complex character who is no stranger to getting his way and using cruel measures to keep everyone in line. Trust me you love to see him get what he deserves.

Kerry Washington gets little screen time as Django’s German speaking wife Hildy. The scenes with her and Foxx are heartfelt and she does so much with very little dialogue. As a viewer you know that this is a couple who would do anything for one another.

 Jamie Foxx IS Django.This is a character that not only African Americans can admire but everyone can. Jamie’s Django is intelligent with a thirst for knowledge. He is a loyal friend and a loving husband. Plus the fastest gun in the south. He is truly one in 10,000.

To close, Django is not for the faint of heart. It is violent and downright gruesome in parts. The use of the N word I admit is jarring as well. But I think that Quentin wanted you to feel that way. With the characters that were using it weren’t the heroes of the story. In my opinion he showed that the word should never be used at all. But if you can handle that or belong to the Tarantino fanbase I highly suggest that you give it a try…if just for the KKK scene alone.

Welcome Today Guest Blogger...Author Blaine Pardoe!

                           "Genre? We don't need no stinking genre?"

My most recent book, Virginia Creeper, is a book detailing a bizarre (paranormal) series of events related to a brutal series of murders in the Virginia Piedmont. Some people have said it’s a horror book, some say it’s paranormal, others classify it as a true crime, while others have labeled it as a thriller. I don't care what label is put on it but it is interesting that some readers seem to focus on this exclusively. Some books, and I think Virginia Creeper is one of them, crosses into a number of genres - and that should be okay. From the author's perspective I can tell you that all that matters to me is that it is entertaining for the reader.
I find it fascinating that authors have to fit our reading into defined taxonomies like the genre. While helpful for some readers, I'm not sure its fair for some of the books. For example my true crime book, Secret Witness. Is it a true crime, or a regional history (Michigan), or is it a legal (true life) thriller? Does putting a book into a category drive who will read it? What defines a genre is pretty vague. Let's face it, this problem has been around for a while. There were times in bookstores I had to look in two or more sections to find a book I wrote.
Some of this is my own fault - I admit it. In my writing career I have written bestselling business management books (Cubicle Warfare) a lot of science fiction novels (thirteen as of this summer) a traditional true crime book this year (Secret Witness) and a lot of military history non-fiction books. I write the things I like reading. As such, I write in a LOT of different genres.
There's a school of thought that writers should pick a genre and deep-dive into it. I know that's good if you want to build a solid following of fans devoted a particular kind of book. Me, I find that writing in different genres is much more healthy to me as a writer. And, because I write multiple things in these genres, I have been able to cultivate followings in each genre. Some follow me from one genre to the other - some don't. That's okay, as long as everyone has a good time reading my work.
Virginia Creeper doesn't dovetail well into any one genre - and for that I'm proud. It's more of a crossover book, one that either defines a new genre or fits into a number of others well. Suffice it to say that if you like horror, the paranormal, and true crimes - this book will play well into your sweet spot.
The old saying, "don't judge a book by its cover," should be changed. "Don't judge a book by its genre in Amazon.com."

Welcome Hydra Publication Author...Tony Acree!

Tony Acree was born in La Grange, Kentucky in January 1963. His short story fiction has appeared in Kentucky Monthly Magazine. He has written articles about his time as a stay at home dad for a women’s magazine as well as sports and information articles. His work has also appeared in The Cumberland, the Kentucky state wide newspaper outlet of the Sierra Club. He is a member of 　the Green River Writers as well as The Bluegrass Writers Edge, a creative writers group in Goshen, Kentucky, where he lives with his wife and twin daughters. Visit his website at Tonyacree.com. You can find him on Twitter　and Facebook. You can email him at Tonyacre@Gmail.com.

Excerpt:

The Hand of God

by

Tony Acree

It was 6 p.m. when the Devil walked into my office and had a seat.
Now when I say the Devil, I’m not talking figuratively. Lord knows that having spent the last five years as a bounty hunter, I’ve come face to face with every form of evil that walks on this scum-ridden planet: murderers, rapists, even a couple of freakin’ child molesters. So I have more than a passing acquaintance with evil, of both the male and female varieties.
But no, in this case, I’m talking in the literal sense. You know, as in Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, the goddamned Father of all goddamned Lies. That Devil.
You’re probably wondering if he was all red, with horns, a pointed tail and pitchfork. Sorry to disappoint you, but he wasn’t. He looked like any other well-dressed bastard in a snazzy suit and shoes to match. OK, he did have a red tie but I couldn’t see any tail coming out his ass. He was around six feet tall, blond hair and icy blue eyes. Guess we know where Hitler got his ideas for all that superior race crap.
And I bet you’re also wondering just how the hell I knew it was the Fallen Angel himself. I guess it was the same way Moses knew that the burning bush was really God and not just a couple of his buddies lighting the damned thing on fire and then pretending to be God while hiding behind the closest rock laughing. Let’s put it this way, if the Devil walks through your door one day, you won't have any doubts either. Take my word for it.
Anyway, I’d had a good week and was just getting ready to leave and lock the place up, looking forward to taking the weekend off from chasing bad guys and heading down to Molly Malone’s, when the door opened and in waltzes Satan, just as pretty as you please. He pulled up a chair near my desk and sits down flashing a row of pearly whites the Kardashian family would be proud of.
"Victor, you know who I am?" he said, eyebrows all arched and superior, although it was more of a proclamation than a question.

I nodded back and calmly opened the top right drawer of my desk, grabbing my Glock 9 millimeter I keep there in case of emergencies. I figured if this didn't qualify for an emergency, then nothing would.

"You know that won’t do you any good," he said.

He was right. Somehow I knew that. After all, for more than a couple of millennium at a bare minimum, people have wanted to kick Satan’s backside with no success. I just knew it wouldn’t do me any good.

But I pulled the gun out and shot the son-of-a-bitch right between the eyes anyway. Blamo!

A perfect gun powdered entry wound appeared smack dab between his eyes. But I could see no blood and no head explosion out the back, just a big hole and an annoyed look on Satan’s formerly pristine mug.
Now you would think that a guy, after being shot in the head, would exhibit some sort of adverse effects, but not this time. And folks, that’s just wrong.

Rachael Rawlings' Dearly Departed

I am the proud mother of three wonderful children, ages 15, 13, 11, and work as a Speech Language Pathologist in the local school system. I have a love of reading, writing, and drawing, as well as my menagerie of animals including two dogs, two parrots, two crabs and several fish tanks. My lifelong dream has been writing, and I have completed five novels. As an author, I have had the opportunity to draw ideas from my real life and the world around me. I am a native of Louisville, Kentucky, and live in Crestwood. My little town was a great influence on my first published book, Dearly Departed , especially the lovely little local cemetery.

Dearly Departed

Grave Reminders Series

"You're out late."

His voice came, filtered through the heavy air, deep and hushed.

"So are you, I suppose." I tried to keep my voice as even as his.

"As always," he replied, finally reaching the soft light of the moon. He paused and leaned against the low stone wall, comfortably.

The moonshine was generous to his sharp features, softening them with the forgiveness of the night. He was all angles and long lines, from the sharp blade of his nose to the golden arch of his brows. His eyes were impossible to see, but his hands were beautiful where they rested on a moss lined stone. A heavy gold band circled his thumb, looking tarnished in the dim light.

"It's a quiet night." The words that came were not the ones that I would have reasonably spoken. This was not a conversation that had any of the norms of social interaction.

"Not so much. The birds are complaining. They don’t like the fog."

I looked at him, immersed in the unreality of the scene. "You know much about birds?"

"More about the night. I don't sleep much. I tend to travel most often at night."

That explained a little, but not nearly enough to satisfy me.

"Why here?"

"I have my own reasons." He returned softly, no sting to his words. "You watch. I walk. We all have our little ways of coping with the time."

The conversation had little substance, but I was reluctant to leave him, even more to turn my back on him.

"Are you staying nearby?" The questions seemed general enough.

"You assume that I'm passing through? Yes, I am staying nearby." He looked away, the sound of a car's motor seeming unusually loud.

"And you'll keep coming back?" My hushed voice was reverent for the people that lay there, silent in their soullessness.

"Until I find what I need."

"And that is?" I honestly felt that I could help him. After years of living here, the graveyard had become my walking park, my backyard, and my pondering place. I knew most of the names intimately, as well as the familiar faces of the mourners that came to visit them.

"I'll know it when I see it," he responded with a frustrating calm.

The insistent barking of a dog caused me to turn back toward the gate where I could see the sleek shape of my mixed breed hound pressed against the slats.

"Baxter, quiet," I said, my firm voice bouncing like a crazy ball off the stone and wood.

"He's missing you," the stranger said softly, "and he doesn't trust me."

"He doesn't trust anyone until he can smell them," I said, frowning at the pacing figure of the dog behind the gate.

"Let him free."

Obediently, I went back toward the gate and let it swing open. Baxter ran through with amazing speed, his muscular legs eating up the ground as his long beagle ears flapped with each stride. He stopped abruptly in front of the man, his paws digging in the moist earth, his nose to the ground. It took only seconds for his sensitive nose to complete the assessment; he ran his face close to scuffed black jeans, tattered leather jacket cuffs, and over the beautiful hands before he allowed them to rest on his head.

"He's a fine dog. A good friend. He wants to know if he can trust me."

"He's usually pretty quick to warm up. Not the best guard dog, especially if someone was carrying a treat."

"He would know if someone meant you any harm. He's more sensitive then you might think."

I looked at him, pondering his cryptic statement. There was very little about this man that seemed easy to discern. He was watching the dog as Baxter investigated the yard, his nose working furiously. I allowed the hound into the cemetery only on occasion, but he had always been a perfect gentleman. He never misbehaved, barked, dug, or wet in the area. It was as though there was something in his canine manners that realized the place for what is was and respected it.

"It will rain soon."

My eyes went back to his face, my hands burrowing into my jacket pockets as the light wind tugged my hair out of my collar.

"Why do you say that?"

"I know. He can tell too," he responded, looking toward Baxter. "You need to get back home. I don't want you out in the rain."

"And you? Where will you go? You won't stay?"

"I'll see you safely inside. Then I'll go."

"You'll be back?"

He nodded wordlessly and I watched, frozen, as he drew close to me. Closer, I could see that his eyes were a very light color, but could not see the shade. The scent of him, something like pine and soap, enveloped me momentarily as the wind caressed his figure. He was tall, and I had to tip my head back to follow his expression. One long fingered hand caught my elbow and followed my arm down to my wrist where he pulled my hand from my pocket. He enveloped my freed hand in his gentle grasp, his skin surprisingly warm and dry.

"Come on," his voice was soft, floating on the breeze, mixed with the waning fog.

I followed.

My thanks go to Missy for hosting me on this blog tour. I have really enjoyed learning more about the craft of writing, and have been genuinely heartened by the many wonderful writers at Hydra Publications. I hope everyone joins me in reading the other great books that Hydra is representing.

The second in this series from Grave Reminders, will continue the story of my characters from Dearly Departed. I hope to explore a little further the line between here and there, the life and the afterlife.



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