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Monday, April 28, 2014

Net Neutrality and the Online Writer

The FCC is currently proposing new rules regarding net neutrality. According to the FCC chair, Tom Wheeler, these new rules are designed to keep ‘the underlying goals of transparency, no blocking of lawful content, and no unreasonable discrimination among users’ originally imposed by the FCC’s net neutrality rules. The new rules, Wheeler maintains, create a roadmap for enforcing ‘rules of the road’ to protect an open Internet.

Unless you happen to be really savvy about the Internet and how it operates, a lot of the brouhaha that has erupted regarding the new rule proposal will probably be over your head. All the talk about broadband provider changes, commercially unreasonable activity, and preferential agreements between providers and their affiliates, is about as comprehensible to the average Internet user as a scroll written in an unknown language.

Because they will impact information flow and pricing, though, the proposed rules have generated a blizzard of commentary. Predictably, a lot of the opposition to them has come from small companies and startup operations who view them as hamstringing them in their efforts to compete in the content market with large entities with mega-budgets and battalions of lawyers and lobbyists.

In the storm of reaction to the proposal, though, the one segment of the content market that has not been discussed, as far as I can determine, are the content creators. The impact of the proposed rules on small bloggers and content writers like you and me, doesn't seem to have received much notice or consideration.
The FCC commissioners are due to vote on the new rules on May 15, after which they will be open to public comment. You can bet that commercial entities, big and small, will flood the FCC, the White House, Congress, and the Internet with their comments. But, if the new rules go into effect and small content providers find themselves squeezed into the Internet’s slow lanes, those of us who create content, most of which goes to these smaller outfits, could find ourselves edged out of the market – our creations relegated to the parking slots alongside the information super highway.
It behooves us, therefore, to ensure that our voices are heard in the cacophony of argument that is sure to ensue.

The first step is to educate ourselves on the potential impacts of the proposed rules on our business. To look closely at your current content markets and blog readership, and assess as best we can how they will fare under the new regime. If they’re shunted to the leftover slow lanes of the broadband spectrum because of sweetheart deals that the FCC deems are ‘commercially reasonable’ we could find our markets drying up.
Next, make your voice heard. Contact your members of Congress and let them know that true net neutrality is important to you as a writer, a consumer, and a citizen. Contact FCC chairman Tom Wheeler, and politely inform him of the impact the new rules will have on you as a writer. You might also consider contacting the White House and reminding the President of his promise to support net neutrality.

As a final shot across the FCC’s bows, consider sharing this post and related articles on this issue with your contacts, encouraging them to let their voices be heard as well.

For further information on this issue, check the following links. They are not all-inclusive, and certainly not the final word, but they will begin your education process on an issue that could quietly sink your writing boat.



Sunday, April 27, 2014

PnPAuthor Author Spotlight & Interview: PnPAuthors Book Club Introduces Author STEPHEN L. ...

PnPAuthor Author Spotlight & Interview: PnPAuthors Book Club Introduces Author STEPHEN L. ...: http://pnpauthorspattimariandpeter.ning.com/?xgi=3nNjFsJT6O49jV   PnPAuthors book Club is pleased to introduce our very special ...

WIP: Chapter Two of 'Drop Dead, Gorgeous'


     We stopped at the Chinese restaurant on Travilah Road, just north of River Road, and had chicken with almonds, rice, and Chinese vegetables, washed down with hot green tea.
     After supper, we drove to the converted warehouse on South Street in Georgetown. I parked the Green Bug, the Volkswagen Sandra bought me for my fiftieth birthday, in a basement parking garage in an adjacent building.
     Sandwiched between M Street, the main corridor running east and west through Georgetown, and the Whitehurst Freeway, an elevated highway running along the Potomac River, South Street and the other narrow streets in the area that formed the south border of Georgetown had once crisscrossed between and among warehouses that were part of the river port. They had long since been converted to office buildings, studios, and exclusive condominiums. There were one or two over-priced restaurants, just as exclusive as the condos, often requiring six months to get a table – if you knew the right people. I’d never eaten there. I’m pretty sure my buddy Quincy Chang, a partner in the law firm that has me on a ten thousand dollar a month retainer to do odd jobs for them, knows the right people. Hell, I’m pretty sure he’s one of the right people. But, we met when we were both in the army and assigned at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, me in Delta Force and him in the post adjutant general office as an army lawyer, so he pretty much knows my taste in eateries runs mainly to the lowbrow. I prefer paying for food, not ambience.
     After coming out of the parking garage, we moved briskly toward our destination. Despite the gentrification of the buildings, street maintenance was no better than in other parts of the city. Mounds of grey slush dotted the sidewalk, and here there were empty wine bottles left behind by the homeless guys who had gone looking for warm grates to huddle over. The cold air did little to erase the smell of sweat, urine and stale booze. Added to that was the biting cold. Thankfully, the inside of the building was heated – the blast of warm air felt great.
     The front of the building had been converted into a large entrance lobby, with a ticket booth to the right and an area to the left with tables laden with champagne and an impressive array of finger sandwiches, dips, gourmet crackers, cheese, and fruit. Sandra and I presented ourselves at the ticket booth. The attendant was a tall, skinny redhead with freckles on her nose and cheeks. I gave her my name.
     “Oh, Mr. Pennyback,” she said. “Mr. Rigg left tickets for you and Ms. Winter.” She shoved two tickets to us – front row, 1 and 2. I took them and put them inside my jacket pocket.
     “Well, looks like Calvin Rigg still thinks highly of you,” Sandra said as she linked her arm through mine. “Front row seats – now that’s class.”
     “I’m more interested in the snacks,” I said. “Hell, if I’d known they’d have a spread like this, we could have skipped dinner.”
     She pulled me toward the table. “Ooh, look – caviar,” she said. “I always have room for caviar.”
     I hadn’t noticed the little bowls of the dark eggs sitting nestled among the cheese and crackers. I joined Sandra at the table. She was shoveling crackers piled high with caviar into her mouth and making little sighing sounds. I picked up a cracker and dipped it into the caviar, scooping up a small amount. Not exactly the sophisticated way to do it, but then, I’m not really into sophisticated. She was right, though, it was good.
     Despite having eaten, we made a dent in the food near us, and washed it down with a glass each of the bubbly stuff – an expensive French brand. It looked like Rigg was doing well for himself.
     A stuffy looking guy wearing a top hat and tail coat, and speaking with a British accent, announced that the show was about to begin before we were able to make complete pigs of ourselves. We followed the rest of the crowd, middle aged men and women decked out in what I’m sure they thought passed for high fashion, but to me just looked like expensive closet hangings, into the large room where the fashion show was being held.
     There was a large stage at the back of the room. The runway, a narrow elevated strip projecting from the center of the stage out about fifty feet, had five rows of seats to each side, with each row slightly elevated above the one in front.
     Our seats were at the right, just at the end of the runway. Most of the other front row seats were already filled. The house lights went down just as we took our seats. Pink floodlights illuminated the runway, and without preamble or announcement the models began parading from behind the large purple curtains at either side of the stage.
     One at a time they pranced and strutted across the stage and down the runway, pausing at the end, and thrusting their hips at the audience on either side, looking at us with stares of aloof disdain.
     I’m no fashion expert, but I could tell that Rigg was using African traditional dress for his inspiration, with lots of hip-hugging wrap around skirts and colorful head scarves. I also recognized some of the models from my investigation of his former partner’s murder – Bibi Gunn, a tall woman with cocoa brown skin, shiny black hair done in corn rows, and a nice rear end that was displayed to best advantage in the clinging skirts; Svetlana Kalishnakova, the Georgian model with metallic blonde hair, now cut close to her skull, and breasts that threatened to burst from the tightly wrapped blouses, and Genvieve Montand, the Philadelphia native with her brown hair done in a page boy cut. The others were typical fashion models, with long legs, pert breasts, unencumbered by bras, and wooden expressions on their faces.
     I had to keep pinching my thighs to stay awake. Two meals, the warmth in the room, and the music – the muted sound of drums to the beat of the models’ strutting – made me drowsy. Sandra kept looking askance at me, and occasionally nudged me in the side with her elbow.
     The lights came up, and a skinny guy wearing a powder blue tuxedo came out on stage and announced a twenty minute intermission. Sandra and I were halfway to the exit when Calvin Rigg came through the door, heading straight for us. He was wearing faded jeans and a plaid shirt, open at the throat. His hair was still cropped close, and beginning to show gray at the temples. He looked like he’d put on a few pounds since we last met.
     “Mr. Pennyback, Al,” he said. “I’m so glad you could come. I hope you two are enjoying the show.”
     “It’s amazing,” Sandra said.
     He looked at me, a faint smile on his pale face. “I imagine it’s not your cup of tea, Al,” he said. “No matter. I wanted you to come so we could talk.”
     “What did you want to talk about, Cal?”
     “Could we go back to my office? Ms. Winter – Sandra – why don’t you enjoy the rest of the show.” He smiled at me. “I think you’ll be more comfortable in my office.”

     He had that right. I squeezed Sandra’s arm. “I’ll be back by the time the show’s over, babe.”


HR BlogVOCATE: L.A. Clippers Owner Donald Sterling Says He “Loves...

HR BlogVOCATE: L.A. Clippers Owner Donald Sterling Says He “Loves...: Holy cow. I just finished listening to the audiotape (okay, “alleged” audiotape) of L.A. Clippers owner Donald Sterling and his girlf...

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

WIP: 'Drop Dead, Gorgeous

Here is the first chapter of my current Al Pennyback mystery in progress, Drop Dead, Gorgeous, along with a rough sketch of a possible cover.



     On Fridays, after I close up shop, all I usually want to do is hang out on the couch with my feet up, listening to classical music or jazz on National Public Radio. NPR has some of the best programs going, and I don’t have to worry about keeping track of a music collection.
     When I lived by myself – which I did for nearly a decade after my wife and son were killed in an auto accident – that was my usual end of week routine. That changed a bit when I met Sandra. Sandra Winter is a school teacher at one of Washington, DC’s inner city high schools, and after a week of being cooped up in a classroom with some tough kids from tough neighborhoods, she likes to join me on the couch sometimes, and at other times she likes to go out and indulge herself in the adult pleasure of a fine meal washed down with a glass or two of white wine. I don’t mind that myself, except that I tend to wash my food down with a cold beer. When we do go out, we usually end up back at my place, cuddling.
     So why, I ask myself, on a Friday evening in late-January, did I find myself sitting in a chilly room in Georgetown that had once been a warehouse, now converted into an exhibition room and stage, watching a parade of bulimic women parade back and forth on a narrow catwalk, showing off clothing that no sane woman would wear, along with yards of flesh?
     It had all started when I walked through the door, slapping my upper arms against the chill outside, to find Sandra standing in the middle of the living room with a strange smile on her face, and mischief in her bright blue eyes.
     “Al, darling,” she said. “You’re home early for a change. I hope you’re up to going out tonight.”
     Something in the tone of her voice, or maybe it was the glint in her eyes, made me suspicious. Not that Sandra’s the sneaky type, you understand – at least, not normally.
     “I’d think after last weekend, you’d want to stay home,” I said.
     I was probing. The previous Saturday had been Inauguration Day, and despite the fact that Sandra’s candidate had lost – or in her words, the court had given the election to his opponent – she felt an obligation to go and stand in the cold along Pennsylvania Avenue with the other gawkers and watch the former Texas governor get sworn in as the 43d President of the United States. She hadn’t gone because she liked that this had happened, but told me she’d never missed an inauguration since coming to the DC area as a college student, and besides, she was planning to join a large group who were there to protest the whole thing.
     During the Inaugural Parade, however, someone in her group had pelted the president-elect’s limo with eggs, which had spoiled it for her. She didn’t like the man or his party, but believed that respect should still be shown the office. Quiet, non-violent protest was as far as she was prepared to go.
     She looked sideways at me, as if to see if I was being serious. “I’d rather not be reminded of that,” she said finally. “Some people just never know where the limits are. But, there’s little chance of anything going wrong with what I have in mind.”
     Now, it was my turn to look at her out of the corner of my eye. “And, just what pray tell do you have in mind?”
     “Well, I was thinking we could grab a bite to eat at one of the restaurants in Georgetown -“
     “Whoa, babe,” I cut her off. “You know I’m not fond of the tony places in Georgetown. Too many tourists and students and lousy parking – and they charge an arm and a leg for food that’s just mediocre. Why in hell would you want to eat there?”
     She blushed. She’s cute when she blushes. Two little circles of red appeared on her cheeks. Sandra could never be a crook – she has a conscience the size of Mount Rushmore, and simply cannot lie convincingly. I can’t believe that I once, very briefly, suspected her of being involved in a murder. When I first met her, I was investigating the shooting death of one of her students, and her neighbor tried to convince me that she was having inappropriate relations with the young man and might have had him killed. What a load of crap that was, and I almost fell for it. But, I digress. She was feeling guilty about something. I gave her a stern look, which only made her blush more.
     “Okay,” she said. “I do have a specific reason for wanting to eat in Georgetown. Do you remember Calvin Rigg?”
     The name didn’t register at first. I never forget a face, but names slide off my brain like ducks on a frozen pond. It took a few minutes of concentrated thought for me to remember.
     “Oh yeah, the fashion designer who was accused of killing his former partner – hey, you’re not talking about what I think you’re talking about are you?”
     Calvin Rigg’s partner Franklin Honeywell had been found in his office with a pair of tailor’s shears in his chest. Rigg had been accused of the killing, and had hired me to prove his innocence. Turned out that Honeywell had been killed by his assistant, Albertina Wittmer. I hadn’t heard from Rigg since that case, and hadn’t missed it. My introduction to the world of fashion hadn’t impressed me – a bunch of self-absorbed egos whose view of the world was as warped as plastic sheeting in the hot sun. Not the kind of people I looked forward to spending time with.
     Sandra’s answer dropped on me like a bag of dog poop. “He’s having a showing of his spring line, and he’s inviting you and me as VIP guests.”
     “First you want me to eat in Georgetown. You know I prefer real food to the high-tone stuff they serve there. Then, you want me to spend the evening watching a bunch of anorexic women flashing boob and thigh for a bunch of people who ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ but who couldn’t possibly wear the rags these women are showing off. That would guarantee to give me a bad case of indigestion.”
     “Oh, come on, Al,” she said, pouting. “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy an evening of ogling a bunch of beautiful women.”
     I stood there, looking at her with my mouth open. The last thing I wanted was an argument. I don’t consider myself an ogler – I do like the sight of beauty, but it depends on how you define it. Models have a certain look about them, but it’s not what I think of as beauty. Too gaunt, too aloof, too self-absorbed. Of course, I could spend the evening looking at Sandra out of the corner of my eye. Now, she’s what I call beautiful.
     “Okay, okay, if you insist, but could we stop at the coffee shop in Potomac Village and get a light meal?”
     “There’s that little Chinese place just off River Road,” she said. “That would be preferable to a coffee shop, don’t you think?”

     Beautiful, smart, and really thoughtful – that’s my Sandra.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Latest Buffalo Soldier Title: Free for Kindle, April 22 - 26!



First Sergeant Ben Carter and his detachment are dispatched to the western part of New Mexico Territory to track down a band of renegade Apache who have bolted the reservation. After days on the renegades’ trail, they’ve come up dry, until they encounter them in the mountains south of Santa Fe. After a brief skirmish, the renegades elude Ben once again. Hot on their tail, Ben and his men are faced with life and death decisions – they discover a grisly scene indicating that the Apache are not the only deadly perils awaiting them in the shadow of the mountain. 
Nor are they only ones in danger. At Dead Man’s Gulch, they come upon a small detachment of the Sixth Cavalry, a white unit stationed in Arizona Territory that has been chasing its own band of renegades, only to find itself trapped and in danger of being annihilated until the Buffalo Soldiers of the Ninth Cavalry come to their rescue.
Ride along with the Buffalo Soldiers as they face death, danger and discrimination on the western frontier.



Get it free for your Kindle or Kindle application: April 22 - 26 only!

http://www.amazon.com/Buffalo-Soldier-Battle-Dead-Gulch-ebook/dp/B00J8GEX3C/

Valerie Harper Shares Her Story & Answers Our Questions

Monday, April 7, 2014

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Turning the Page: Author Spotlight - Kimber Leigh Wheaton

 






 Shadow Fire


Light Chronicles Book 1





Kimber Leigh Wheaton





YA Fantasy Romance







Blurb





Ashlyn – a free-spirited teenager whose peaceful life is shattered when the village elders honor her with a perilous quest to recover a stolen relic.





Zane – a jaded mercenary, torn by his undeniable desire for Ashlyn and the dark secret that could make her hate him forever.


Delistaire – a malevolent sorcerer driven by an insatiable lust for power.


All three are bound together by an ancient relic supposedly infused with the power of a Goddess.


Shadow Fire – adventure, passion, secrets, and betrayal


As Ashlyn and Zane race to stay one step ahead of the evil lurking in the shadows, their passions are ignited and their bond strengthens. But will they find the relic before Delistaire? Or has their entire quest been orchestrated from the very beginning by a madman in pursuit of ultimate power?


Each installment of The Light Chronicles is a standalone story.


Praise





"This book contains monsters, magic, majestic creatures, and a evil guy that wants to destroy the world. If you love hot guys.....Zane is all that plus a few tricks up his sleeve. Just read it!" Venture ~Amazon Reviewer





"Adventure, magical creatures, fun characters, and romance make this book a perfect read for all ages." James Luby ~Amazon Reviewer





Favorite Quotes





The villagers will be awaiting my return, skulking in the shadows, desperate to catch a glimpse of the walking dead girl. ~Ashlyn





After all, love conquers nothing but fools. ~Delistaire





Perhaps you shouldn’t have chased the poor pirate all over the ship shooting light daggers at him. ~Zane





How would you like a tour of this grand vessel, my angelic beauty? I’ll show you my favorite trysting spots. ~Taranis





About the Author







Kimber Leigh Wheaton is a YA/NA author with a soft spot for sweet romance and is a member of Romance Writers of America.





She is married to her soul mate, has a teenage son, and shares her home with three dogs and four cats. No, she doesn’t live on a farm, she just loves animals. Her house is filled with dragons, though she does lament that they are the porcelain, non-flying variety.





Kimber Leigh is addicted to romance, videogames, superheroes, villains, and chocolate—not necessarily in that order. (If she has to choose, she’ll take a chocolate covered superhero!)





Her debut novel, Shadow Fire, is the first book in The Light Chronicles series. Watch for book two, Stolen Moon, a standalone sequel, coming soon.








Author Links:
















http://www.pinterest.com/Cymberle/








 Excerpt





Every step I take is one step closer to death.





Hiking through the dense underbrush, I try to calm my frayed nerves and control the fear threatening to overwhelm me. Twigs and tendrils of ivy grab at my ankles as I continue to forge ahead, forcing me to wrench away from their skeletal grip. The sunlight is fading, signaling the end of another day, but this is no ordinary day.





A loud crack pierces the air. I freeze in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat. Whipping my head around, I try to locate the source of the sound. My heart pounds in my chest, the erratic rhythm painful. These woods are full of predators, some animal, some monster, but the worst… human. Taking a deep breath, I listen to the surrounding woods: birds chirp, insects hum, and small animals scurry about as if they have no care in the world.





Lungs burning, I force myself to continue walking. I didn't collapse three weeks ago when this whole fiasco started, and I won't give in now. My family needs me to be strong.





The trees become sparser as I approach the edge of the forest. My shoulders slump when I pass the tree house we used to play in so many years ago. Any other day when I'm this close to home after a long day of hunting, I'd smile, breathe a sigh of relief, and perhaps look forward to dinner. Today there will be no raucous family meal, no solace in entering the peaceful village, and nothing to smile about.





The villagers will be awaiting my return, skulking in the shadows, desperate to catch a glimpse of the walking dead girl.





I've dealt with the whispers and pointing for three weeks with my head held high, my anxiety hidden behind a mask of indifference. I don't want them to see me like this, trembling in fear, broken. They've taken everything I am, every hope, every dream I've had for the future and smashed them to pieces with little hope of salvation. The townsfolk of Verdane decided my fate and they chose death.





The elders told me being Chosen is an honor. Either they are ignorant or apathetic. Every five years for the last twenty, a teenage girl has been chosen by the town, via secret ballot, to undertake this dangerous quest, never to return. Perhaps if the elders had to forfeit their lives instead they wouldn't be so quick to label it an honor, they'd call it what it is… a sacrifice.