Sunday, December 04, 2016
RW: How many hours a day do you spend writing?
TG It can vary greatly depending on what else I’m trying to get done, such as publishing, promoting, other commitments, and inspiration. I usually work something around six to ten hours a day. Even on the weekend, I am checking email and doing other tasks.
RW: What is the best thing about being a writer?
TG: I don’t have to drive into work.
RW: Why did you decide to write?
TG We were moving across the country. At the time, I was working as a programmer and decided I wanted to try my hand at writing. My husband agreed because at the time I had two young boys who weren’t very excited about the move. I helped them adjust and wrote while they were in school.
RW: When did you first think about writing and what prompted you to submit your first manuscript? What genre was it?
TG: I first thought about writing in my teens but my mother insisted there was no money in it. After years of working, I decided to see if I could write a book. Once it was done I worked on editing it and then submitted it. Romance all the way, I read it in my teens and still love it today.
RW: Do you feel humor is important in fiction and why?
TG: I believe humor is very important in life and in fiction. Mainly, we need to see the light side of life so we can deal with the burdens we have to get through. Without being able to laugh, we would all be very sad.
RW: Bubble baths or steamy showers? Ocean or mountains? Puppies or kittens? Chocolate or caramel?
TG: Bubble baths, mountains, puppies, chocolate with caramel and nuts.
RW: What song would best describe your life?
TG: “You Light Up My Life”—I try my best to inspire the people around me.
RW: City life or country life? E-Book or paperback? Zebras or elephants?
TG: Country life, paperbacks, & elephants.
RW: What are your thoughts on love scenes in romance novels?
TG: If you don’t have them, you are leaving out the important part of what makes a couple connect. After all, if a couple doesn’t feel the magic while making love then the relationship will never work.
RW: What is the most rewarding thing about being a writer?
TG: Sharing my stories with the world.
RW: Party life or quiet dinner for two?
TG: Quiet dinner for two
RW: What do you hope readers take with them after reading your work?
TG: Hope and inspiration to reach for their dreams.
RW: I love pizza with (fill in the blank).
RW: Those are all the questions I have for you today. Thanks so much for visiting my blog.
As autumn comes to the Winston estate in Ohio, Amber Harrison learns further lessons in her new position as keeper for the spirits and ghosts who haunt the estate—and further lessons in love, too. She and her love, Carter Miller, grapple with the fears and passions of new love, while caught up in the storm of ancient family drama.
This is the second book in the unfolding saga of the psychics and talents associated with the Winston estate, a sheltered place where past, present, and future are woven into a single dramatic tapestry of love and desire. The tale spans multiple generations, multiple eras, and offers something special for all ages of reader.
Tina Gayle loves writing and is currently working on finishing her Family Tree series, a contemporary paranormal suspense series.
When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and traveling around the country. She hasn’t hit every state, but she hopes to someday. You might also catch her on the golf course with her husband of 30 years.
Also, you can read the first chapter of any of her books by visiting her website or download an exclusive story “My Future Step Brother” and join her special friend’s list. All on her website http://www.tinagayle.net
He turned on the ladder. His dark brown eyes captured her, engulfing her in an encompassing warmth. She melted under his heated gaze, which ran from the top of her head to the white socks on her feet. He lifted a brow at her attire, but he didn’t comment on her pink sweat suit.
“With the old cabinets out of the way, I need to knock down this wall and tear up the flooring. The electrical work is next on the agenda.” He climbed off the ladder, yanked off his gloves, and slid a hand through his thick, wavy hair.
“It might be awhile before we install the new cabinets. Right now, we’re simply working to remove the old stuff so we can start fresh.” He smiled, which didn’t hide the dark circles under his eyes or the fatigue in the slump of his shoulders.
“There’s no hurry. If you’re busy with something else, this can wait until your Dad and Mattie come home next week.”
“No, Dad doesn’t want her dealing with this mess.” Carter unbuckled his tool belt and placed it on a workbench. “I promised him I’d have it done.”
“Is Grant helping?” Amber stepped around several pieces of sheetrock and stray bits of wood, to the bottom of the stairs.
He walked to the backdoor. “Friday, his classes are over at noon.”
With his hand resting on the doorknob, he appeared anxious to leave. “I’m headed to lunch, and then I need to drop by the office for a while. Are you sure you’re okay here by yourself?”
Amber toyed with the idea of saying no. She missed the taste of his lips and the strength of his arms, but she nodded instead. “Yes, I’m fine.”
After opening the door, he paused. “I guess I’ll see you later.”
She waved and turned to head to her room, satisfied she’d at least gotten him to talk. Her leaden feet trudged up the steps. Unexcited, she contemplated her latest assignment from the family council. How could she achieve such an impossible task of convincing her great grandmother’s ghost to cross over?
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/tina.gayleTwitter: https://twitter.com/#!/AuthorTinaGayle
Amazon Page: https://www.amazon.com/Tina-Gayle/e/B002BM9GR8
Sunday, November 27, 2016
I’d like to welcome my friend and colleague, Lisabet Sarai, to my blog.
Note: A few weeks ago, Rochelle sent me a list of interview questions for this guest appearance on her blog. When I visited to see what sort of content she liked, though, I discovered that she and I had some things in common, and I put together this more personal and possibly more relevant post.
I dream of heavy-laden banquet tables. Crisp-skinned, savory roast chickens, their walnut-and-raisin-studded stuffing leaking out onto artfully garnished platters. Barbecued lamb skewers arrayed on beds of saffron-scented pilaf. Broiled salmon brushed with tamari and garlic. Brick-colored candied yams piled into gleaming, sticky pyramids. Sweet corn glistening with melted butter. As I wander from room to room in this endless, deserted mansion, I spy a dozen kinds of cheese, two dozen varieties of olives. Dainty pastel-iced pastries tempt me. Massive apple and pumpkin pies tickle my nose with cinnamon and nutmeg. A fountain dispenses an endless stream of vanilla soft ice cream.
The mingled aromas of my favorite foods assault me. Saliva gathers in my mouth. My stomach growls. I want to eat it all. Confronted by such bounty, I don’t know where to start.
Then I remember. I can’t. I mustn’t. Hunger tugs me toward the lusciously-arrayed buffets, but I must resist. Already I feel the flesh ballooning on my thighs and belly, from the mere thought of such indulgence. I run through the corridors, pursued by the scent of spices, roasted meat, caramelized sugar. There’s no exit. I’m trapped.
I wake into a full-blown anxiety attack, my heart racing, sweat drenching my skinny, naked body. Calm, I must be calm. It’s only a dream. I capture my bony wrist, encircling it with the thumb and forefinger of my other hand to reassure myself. I’m still thin enough. I’m still in control of that terrible hunger. I won’t give in to it, ever.
I promise myself that I’ll skip the slice of cantaloupe I usually eat for breakfast. Just in case. The gluttonous desires of my dream may have polluted me. Black coffee with artificial sweetener will be enough for today.
This is the nightmare of anorexia.
From the outside, anorexia looks trivial, capricious, especially compared to other forms of psychological illness like bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. “Oh,” people think. “She thinks she’s fat. She doesn’t like her body. She wants to lose weight. Nothing wrong with that, she’s just taken it a bit too far. If she’d only start eating a little more, she’d be fine.”
The fact that our culture equates thinness with beauty makes anorexia seem almost rational. I can assure you from personal experience, though, that an anorexic is as crazy as someone who thinks she’s Queen Victoria or who raves about being possessed by aliens. Anorexics suffer from equally disturbing delusions. We see ourselves as eternally fat and feel constantly threatened by our own bodies. When I was anorexic, I was possessed too, by a voracious demon whose hunger could never be appeased.
What the heck? you may be thinking. Hungry? When you’re choosing to starve yourself? So if you’re so hungry, then eat.
If only it were that simple.
I’ve come to understand that anorexia is not really about food at all. It’s about control, or more precisely the fear of losing control. It’s no accident that most cases afflict women in their teens, struggling to deal with all the changes of puberty and the pressures of emerging sexuality. Girls who have a perfectionist attitude tend to be more susceptible—you know, the ones who despair when they receive a grade of 98 instead of 100 or who spend hours every day practicing so that they’ll make the varsity gymnastics team or the cheerleading squad or the All-State orchestra. That was me, the grind, the egghead, top of the class in every subject. We want to be good—the very best. And then we realize our bodies, our hormones, our desires are totally haywire. What we really want—oh, but it’s unspeakable.
We can’t control our carnal needs—indeed, consciously we might not even be aware of them—but food is something concrete, something we can manipulate and ration. We can apply the same discipline we exert in our studies, our athletics or our cultural pursuits, to cut down on the things that will make us “fat”. By depriving ourselves, we can prove how strong and pure we are. As our bodies shed the pounds, they become bright beacons advertising our virtue and self-control.
When I looked like a concentration camp victim, I thought I was beautiful.
Of course, food is symbolic of other things as well. Like many mothers, mine equated food with nurturing, comfort and caring. When I rejected the (quite delicious) meals she cooked for me, I was rejecting her love. At least was the way she saw things. Meanwhile, I saw her as the enemy, trying to undermine my resolve to get my appetite under control—trying to “make me fat.”
The superficially rational aspects of anorexia and the hostility that often develops between the sufferer and those who are closest to her make the disease very difficult to treat. If the disease is about control, what is the remedy?
I can’t speak for others, but my recovery started when I learned to trust someone else enough to give up control. My therapist, whom I saw for more than four years, somehow convinced me that he could keep me safe, even if I started to eat again. He was the total opposite of the Freudian stereotype, a short, chubby, jolly Latin who had no qualms about giving me a hug. I guess I fell in love with him (Freud’s transference, perhaps, or maybe something more genuine). He told me once that I could do anything I wanted, and he would never judge me. “If you decided to go to the Moon,” he said, “I’d be here when you got back, applauding.”
It took nearly a decade for me to learn how to trust myself with food and eat “normally”. I believe I’m past the point where I’m terrified by my own hunger. Now I feel tremendous sympathy for the girls and their families still trapped in that nightmare. I’d like to tell them that there is a way out—that I escaped from that haunted mansion to live happy and healthy into my sixties. Perhaps that’s a message they need to hear.
(By the way, the images accompanying this post are scans of some of the art therapy work I did while I was in the psychiatric hospital.)
On a lighter note, I’ve got a blurb and excerpt for you from my outrageous erotic romance novel Rajasthani Moon. If you like steampunk—or ménage—or shifters—or BDSM—or BBW heroines... you’ll love this book. In fact, I’m giving away an e-book copy to one person who leaves a comment on this post. Just be sure to include your email address in the comment, so I can find you!
Rochelle: I was diagnosed as an “anorexic who gave up,” when I weighed about 200 pounds. After I was also diagnosed as bipolar, meds caused me to reach 300 pounds, where I stayed for many years. Lisabet and I are at opposite ends of the same spectrum, although the “monster” in her drawing looks a lot like me. Yeah, I’ve relapsed. I wrote a book about losing 150 pounds and have regained 75. I’m back up to 200.
I admire you being able to maintain a healthy weight, Lisabet. I absolutely know what a struggle it is.
Neither kink nor curse can stop a woman with a mission.
Cecily Harrowsmith, secret agent extraordinaire, is a woman on a mission. When the remote Indian kingdom of Rajasthan refused to remit its taxes to the Empire, Her Majesty imposed an embargo. Deprived of the energy-rich mineral viridium, essential for modern technology and development, Rajasthan was expected to quickly give in and resume its payments. Yet after three years, the rebellious principality still has not knuckled under. Cecily undertakes the difficult journey to that rugged, arid land in order to determine just how it has managed to survive, and if possible to convince the country to return to the Empire’s embrace. Instead, she’s taken captive by a brigand, who turns out to be the ruler’s half-brother Pratan, and delivered into the hands of the sexy but sadistic Rajah Amir, who expertly mingles torture and delight in his interrogation of the voluptuous interloper.
Cursed before birth by Amir’s jealous mother, Pratan changes to a ravening wolf whenever the moon is full. Cecily uncovers the counter-spell that can reverse the effects of the former queen’s hex and tries to trade that information for her freedom. Drawn to the fierce wolf-man and sympathizing with his suffering, she volunteers to serve as the sacrifice required by the ritual—offering her body to the beast. In return, the Rajah reveal Rajasthan’s amazing secret source of energy. In the face of almost impossible odds, Cecily has accomplished the task entrusted to her by the Empire. But can she really bear to leave the virile half-brothers and their colorful land behind and return to the constraints of her life in England?
You can buy the book at your favorite online store: