Virtual Book Tour Dates: 8/6/14 – 9/3/14Genres: Paranormal MysteryBlurb:
If an animal spoke to you, would you listen? Botanist/psychokinetic Katrina Ormstead created a super hash. A variety of marijuana she calls MAGIC.
Before she can share her successful medical findings with the scientific community, she’s murdered. There is, however, one witness begging to come forward. Special is Katrina’s wolf-hybrid dog.
She saw her mistress die. She wants revenge. Now she has to convince food photographer, animal psychic and Katrina’s best friend Wheat Keigwin of the same thing. Together, dog and woman dedicate themselves to solving the mystery behind Katrina’s death.
“Trust me, if you’re an animal lover, a paranormal fiction follower, a reader of rom-coms, or a murder mystery aficionado, you should really buy this book.” Charlie Bray’s Indi Book Reviews, The Indietribe Newsletter – Read the whole review at: http://eepurl.com/Pd4gvExcerpt:
“Son of a bitch!” Wheat snapped awake and flung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet moving before they hit the ground.
“Dad!” she screamed as she ran down the hallway. She heard a muffled thump as she came to a stop in front of her parents’ bedroom door.
The door jerked open. “What is it?” Frank asked, his voice urgent, awake, despite the rumpled appearance.
“Are you okay?” Ella’s voice, strong but scared came from behind him.
Wheat moved off down the hall. “It’s Special. We have to get to her!”
“What is it?” Other voices could be heard throughout the house. Teeny, Simon, Leo.
“Don’t go out there alone,” Ella yelled. “Frank! Simon stop your sister!”
Too late.
Wheat slammed through the porch screen door, hitting it so hard it crashed into the house and whipped shut behind her.
Shit!
Run?
Grab a vehicle?
What’s faster?
She forgot shoes. Damn!
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” she chanted to herself, her teeth chattering even in the heat of the night. Special’s screams were still fresh in her head as she threw open the shed door, dropped down on one of the four-wheelers, turned the key and hit the gas. She shot out of the building and saw the black silhouettes of her dad and brother running across the yard. If they were saying anything, she couldn’t hear it over the roar of the engine.
She left them behind, pushed the vehicle to maximum speed. Across the yard, onto a dirt road, then a path, two wheels in the track, the other two chopping over clumps of prairie grass, her mind working out a course. How to avoid the pasture gate. No time to stop.
Wheat turned the handles to the right, dipped down an embankment. There was a wash where the ground was lower, leaving a sizable gap between it and the bottom strand of barbwire. She prayed it was deep enough to let the ATV pass under. She couldn’t see the wire. Even with light from the moon she could only make out the dark shadows of the posts.
The bike stopped jerking, the tires churning the soft dirt in the wash. Wheat pressed herself flat against the seat, her head tucked behind the handle bars, cheek on the fuel tank, expecting to feel the jerk if the handles caught the barb wire. She felt something shock her as the wire grazed her back.
The material on her pajama top caught. Tore as a barb let loose.
She realized she’d been holding her breath, let it out, kept herself tucked forward, less wind resistance.
The bike topped the rise, all four wheels air bound. It hit the ground. Bounced hard. It knocked the breath out of her, but she didn’t take her thumb off the gas.
The vehicle bucked madly, hitting clumps of grass and gopher holes. Wheat squeezed with her thighs like a bull rider. Rode it out. The clinic only yards away.
Dammit!
The thought hit her.
She didn’t have a weapon.
Too late now. She stomped down on the brake, sent the bike into a skid. Leapt off. The bike still rolling. The gravel bit into her bare feet. Her mind raced ahead. What could she use in a fight?
The clinic door was wide open. She heard the chorus of animal noise inside. She reached out and grabbed a branding iron hanging by a nail on the side of the building.
Didn’t hesitate.
How close was her brother?
Dad?
Her feet slapped the cold tile inside the building and she hit the light switch, arm raised, iron shaft gripped tight.
Brian Donovan stood by the front desk.
She felt the blood rush to her head.
She must look a fright.
To cover her discomfort she scowled at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Damn he looked good.
Her ex-lover.Buy Link:
An agriculture journalist, Lena Jo McCoy has worked in the print-media fields, both newspapers and magazines and has spent most of her life devoted to agriculture. Lena Jo has long admired the works of animal behaviorist Temple Grandin, Cesar Milan as well as the farmers and ranchers she’s written about and is dedicated to the humane treatment of all animals. When she is not playing servant to her two English Bulldogs, Lena Jo finds herself at the computer writing the next story.
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My journey of the first book.
Lena Jo McCoy/Special Run
First and foremost I wrote Special Run because I had a story to tell. The story came to me in a dream. The urge to write the outline was so powerful when I woke the next morning, the first thing I did was find a pen and pad of paper.
The catalyst for Special Run came when my mother passed away. I moved back to the family farm to help my dad with daily chores. At the time, Colorado was in the process of legalizing marijuana and my father and I discussed the pros and cons of adding cannabis to our crop base. (Phillips County, where Special Run takes place, still has not legalized marijuana.)
Later that evening, surrounded by my childhood mementos, especially old photos of my dog, Special, I fell asleep and dreamed the outline for the story Special Run.
In the days that followed, the text flowed. I knew my characters. I knew the setting. I knew the story. Then, my brain got in the way. Although I’ve written for magazines and newspapers, I’d never written a book. I better find out how to do this, I thought to myself.
So, off to the trusty Internet I went. I typed in dozens of key words and read a plethora of articles and then came across the organization, Sisters in Crime. Like a warrior charging into battle I waved my pen and proclaimed, “I must join this sister writing group!”
The Arizona chapter of Sisters in Crime is a wonderful group of women, with a few misters thrown in. Monthly meetings highlight excellent speakers and offer a time for people to network. Then, enters (I feel like there should be dramatic music here!) the CRITIQUE GROUP!
Small groups of the organization meet each month to read and critique a chapter of another writer’s story. Let me be clear: I adore and respect these ladies to death. Let me be clear: I had no idea what to do with their comments.
An example would be, “I like the story but it has too much about dogs in it.” Umm. My story is about a dog. “I don’t like the paranormal element in this story.” Umm. My story is a paranormal mystery.
Still not wise enough, I distance myself from this critique group and joined two other ladies that lived closer to me. We met twice a month for critique sessions. Let me be clear: I adore and respect these ladies to death. Let me be clear: after a year I had a book that didn’t tell my story.
At this point you must think I’m a weak person who can’t stand up for herself. You would correct. I let everyone tell me what my book should be. What readers would like. What publishers are looking for. When I was done, I didn’t have the book I set out to write.
Let’s review. I started out excited and ambitious writing Special Run. I ended up hating the story, not proud of what I’d done and dreading the writing process.
“You are totally unhappy with this,” pointed out my friend. (She is a librarian but I think that’s an undercover moniker for life coach.) “Only one thing to do. Start over.”
So, I went to the computer and dropped Special Run into a folder marked “old” and started with a clean computer screen and my original notes. After a few false starts, (I had all these voices in my head saying, “More sex!” “Less paranormal!” “More werewolves having sex!” “Change your character’s name!” “Drugs are bad!” “Too wordy!” “Not enough description!” “Too much description!”) I settled in and just wrote.
Who better than me to know my characters? Who better than me to know my story? I released my inner joy for writing and the words flowed. I didn’t worry about where a comma should go. I didn’t worry about a run-on sentence or if my character was believable or if lycanthropes exist. I just wrote and Special Run was rebirthed.
With the story complete, I put on my editors cap and went back to fix the technical errors. I reread my story and liked what I saw.
I know, however, a writer can never see all the errors in their work. For gosh sake everybody’s baby is perfect! So I asked three friends to be beta readers. Their job was not to critique my story but to look for typos, writing errors and to point out if something was unclear to them. After another round of editing, I hired an editor to read my book.
How do you hire an editor? I chose to go back to the Internet as I wanted to distance myself from people I knew. I researched editors who specialized in paranormal mysteries and were proofreaders as well as read for content. I then asked for references, compared prices and made my choice.
Special Run isn’t a best seller. Yet. But I’m proud that I sell a copy and a person comes back to buy multiples to give as gifts. I love the fact that even if a person doesn’t think they are going to like my book, they end up liking it. I love that my fans ask when the next book is coming out – and they keep harping on that note. I’m most proud that I can honestly promote my book and tell you it is worth $16.99.
One thing I want to leave you with. Writing Special Run was a learning journey for me. All the conferences, all the meetings, all the critique groups taught me something. Everyone has their own style and their own way of doing things. It just took me awhile to realize I don’t have writers block. I don’t gnash my teeth and lament the fact that my outline is going nowhere. I don’t spend hours writing a chapter-by-chapter synopsis.
I’ve been told more times than not, no writer writes by the seat of their pants. Maybe those voices of reason are right. All I know is: I know the beginning of my story; I know the ending of my story. And the middle is a joy to find out!
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