K23 Detectives

Noah Murphy Authorsday

1. What was the name of the first novel you wrote? Did you try to publish it?

My first novel was The Sapphires, an 80,000-word fictional autobiography of a superhero husband-and-wife team that I wrote in 2004. I sent out a few query letters, all of which were rejected. I eventually realized it was terrible. When I go back and read it years later, I’m shocked at just how poor my writing was at the time.

2. Why did you pick the publisher that ultimately published your book?

I’m self-published; currently I have three books released in a series of eccentric fantasy thrillers called K23 Detectives plus a collected edition, along with a short story collection based on the same setting called Sandworm Rodeo. I chose to self-publish because my book premises would never make it past the query stage with a publishing company. It’s a choice I don’t regret. While my K23 Detectives series had poor sales, the evolution I have made as a writer since June 2011, when I published A Clear and Feathered Danger, has been far greater than my development in the previous 6 years when I was trying to get published traditionally.

3. What do you know now that you are published that you didn’t know pre-published that you wish you knew?

Writing for money and writing for a hobby are completely different. When writing for fun, you don’t really have to tailor your work for an audience. Like any business, publishing ultimately comes down to selling a product. If nobody is interested in reading your work, it doesn’t matter how great that work may or may not be. The literary establishment hates authors like James Patterson because they see him as a no-talent hack. But James Patterson is a great writer because he puts books in hands, which is ultimately the true measure of an author, since quality is subjective.

For me, this lesson is why my writing has evolved so much over the past year. I had to stop writing purely what I wanted to and start writing fiction that other people would want to read.

4. What’s your favorite quote?

A quote from John Locke in “How I Sold 1 million Ebooks in 5 Months” in regards to the term “vanity publishing”: “When I invested my own money to start my insurance agency, no one accused me of starting a vanity agency.”

I like this quote because I can relate to it. In addition to writing, I run a small pet sitting business which I started with my own money. Nobody accused me of starting a vanity pet sitting business. I see investing in my pet sitting business as no different from investing in my books - both are businesses.

5. What was the best writing advice someone gave you?

The best writing advice I ever got recently came in the form of a scathing one-star review of a book called What Lies Within, which was the second volume of my K23 Detectives series. In the review, the writer stated that the action scenes in A Clear and Feathered Danger (the first K23 volume) were the strongest part of that book, and the book’s severe lack of action hurt it. This told me where my true writing strength really lied.

6. What do you consider your strengths in terms of your writing?

My writing strength, as I eluded to earlier, is action. When I write an action scene, I literally choreograph the scene in my head as if I were directing a film. This helps me add in the subtle details that make these scenes shine.

7. What do you consider your weakness and what strategies do you use to overcome it?

Proofreading. I’m abysmally bad at it. I overcome this by hiring an editor, who proofreads all my stuff, including these interview questions. It’s not cheap, but the benefits in terms of coming across as a professional are well worth it.

8. Describe your book.

My upcoming book is called Ethereal Girls, which is a superhero novel starring four young heroines. It’s a complete rewrite of a novella I released last October but later pulled from sale called Barbarian Girl, which had been hampered by hack-job editing as well as not having a clear audience in mind. When I sat down with Ethereal Girls I wrote it from the ground up to a have more mainstream edge in terms of plot and characterization. While it retains some of the quirkiness of K23 Detectives (literally, in one case!) I believe it is the strongest, more cohesive work I’ve ever written.

9. Who is your favorite character in your book?

Meadow, who is shown on one of the book’s promotional poster. She’s the 107th reincarnation of an ancient sorceress who reincarnates with all her previous memoires and experiences but still has to go through the same stages of childhood development as everyone else each time. So in her you find a constant battle between her adolescent side and her all-powerful deity side, which has nearly disastrous implications in the book.

10. What were the hardest scenes to write?

The hardest scenes to write were the fight scenes, which were also my favorite scenes to write. The fights, being choreographed in my head as I wrote them, took full energy and concentration and usually left me tired after writing them. Still, they were incredibly fun to write because I was experiencing the thrills as they emerged onto the page.

Author Bio

Noah has been writing fiction since he was a child. For many years he wrote sci-fi and fantasy short stories and novels as a hobby, developing as a writer. In 2011, Murphy self-published for the first time. He is releasing his fifth book in November.

In addition to writing, Noah runs a small pet sitting business and volunteers at a parrot rescue. Noah lives in Montgomery County , Maryland.

Book Blurb

In Medieval Europe, four mystical weapons were forged in order to combat malevolent spirits – vile entities seeking nothing more than to spread misery and chaos across the universe. Centuries later, only one weapon remains to protect Earth. That weapon, the Axe of Boren, falls into the hands of teenage Liza while she is driving home from cheerleading practice, transforming her into a hulking warrior of immense strength and endurance. At the same time, her best friend Macie is twisted into a psychopathic murderer by one of the Axe’s counterparts, the corrupted Sword of Boren, and goes on a gruesome killing spree.

But just as Liza and Macie are headed for battle, the most powerful evil spirit in generations appears, unleashing an army of monstrous cannibals on Washington, D.C. In order to defeat the spirit, Liza must ally with three odd girls: a sickly waif with macabre teleportation abilities; a member of a snake-like race called the Lamia who wants nothing more than to be a human teenager; and the 107th reincarnation of an ancient goddess who may know far more about the mystical weapons than she lets on. But even with her new friends, Liza faces a near impossible task. Macie is obsessed with destroying her regardless of the devastation unfolding around them…

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Authorsday: Genni Gunn

Genni Gunn 

1. When did you know you wanted to be a writer?

 Writing and music have always been constants in my life. I decided to go the professional musician route first, but even while I was touring, I filled notebooks with stories and impressions of my experiences. At a certain point, however, I grew disillusioned with the musician’s life – the constant travel, the everchanging bands, rehearsals, etc. Much of the musician’s life is about maintenance, and I got tired of it. Writing was a way of expressing myself without having to rely on other people. I switched my focus from music to writing – I returned to university to do a M.F.A. which made me take myself seriously.  It was simply a matter of switching outlets for my creative energies.

2. Who were your earliest literary role models, and why?

 I grew up in Italy until I was ten, so my literary models in those years were very different from ones people here have.  I was raised on Italian fairy tales as a child, then more classical texts, such as Dante, Carducci, Petrarch. Roman and Greek mythology were forefront too – if you live in Italy, it’s hard not to relate everything around you to its classical history.  In terms of music, too, I grew up listening to opera, and to this day, there are a number of operas I know by heart. 

3. What was the first thing you ever wrote? What reaction did this get?

There’s a big difference between the first thing I wrote, and the first thing I published.  I’ve been writing all my life, so I don’t remember the first thing I wrote. As a child, my sister and I would make books – I’d write the stories and she’d illustrate them – then we’d sell the books to our parents, whose reactions were marvellous!

The first thing I published was a poem called, “Long Beach.” I had entered it in a contest and it won first prize. Of course I was both thrilled and encouraged to keep writing.

4. What was the name of the first novel you wrote? Did you try to publish it?

When I was at university, I wrote a novel for my M.F.A. thesis. The entire novel took place in an airport, and covered only a few hours, although of course, in flashbacks, it covered a whole lifetime too. I sent the manuscript out to a publisher, and the editor wrote back with a series of questions. At that time, not realizing how fortunate I was to even have received a response, never mind a long one with queries, I didn’t reply, so the manuscript was never published.

In retrospect, this was not a bad thing, because novels written this way, tend to be novels-by-committees, which tamps them down somewhat. So I consider that first effort my learning novel. The next novel I wrote, Thrice Upon a Time took me five years, and though it was a long struggle, a lot of research, and little money, it was mine, and after publication, was shortlisted for Best First Book for the Commonwealth Prize.

5. Do you plot or do you write by the seat of your pants?

I do some of each at various stages in the writing. I usually begin with an idea or a question I want to explore, then I research for several months, until a narrative begins to form in my head. I spend a lot of time thinking about it, and when I can envision the bones of a story – essentially the beginning premise and the ending – I write by-the-seat of my pants, so-to-speak, and see how my protagonist gets to that ending. Along the way, I sometimes stop and outline what I have so far, and what I know is coming. This outline is like a signpost, a map. I know the destination, but not how I’m going to get there.

Once I complete the first draft, I begin the real work, and the part that I love best – the shaping and honing of everything. I do 10 or so drafts of everything. Sometimes more. My latest novel, Solitaria, went through 21 drafts. I guess I’m my own very picky editor.

6. What drew you to the subject of Solitaria?

The question I began with and wanted to explore had to do with love and duty. I had been visiting an old aunt in Italy who had been very generous to her family, but had always attached very long strings to that generosity. The result was that everyone had fled. So the question that began the exploration was: At what point is one’s love indebted to another?

That’s a very big question, and although the novel developed well past the original concern, that question is still evident in the characters’ modes of dealing with others.

Another fascination I have always had is with memory – how it functions not only to define us, but also to create us, to embellish our lives. And there’s nowhere better to observe memory in action than in a family reunion, where everyone’s memories clash, so that the same incident is virtually unrecognizable as it is recalled from person to person. This concept found its way into Solitaria, with interesting results.

7. What authors do you admire?

The list of authors I admire is endless and eclectic, and constantly being added to. Damon Galgut, Cormac McCarthy, J.M. Coetzee, Don DeLillo, Meg Wolizer, Kazuo Ishiguro, Dacia Maraini, Elsa Morante, Carlo Levi, Alice Walker, Russell Banks, Dorothy Parker, Haruki Murakami, Alice Munro, Jonathan Lethem, Richard Ford, Toni Morrison, Jeffrey Eugenides, Richard Russo, Steinbeck, Nabakov, etc.  I could go on indefinitely….

8. What three things would you want with you on a desert island?

Assuming you mean marooned on a desert island, I would want to have with me the world’s best ship builder, a solar panel, and a laptop/satellite phone. This would give me lots of options: I could call for help; I could read – by downloading books through satellite connections; and I could write on the laptop, which would be solar-powered. Naturally, while I would be doing all this, the world’s best shipbuilder would be building us a ship to sail away on.

9. What place that you haven’t visited would you like to go?

While in Thailand five years ago, I found myself in the vicinity of a cave that contains the world’s smallest bat – the Kitti bat. I have always loved caves, and have visited many in different countries. This one promised something very exotic – a bat the size of a bumblebee, the smallest mammal in the world. The opening of the cave was very small, barely large enough to lower oneself into, and no light was allowed below, except for a dim flashlight. I squeezed down the opening, into a slightly larger area, then down a claustrophobic tunnel to another slightly larger area. From here, I could see the sky as a jagged hole up above. I took a deep breath and continued for a short while until I saw someone begin down the tunnel behind me. That pretty well panicked me into waiting for the newcomer to pass, then I scrambled back up and out. I returned home disappointed with myself for missing such an amazing opportunity. This may not sound like the place I haven’t visited but would like to, but it is.

10. What did you enjoy most about writing this book?

Writing itself is an absolute passion for me. One of the best things ever about writing this book is that I had the perfect excuse to go Italy every year and spend a month researching, interviewing and writing. I have many relatives there, and I was able to listen to and record their stories, which collectively, are also my stories. I must set more books in Italy….

ExcerpTuesday: Kaye George

Twenty-two-year-old Imogene Duckworthy is waiting tables at Huey's Hash in tiny Saltlick, TX, itching to jump out of her rut and become a detective. When Uncle Huey is found murdered in the diner, a half-frozen package of mesquite-smoked sausage stuffed down his throat, Immy gets her chance. Immy's mother, Hortense is hauled in for the crime. Unclear of the exact duties of a PI, Immy starts a fire in the bathroom wastebasket to bust Mother out of jail. On the run from the law with her mother and her toddler daughter, Nancy Drew Duckworthy, Immy wonders, now what?

Chapter 1


"That's it, Uncle Huey!" Imogene Duckworthy whipped off her apron and flung it onto the slick, stainless steel counter. "I quit!" If only her voice didn’t sound so…young. Her order pad, pencil, even the straws skittered out of their pouches and across the floor. She took a step back, her shoes sticking to the trod-upon-after-lunch debris of squished lettuce, blobs of gravy, and bits of unidentifiable brown stuff.

"You can't quit, darlin'," drawled Uncle Huey in that thin, nasal voice that made him seem six inches shorter than his five ten. "You're family." He dipped a scoop of mashed potatoes onto a plate, ladled thick brown gravy on top, and handed it to the cook.

"I'm not working double shifts again next week." Immy hoped she sounded serious. Mature. Convincing.

"Well, you'll just have to, won't you? Since Xenia just quit on me today, you and April are all the waitresses I've got left."

Clem, the portly cook, piled the hot plate with thick slabs of meatloaf, spooned green beans beside them, and shoved it into April's waiting hands. Immy hadn't eaten lunch yet and the oniony smell of the meatloaf kicked up some saliva under her tongue. She watched April swing through the double doors and glimpsed the white-washed dining room, full of scarred wooden tables and chairs, almost empty of customers now.

She’d worked and played in this restaurant her entire twenty-two years. It had been started by her grandparents and handed down to her father and her uncle. Since her father’s death, of course, Uncle Huey had run it alone.

Would she miss this place? Maybe, but she was quitting anyway.

Immy pounded her fist on the work counter. Hugh Duckworthy jumped. "No, Uncle Huey. April is all you've got left. And if you'd kept your mitts to yourself, you'd still have Xenia." Immy's hands shook as she snatched her purse and jacket from her cubby, but she succeeded in stomping out the back door of the diner, past the cook and busboy who were staring openmouthed. Aside from troublesome customers, she didn't talk back to people often, even when she wanted to.

Even if Uncle Huey was her father's brother, he was a first class jerk.

© by Kaye George 2011

Kaye George, an Agatha nominated short story writer, is the author of CHOKE, Mainly Murder Press, May 2011, as well as A PATCHWORK OF STORIES, a collection of her previously published stories. She reviews for "Suspense Magazine", and writes for several newsletters and blogs. She, her husband, and a cat named Agamemnon live together in Texas, near Austin.


Homepage: KayeGeorge.com

Blog: TravelsWithKaye.blogspot.com

ExcerpTuesday Larian Wills

Blurb and excerpt, pg, from “It’s Still Tomorrow”


Fired from her job, her apartment firebombed, and her small amount of money dwindling too quickly, Sarah ran. Knowing that the terror would follow, she took the only refuge available to her, an unfinished house she’d inherited. She didn’t know she would also inherit a long legged hunk of good looking man that would set off every buried desire she’d ever had. Her vow to never practice witchcraft again ended when the terror threatened Dem. Her enemies learned that like vicious dogs, they should have let the sleeping witch lie.

She sat on the floor, one knee raised, elbow on the knee and hand hanging in front of her. She rubbed her thumb and fingers together furiously while she stared at a microwave in pieces in front of her.

“What are you doing?” he asked, wondering if the micro meant she was considering eating something cooked besides a hard-boiled egg.

“Just about giving up.” She pointed at the innards. “It worked fine when I put it in the car. Now it won’t even light up the display. I thought it might be a loose wire or fuse of some kind, but I can’t find anything.”

As she unplugged it by jerking the cord, he said dryly, “Maybe the plug is bad.”

“Tried that; put on a new one.” She turned the chassis to give herself a different angle and began pressing and pushing every connection she could see.

“Did you test the wall plug?”

“Clock worked fine,” she answered in preoccupation.

“I think you’re fighting a lost cause,” he told her going to the door. “You’ve got a new one anyway, when I can get to it. I’m going to hang the light over the mirror so the power will be off.”

Still preoccupied, she said slowly, “Don’t touch the…” Realizing he was already gone, she lunged up and ran. “Don’t touch the…”

She wasn’t talking or running fast enough. Dem touched the main lever on the breaker box, and his arm flew back as he yowled. She skidded to a stop behind him.

“Oops,” she said with a grimace as he backed off, shaking his arm.

“Oops!” he shouted at her furiously. “What the hell did you do?” Looking at the wire wrapped around the base of the lever to the battery it came from, he didn’t wait for an answer. “You shock wired it to a battery for an electric fence strong enough to knock a horse down?”

“Only jolt,” she answered. “Here, let me—”

She started towards him, reaching for his arm, and Dem backed away.

“What the hell did you shock wire it for?” he demanded, wondering also when she had done it.

“Stand still,” Sara ordered, catching him with one hand at his shoulder and the other at his wrist.

He stood only to avoid a wrestling match. Okay, so her hands felt cool as she ran them from his throbbing shoulder to his fingertips. Each time the throbbing from the high voltage shock lessening, like she was rubbing it out, down his arm and out his fingertips. It felt good, too good.

“That’s fine,” he told her abruptly and backed away. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

“You don’t want to know,” she said without resentment, leaning down to turn off the charge box for a system normally used to keep obstinate livestock in a fence. She flipped off the main, adding, “You want to complete your obligation, stay uninvolved, and get on with your life.”

He did. That had been exactly his intention and precisely why he hadn’t asked any questions about the things he had noticed. “You should report it,” he retorted defensively. It wasn’t his responsibility. It was the sheriff department’s.

“Naw,” she said slowly. “One of those ‘living in the country is different than living in the city’ lectures was enough for me, thank you.” She pointed at the charge box before walking away. “Don’t forget to turn it back on when you’re through.”

Following behind her, he told her, “Not everyone in the sheriff’s department is an ass. Hodges is…”

“The one they keep referring me to,” she finished for him. “He figures I can’t tell the difference between a dog shape and a man shape.”

Dem grabbed her shoulder to stop her, jerked back, and yowled again.

“Now,” she stated, turning back to face him, “you’re being a baby.”

“It surprised me,” he retorted. “You don’t expect to get shocked from touching someone.”

“Static electricity.”

Dem suppressed a desire to growl while asking, “Who’s doing it?”

“Don’t know and you are right, it’s not your problem.” She walked off five feet before she turned back. “Is it safe to ask a question?”

“What?” he growled, since he hadn’t said it wasn’t his problem even if he had been thinking it.

“It can wait,” she said with a flip of her eyebrows and walked off.

It took four of her steps with him following before Dem could take a deep breath and release it slowly. “What?” he asked again in a softer tone.

“I just wondered if you could put in the pantry shelves next.”

“I thought you’d want the kitchen so you can cook.”

“I never cook if I don’t have to. I would like a refrigerator though. Since I have a microwave, dare I hope one of those, too?”

“All of the appliances.”

“Can you get to it?”

“Not until after I move the cabinets.” He walked off. “I’ll start bringing them over in the morning. Turn your power back on. I’m through for the day.”

She returned to the box, flipped switches for the power and her booby trap, then stood staring at the space where he had been, the fingers and thumb of both hands working furiously. Even though the bland, empty expression on her face didn’t change, the motion began to slow but the pressure increased. When she did move, it was inside to the disassembled microwave. With both index fingers extended and the rest in a fist, she touched the offending appliance. Sparks flew, and there was a loud crack.

“If you don’t work now,” she told it calmly, “you’re going in the garbage.”