No, my problem isn’t finding the ideas, it’s disseminating them in a financially advantageous way.  The Apple iBookstore would charge me $99 to publish my book.  Amazon doesn’t charge me anything.  So guess where my books are?  But the good news is that there is a Kindle app on iPad for people who want to read my books!

I haven’t been successful (yet) in getting into a bookstore to do a book talk, but I did go to a French Market this weekend and had a great experience (and sold books!!!).

The last few years have taught me to become a better sales person (still working on that skill –  shout out to the guy in the booth next to me this weekend who sells upscale products for pets, and who gave me good advice).  The problem: I’m not writing.  I’m selling.

I suppose it’s also a time management issue – another skill to reflect on as summer begins to hit with full force.

Anyone else share these problems?  Let me know!  Support is always appreciated!!!  :-)

Week of June 17th: intensive work on The Cursed Quechua, 3rd in the Tamara series!

Happy Father’s Day (which should really be Happy Fathers’ Day)!

here I am at the French Market – 6:30a.m. before customers.

Bokor had been in the shadows of the tree line, gripping Maggie’s arm.  She had tersely promised a full explanation as soon as Marilu left.  All three of them had looked around nervously for other living beings as Marilu made her way to the rowboat.

She had made it without incident – the only damage to her sizzling nervous system.  As she started rowing she heard howling.  But it came from far back into the forest.  Or did it come from her destination – the island not five miles away…?

Ralph and Joel sat on camp chairs around a burned out bonfire.  Their companions were all shouting at the top of their lungs to be heard over each other.  Each one of them in turn looked out toward the water with burning yellow eyes.  The rowboat would be there in a few minutes.  The question was: should they prevent Marilu from visiting the old woman, or should they let her go, and follow her to find out the strategy?

“Let her go,” Joel argued.  “We’ve been banished to this island long enough.  Attacking our main source of information is no way to get back to the main island.  And so far, Ralph has been useless.”

Joel directed a baleful glance at the younger man as the rest of the crowd bayed agreement.

“I can’t fight against Bokor’s power on my own, you idiots!  And I don’t see any of you risking their hides to do what I’ve done – get back to our island.”

“You’re wrong, Ralph.  It’s not Bokor’s power that has blocked your progress.  It’s Zoya’s.  You’re in love with a zombie.”

A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd as the sentiment was spoken out loud for the first time.  Ralph paled.

“Bokor and Zoya are two separate powers which are threatening to divert attention away from us.  If they begin fighting, it will be to our advantage.  I was the catalyst that started that ball rolling.  So stop your assumptions about my relationship with Zoya and do something useful for a change – don’t let Marilu get information from the old woman!”  His voice ended in a shout.  He threw his arms open in a gesture designed to include, reassure and convince everyone.

Joel stared at Ralph.  He faced the crowd and thought carefully before presenting his argument again.

Zoya painted furiously over the canvas.  She was sweating as she sat back and surveyed her handiwork: an old woman and a middle-aged one facing each other.  A gray animal lay in the background, glassy eyes looking at nothing, blood seeping out of its matted fur.

Bokor smiled in the background.

Keep reading about Zoya!  I’d love comments too!!

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0046VR5PW

                As Bokor fretted about Zoya, and Marilu prepared for a journey, and Joel sucked lazily on his cigar, the woman prepared for bed.  She sighed as she lay down in bed.  Work had been harder since the elders had been killed and she was tired.  She had done her nighttime rituals of warding off evil spirits so their fate would not become her own.  She was a simple woman and believed in the power of the small, candle-lit, herb crushing, feather brushing ceremonies she had learned as a child.

                But she hadn’t slept the same since that horrible day when the bodies had been found.  So she tossed and turned and slept lightly – until the sound of soft padding of feet sent shots of ice through her nerves.  She opened her eyes but otherwise didn’t move.

                Something was in the room.  She screwed her eyes shut and started to pray silently to her gods – pleading with them – chiding them for not heeding her during the rituals she had faithfully performed.  She felt a brush of air.  Her heart pounded so strongly surely the creature sharing the room with her must know that she was aware of it.  She started to shake.

                Something cold touched her clavicle and she let out a small, involuntary whining noise.  It was a hand.  Her eyes were still shut as the hand slowly unbuttoned her pajama shirt and slid it open to expose her breasts.  Whoever – whatever – this being was, they were surely able to see her chest moving up and down as she breathed fear, her left breast pumping blood from her heart at an alarming rate.  She heard an answering whine come from the creature.

                The hand moved slowly down past her chest toward her belly button and below.  What was happening?  She felt something on her lips and without wanting to, she opened her eyes.  She would have screamed at the sight of yellowish-green eyes staring into hers – if something hadn’t been crushing down on her mouth.  She tried to breathe, but the creature’s lips were on hers, sucking air out of her.  She felt the hand fondling her all over her body. 

                Fondling, or searching?  What was this monster looking for?  The woman continued to struggle for breath.  Then she felt a sharp pain on her side.  Her skin ripped under the sharp claws of whatever was on top of her.  Warmth dripped down to the bed and the pain increased as Zoya – still covering the woman’s mouth with her own to keep her from screaming – reached her fingers into the woman’s side and began pulling out her intestines. 

                Zoya’s glowing green eyes looked up and out the window.  The woman’s eyes – full of pain and fear – followed.  They both saw the outline of a wolf standing staring inside.  Zoya’s fingers pulled harder and she smiled over the woman.  The last thing the woman heard was the mournful howl of a wolf.

                When the struggling subsided Zoya stood up, wiped saliva from her mouth and blood from her hands.  She looked out the window at the human-like figure of Ralph who looked in at her.  She turned to leave the house.  Outside he was waiting for her.  He reached out his hands and took a hold of her shoulders.  But when his hand went down to perform the same action on her that she had just done to her unfortunate victim, she ducked away and disappeared into the night.

                Bokor sat up straight.  Her smile enigmatic smile was back.  Nevertheless, Marilu must leave right away.

And thanks to everyone for your continued support of my books that allows me to donate to this worthy organization! Anytime you buy, 10% goes to Build Change. Please spread the word, I’d love to donate in larger chunks than this one

                The crunch of dry foliage and gravel stirred her to sit up straighter and look out the window.  Marilu and Maggie were walking toward the front door.  What the hell was Maggie doing out there with the other woman?  Bokor thought she had counted heads correctly.  But then again, she had been so distracted she really had no idea who was upstairs.  No idea, that is, except she knew Zoya was there.

                Or was she?  Bubbles of panic shot up from the pit of Bokor’s belly into the back of her throat.  But before she could get up and go upstairs Marilu and Maggie were standing before her.

                “Bokor, we need to talk about what’s going on here on this island,” Marilu said.

                The two women looked at Bokor.  She was looking back at them with a thoughtful expression on her face.  She couldn’t leave the island – she had to control Zoya – but what about these two?  No, not Maggie, she was an innocent – or part of Ralph’s world, Bokor wasn’t exactly sure…

                “Yes, of course, Marilu.  But,” she looked at Marilu and did a sideways glance and head tilt at Maggie.  “You and I should talk.  I need you to do something for me.”

                Marilu got it.  She and Bokor had grown up together – cousins who were like sisters.  “Uh, Maggie, would you mind making breakfast?  The others should be down soon and we’ll all be hungry.”

                “But Marilu,  I thought…”

                “Please, Maggie, things will go quicker this way.”

                “Oh, all right.”  Maggie stomped toward the kitchen.

∞

                Bokor would have had a heart attack if she had gone into Zoya’s room.

                Zoya paced up and down the beach, occasionally kicking up sand in anger.  Her options were getting limited – there were fewer people on the island now, and there were some who she knew not to touch – for now.

                But the hunger to kill was there nevertheless.  She needed more than the few monkeys she had slain an hour ago.  She kept pacing until something caught her eye.  A boat.  A rowboat with oars.  And something else she hadn’t really paid attention to before.  Another island off in the distance.  Another island – more people – problem solved.  She ran toward the boat.

                She was almost there when a dark object flew toward her and made impact, knocking her off of her feet.  She fell face-first into the sand, feeling the sharp claws of a large animal pressing down on her lower back.  She turned her head and coughed out sand.  Her nose caught a familiar scent and she knew that Ralph was her captor.

                “Going somewhere?” the shape changer growled, his paws softening into large, male hands.  Then she felt him shift.  He lay on top of her, his stomach on her lower back, other parts hard on the crack of her butt.  He was breathing heavily.

                She reached her right arm up and pulled hard on the nipple of Ralph’s shirtless chest.  He squawked and rolled slightly to his right, giving Zoya space to spring up and away from him.  He looked at her balefully and started to rise so she kicked him hard in the groin.

                The sound of his groans could be heard from the house.  Bokor and Marilu stopped their intense conversation and went outside.  When they saw Ralph rolling on the beach in pain, they ran to assist him. 

                “My God, is anyone upstairs where they are supposed to be?” thought Bokor as she ran.

                Zoya sat in front of the canvas.  A pretty blue rowboat was taking shape under her paintbrush.  It was a simple work – finished in time for her to catch an hour of sleep.  She was dreaming about warm salt water splashing gently on her face when Bokor looked in on her to call her for breakfast. 

I am a native English speaker.  I have a Master’s in Linguistics.  I trained for, and honed my craft for years in order to present the innocents – I mean my students – with a professional view of what they need to know.  So I have often scoffed at those travelers who just “go overseas” and “teach English” as though being a native speaker automatically qualifies you for the job.

And then I wrote a book.

Now don’t get me wrong, I have done a lot of writing in my time.  I’m just not trained in the art, nor have I honed the craft via any kind of writing training.

Be careful how you criticize others – isn’t there a saying that starts out something like that?

Perhaps if I were to have taken creative writing classes in college I would have been guided by my betters to a successful career.

Maybe if I had joined the school newspaper in my chaotic high school experience I might have gone into journalism.

Or, even better, if I had written my first – and needless to say brilliant – novel in the ‘80’s I could have found an agent by now.  Yes, I was alive then. 

But I did none of those things.

I just started typing one day on my computer.

And tried to publish.

And got rejected.

Over and over.

Until I decided to go my separate way – which in reality is many separate ways.

I blog, I Tweet, I Facebook, and I write books which I self-publish and sometimes even sell.  I even write what I like to call poetry. 

Even now, as I avoid writing the next chapter of my zombie stories, I am writing.  That’s odd.  Why aren’t I writing the next chapter of my zombie story?  It’s not writer’s block – I know exactly what I want to write.  But for some reason, Zoya is staying away from me today – the day I decided to get back to her after a couple of weeks off.

Instead I write about not being too successful at writing.

But the reality is that I’m learning as I go – and I’m honing my second craft.  Maybe there was a reason for all the rejections.  I could be in the place I am meant to be in.

So now I can reflect on the possibility that the travelers are, in fact, contributing to the ESL profession.  They must be passionate about it if they go to another country to do it.  Therefore, next time I criticize someone’s effort at a career I’d better swallow my derision, mind my own business – and write. 

 By the way, I just inserted the pic of my peonies for fun.  Beautiful, aren’t they?

Cristina Matta

May 21, 2013

Well, probably not an ode, per se…

Writing on impulse

Dramatic events of life

Make it a book

You say

Why, that makes perfect sense.

Sending off letters

Unnatural optimism

It’ll be OK

You say

Why, everyone will love it.

Rejection in droves

Darkness, then research

Innovation and hope are good

You say

Why, what else but to keep on going

Moderate sales

Good reviews

Excellent advice

You say

Why, I’m so sick of advice

Web sites and blogs

Tweets and surfing

New ideas and zombies

You say

Why, what a great idea

Writing in an office

Taking oneself seriously

Bad idea

You say

Why, if you can’t laugh at yourself, what else is there?

Keep dreaming!

By Cristina Matta

May 21, 2013

 Opinión ¹⁷

Earthquake Relief: Now or Later?

In Chicago one of our favorite pastimes is complaining about the weather. Last week we certainly had justification for it. Rolls of soggy carpeting dotted the ends of driveways and waited for garbage collection, telling a silent story of widespread property loss.

BY CRISTINA MATTA

Luckily, in the 38 Illinois counties that Governor Quinn declared disaster areas, federal funds will help people recover from these losses. For some, the coverage will come with no fuss. Others may run into red tape. But in the end, federal disaster funds guarantee everyone who lost something the hope for moving on with normal life.

This assurance is rare globally, even in what we think of as developed countries. Thousands of people around the world experience natural disasters annually.

This year alone there have been over 500 earthquakes: one in Mexico, several in Peru, a mild one in Costa Rica, and loss of life in Iran, Pakistan and China. And we all remember the recent major earthquakes from Haiti, Japan, and Chile.

Many of the victims of these natural disasters never get back to apoint that they can consider normal. On August 15, 2007, an 8.0 strength earthquake struck in Peru. The small town I was visiting at the time, Guadalupe, was 95% destroyed. In the days and weeks following, governments pledged to help the victims. Assistance flowed in from all over the world. Food, money, and tents were sent to the area.

            It is the tents that I am particularly interested in. They are perhaps twenty square feet in area, white canvas walls and roofs supported by metal rods. In the aftermath of the disaster these tents, with US Aid logos plastered on their walls, were life-savers and were greatly appreciated. Their necessity at the time was clear. The town’s structures, mostly made from adobe bricks, had collapsed easily under the force of the earthquake. The month of August falls during Peruvian winter, so nighttime temperatures in the desert climate of Ica/Guadalupe descended to the fifties. The heavy canvas of the tents kept away cold winds well enough to make living in them tolerable.

                On a 2010 visit to the area I was shocked to see that about a third of the town of Guadalupe was still living in US Aid tents. My husband’s nephew wanted to give me an idea of what life was like for his aunt and gave me a tour of her house. The front room was being used as the bedroom. It had not been structurally damaged in the earthquake. The room in the middle of the house had been destroyed when the adjoining house’s second and third floors fell onto it. The rubble was gone, and in its place was a canvas tent. Her sofa and a couple of chairs made up the living area under the tent. The final room, made of brick, was the kitchen and bathroom area, a three wall-room open to the back yard.

                My tour was sobering. The nephew was visibly upset. His aunt, the occupant of this jumble of rooms, cried often. The well-intentioned, temporary tent was chilly on cold desert nights, and wind blowing the canvas kept her awake. So she chose to sleep in her front room. I checked with her sister last week, and her situation has not changed.

Relief efforts of international aid organizations funded by ordinary Americans are valuable and necessary in the immediate aftermaths of all kinds of disasters. But frequently provide only an emergency tourniquet for the gaping wound. Sometimes the local governments are unable to heal the wound properly and the tourniquet remains, choking off life to what had been a salvageable limb. So life goes on at a new, substandard normal for the survivors.

                A few organizations continue and extend the triage months and years after the rest of us have gone. Build Change is one such valuable sustainable earthquake relief organization. It not only builds earthquake-resistant structures, also it also educates the people in these areas to do the same. They have not been to Peru, unfortunately, and if they or someone like them do not go, even six years after the fact, the dismal situation that many find themselves in will continue. So if you feel inclined to donate after a major disaster, check out organizations like Build Change who will do so much good for long periods after the fact.

—Cristina Matta has written, translated and edited a collection of stories from earthquake survivors. Never Shaken: Tales of Survival is available on Amazon.

CHICAGO

LUNES29DEABRIL 2013

VIVELOHOY.COM

His secretary slid in.  He glanced at her appreciatively.  He didn’t know how she could flow so easily in those four inch heels, but the affect was pleasing.  She wore clothing that was sexy without being skanky. 

She glided over to him and with a whiff of some light, flowery scent, placed a mug of steaming coffee on his desk just at his left side. He looked up at her.  She did not make eye contact. Damn it! She should be falling all over him.  How many months had it been now?  All past secretaries had screwed him before their first month was over…

He slammed his hand down on the desk petulantly.  Coffee sloshed out of the mug.  Her attention was on him now – or more accurately, on his left hand which was normally covered with a sleeve perfectly tailored to be longer than the right hand one without looking like it was.

She stared at the grey fur and slightly pointed fingernails for a moment before looking up into his feverish eyes.  A slow smile showed her pearly white teeth.  She began unbuttoning her shirt.

Zoya breathed heavily and slumped down in her chair.   For the last hour her arms had been working furiously, slapping paint onto canvass with one hand while mixing and holding with the other – a technique she had been practicing before the change.  She got up and walked away, stretching.

Bokor was standing a little way off, behind Zoya’s chair.  She looked at the painting.  Her face was dark and her mouth was curled in a snarl of fright.  A great battle jumped off the canvass.  But it wasn’t what she had been anticipating.  There were no zombies there save one, who was smirking off at a distance.  The battle was between werewolves.

What did it mean?  And how could Bokor regain some power over this situation before she had to call the man back?  She spun around and walked briskly back toward the village.  She needed to think.

This time it was Zoya’s turn to smirk.  She watched the retreating figure with a huge sense of satisfaction.  When she was sure Bokor was gone, she took out a huge knife and slashed the painting to ribbons.