[null, {"document_url": "http://tamworthgrice.blogspot.com/", "unformatted_src": "http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q4q_50pssGI/Vwg7DaUfQPI/AAAAAAAAARc/uyjRGFCNpkMlTWaYnScpDX6py0rtbyyyg/s1600-r/GRICELAND.jpg", "src": "http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q4q_50pssGI/Vwg7DaUfQPI/AAAAAAAAARc/uyjRGFCNpkMlTWaYnScpDX6py0rtbyyyg/s1600-r/GRICELAND.jpg", "formatted_filename": "GRICELAND", "alt_text": "THIS IS MY BLOG!", "rendered_width": 660, "rendered_height": 179}, null, null, null, {"document_url": "http://tamworthgrice.blogspot.com/", "unformatted_src": "https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W_ISaWkOtK0/V9D2dP1UkrI/AAAAAAAAAUM/zNg_5LhWSJYcRr1HMF5c2ouhohO7gvluACLcB/s320/Apollo_and_the_Muses_-_WGA17365.jpg", "src": "https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W_ISaWkOtK0/V9D2dP1UkrI/AAAAAAAAAUM/zNg_5LhWSJYcRr1HMF5c2ouhohO7gvluACLcB/s320/Apollo_and_the_Muses_-_WGA17365.jpg", "formatted_filename": "Apollo and the Muses WGA", "rendered_width": 320, "rendered_height": 134}, null, null, null, null, {"document_url": "http://tamworthgrice.blogspot.com/", "unformatted_src": "https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ci5W1VpZ2aM/VwhCseZEciI/AAAAAAAAASk/5LTUUEnHy9oRL4QAXUQwDiilQph5nVLZQ/s320/henry%2Bviii.jpg", "src": "https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ci5W1VpZ2aM/VwhCseZEciI/AAAAAAAAASk/5LTUUEnHy9oRL4QAXUQwDiilQph5nVLZQ/s320/henry%2Bviii.jpg", "formatted_filename": "henry Bviii"}, null, null, null, {"document_url": "http://tamworthgrice.blogspot.com/", "unformatted_src": "http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PPM6LBkz9Zo/UwJ02gf9leI/AAAAAAAAAO4/RMoYd7eJDig/s320/Roles+of+Women+blog.jpg", "src": "http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PPM6LBkz9Zo/UwJ02gf9leI/AAAAAAAAAO4/RMoYd7eJDig/s320/Roles+of+Women+blog.jpg", "formatted_filename": "Roles of Women blog"}, null, null, null, {"document_url": "http://tamworthgrice.blogspot.com/", "unformatted_src": "http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g-2n-ENF1dI/UJP9mA9qX9I/AAAAAAAAAM4/-nAw3pmTa4Y/s1600/Listening+to+Ian+Magick_thumb_web.jpg", "src": "http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-g-2n-ENF1dI/UJP9mA9qX9I/AAAAAAAAAM4/-nAw3pmTa4Y/s1600/Listening+to+Ian+Magick_thumb_web.jpg", "formatted_filename": "Listening to Ian Magick thumb web"}, null, null, {"document_url": "http://tamworthgrice.blogspot.com/", "unformatted_src": "http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rGkr3n7EN3M/UIxLpFDn24I/AAAAAAAAAMg/7eb7PuPStqI/s1600/Authorpicgambit-210.jpg", "src": "http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rGkr3n7EN3M/UIxLpFDn24I/AAAAAAAAAMg/7eb7PuPStqI/s1600/Authorpicgambit-210.jpg", "formatted_filename": "Authorpicgambit"}, null, null, null, null, {"document_url": "http://tamworthgrice.blogspot.com/", "unformatted_src": "http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mZ4d3ilF4Ro/UFAt_sN_FuI/AAAAAAAAAL4/wvmOF0tSMNE/s320/June.jpg", "src": "http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mZ4d3ilF4Ro/UFAt_sN_FuI/AAAAAAAAAL4/wvmOF0tSMNE/s320/June.jpg", "formatted_filename": "June", "rendered_width": 247, "rendered_height": 320}, null, null, null, {"document_url": "http://tamworthgrice.blogspot.com/", "unformatted_src": "http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AEHi0maOvDM/Thti5F75RlI/AAAAAAAAAJE/Zgt3-tcD4HM/s320/Nasty_Disposition+Finished+Small.jpg", "src": "http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AEHi0maOvDM/Thti5F75RlI/AAAAAAAAAJE/Zgt3-tcD4HM/s320/Nasty_Disposition+Finished+Small.jpg", "formatted_filename": "Nasty Disposition Finished Small", "rendered_width": 247, "rendered_height": 320}, null, null, null, null, null, null, null, null]
I have a small box full of pills of different kinds. The box is made of heavy paper. It’s about three inches long by two inches wide by two inches high. The outside is coated with a gloss; the inside has a white matte finish. An aqua or seafoam-colored band runs around the outside, and above and below it there is some small black lettering that I can’t read. On the top is a matte sticker with handwritten lettering. I can’t read it either, but I know what it says: “Teeksa 27,” meaning that it’s meant for me. The box was provided, I think, by the company that makes the pills. Lots of pills are inside it, and they are mostly crudely made, looking like tiny chunks of concrete; few are perfectly formed. Except for the tiny pale-yellow gel capsules, none are colored. They all are just a dismal grey.

I can’t remember what these pills are for. I used to know—that is, I think I used to. But that was back before my memory went, back when I actually used to take the pills. Now I just take out the box sometimes and put it on the varnished blonde oak table in front of me when my father isn’t around, and I look at the many pills inside.

I know the pills were given to me by a woman with dark hair in a white lab coat—unless I dreamed this. But no, it was real, I’m sure. She sat at a desk among a lot of other vacant desks in a large and gloomy office. I think she gave me some instructions about how to take them—when, and whether to take them with milk or water or food, and how many to take, and so on—but I can’t remember. That’s okay because I don’t need to remember. Others remember these things for us now. And I haven’t taken the pills for a long time, anyway.

So I sit at this table peering into the box. It’s not unpleasant, being here, for we live in a large bright and airy house at the seashore. It’s much better than what most people have, I think, and my father says we won the lottery when we got this house.

Today is the Day of the Ships. A long wide window runs along the length of our beach house facing the water, and from where I sit, I can look out across the sands at the dark and despotic-looking ships looming on the water. Some of them are quite large; one is as big as an office building.

The idea enters my head that I should put a ship in the water, too. I rise from the table and go to find the one I have hidden away in the bottom of the coal box. It’s a little black wooden model of an old-fashioned single-masted sailboat, from the Times Before. I bring it back to the table, along with a small nugget of soft coal, and set it gently on the smooth oak surface, beside the box of pills. Another idea enters my head (this is dangerous, having too many ideas in a single hour), and I tear off the flap from the part of the box that folds to close it, the top, the part with the matte sticker that says “Teeksa 27.” With the coal, beside these letters and numbers I draw a star and a flower, and I long to write a wish of some kind for the New Days that begin today. I think I learned how to read and write once, but that has been forgotten. My father can write, and he’ll be home soon—perhaps I’ll wait, and then ask him to help.

The little ship is about the size of the box, but a bit bigger, too big to fit inside. It was my mother’s. She collected boats, or rather, figures of them. Her brother had served on a ship during one of the wars—the one before the one before the last one I think, or one or two before that—and he would get them in various ports of call and send them to her.

She had dozens, displayed carefully and attractively on wooden shelves in a glass-fronted bookcase in the home where we used to live. They were all beautiful—much lovelier than anything you see nowadays, and certainly more attractive than the black looming boats on the water outside for the Day of the Ships. Most of my mother’s small boats were a little bigger than this one, but all were still of a size that you could hold each one in your hand. And they were painted the most gorgeous colors. She had a model of an ancient barge with purple sails. And the flagship of an explorer with a red and yellow cross on the mainsail. Others had gilded masts and silver threads as rigging; one had an intricately carved mermaid figurehead with the scales painted metallic green and her flowing hair painted scarlet. Some had designs or colored trim on the sides, and others had words on the bow telling the name of the ship.

Of course, that was in the days when people collected things. They are all gone now, all but this single tiny black sailboat I’ve kept hidden away. Not wanting to wait for my father’s return, I spindle the shred of paper from the box and wrap it carefully around the bottom of the mast of my little ship.

Clutching it in my hand I run out the door and down the stairs until my bare feet touch the warm sand. It feels pleasant. The sun is high overhead, and my shadow surrounds me like an irregular disc at my feet. A few people are lounging on the beach, but not many. They don’t look at me. They don’t seem to notice me. I pause, and then run into the water until it’s above my waist nearly to my armpits, and I touch the boat to the water.

At first it won’t float. It tips and sinks. I catch it as it falls slowly downward in the black oily water, and set it on the surface again. Again it tilts and starts to sink. But I try a third time, very carefully now, and it takes hold and floats in the thick liquid. I watch it for a moment, and then I trudge back to the shore. Standing in the wet sand at the water’s edge I turn and see it. I shade my eyes from the sun and focus on it, floating—or rather, sailing—there. Of course it’s the smallest one among many giants, but it is there, and that’s the important thing.

For a moment, I imagine the tiny object as a life-sized sailboat, and I picture myself sitting on it and looking back at the shore. I turn my head to gaze over my shoulder at our house: the white perfect paint, the sloping sand-colored roof, the broad and long glass window, and the sand surrounding it. It’s nice, I think, and I’m happy to live here. The nearest one is many measuring units away down the long beach. I wish I could remember how long I’ve lived here, and when we came here, and how. But I can’t. I want to sigh, but sighing is not allowed, and there are still some people lounging nearby on the sand. As before, they seem not to notice me, but then again, maybe they do notice me; maybe they all notice me and are pretending not to. Perhaps the function of the broad glass window is to allow them to watch me inside our home.

Anyway, I don’t sigh. I walk calmly back to our comfortable beach house. My feet gather sand with their wetness as I take long steps to the door.

Back inside, the pill box is there on the polished wooden table waiting for me—the box with all the pills that I haven’t taken in a long time. It beckons to me, and I look inside it again, seeing all of them, wondering what they are for, and wishing I could remember. I go to the sink. I take a green crystal glass from the cupboard and press a button to fill it with water. Then I return to the table and sit there looking out the window at the ocean. With perfect clarity, as if looking through a telescope, I can see my little toy black ship bobbing on the water. But my note, my little shred of paper with the drawings of the star and the flower and “Teeksa 27,” it has just become detached from the boat. And it is floating away. I should be sad, but I’m not. I feel happy to see my boat there among the others, and I think this will bring me luck for the New Days that begin today. “Take pleasure in small things,” my mother used to say. And I do.

I hear a noise at the door and look up as my father enters the house. He’s one of the Healing People, from Former Times. He has grown old now; he is bald and what hair he has left is grey. His face is wrinkled, and he is stoop-shouldered—yet he is a proud man, not conquered by his experiences, like so many others are. He’s fatter than he used to be, too, but he’s mostly healthy. Good health is the greatest gift, we’re told, but I don’t think he is happy. He has barely smiled since my mother died, and that was long ago.

She became ill, right at the beginning of the Time of Forbidden Illness. He tried his best to heal her and failed. I think this is the cause of his unhappiness. They forced him to send her away. I was allowed to visit, just once, in the big white building, and I saw her there in her bed beneath a mound of grey blankets. In spite of her sickness, she smiled at me. That’s my last memory of her.

I look back into the small box of pills, cupping it and hiding it with my hands from my father. Again I wonder if I should take just one pill, swallow it with water from the green glass, even though I can’t remember why or when or how. I stare into the box as my father crosses the room without speaking. There are so many pills. Except for the gel cap’s pale yellow shell, each is crudely formed and sinister-looking in its crudeness. I’m old enough to remember the days when pills were perfectly round or square or lozenge-shaped, with flat or domed tops and words and letters stamped into them. They were the most marvelous colors: pink, orange, yellow; some were even aqua or magenta. They were nothing like these dull imperfect things resembling crumbs of concrete.

But these were given to me for a reason. I know this, given to me by the woman with the dark hair in the lab coat at her place among the desks. I recall stepping up to the counter and speaking with her. But that’s all I remember.

Perhaps I should take one? Would that make my memory worse than it is? What harm could be done by a single crudely formed little pill?

My father, not seeing the small box cupped in my hands, gives me one of his rare weak smiles. He carefully folds his coat, places it on the bench under the window, and asks me how was my day. I start to shrug, but shrugging is not allowed, so I say “fine” and think of asking him where he’s been. But I decide not to.

He stretches out in the big comfortable chair across from me between the table and the window. I keep my position, with the box hidden cupped in my hands that rest innocently before me and beside the green glass on the table. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking up at the ceiling, thinking or daydreaming. Daydreaming is not allowed either, of course—but how could they know?—so everyone does it. At least, everyone I know. Which is myself and my father.

Thinking about the box and the pills and whether it would make me sick to take one, the thought comes into my mind of how sickly I was as a child. I was not expected to live, and if my father hadn’t been one of the Healing People, I wouldn’t have. I think of the stories about how, in spite of his being a healer, I was nearly taken away from him and from my mother during my earliest days. It’s strange that I survived.

I speak up and say to him casually, “Hey, Dad?”

He turns to me.

“When I was a little sickly baby,” I continue, smiling at the thought that we’ll have a conversation, “did you think I’d live to be 27, or 37, or 57, or 60?”

He doesn’t answer and gives me an odd look, perhaps not remembering or not wanting to remember, and I drop the subject.

I sigh—inwardly only—and wonder what to do next. In my impotent state of wondering and having no ideas, I inwardly sigh again.

Suddenly, impulsively, I look beyond him to see if my little sailboat, my tiny offering, is still out there on the dark water. There are more people on the sand now, and more large grey ships in the water. They all seem predatory to me: ships like sharks, or killer whales, or sea monsters. I try hard to focus my eyes and finally I manage to do so, again as if looking with a telescope.

But I can’t see it.

It’s gone.

I’m glad it has floated away.


Posted by Tamworth Grice at 10:25 PM 0 comments 

How I Write—In Case Anyone Is Interested!

Sometimes people ask me about my “writing process.” I’m not sure I have one. I have no requirements about tools or time or place: I can write on a keyboard or a notepad—or even on a barroom beer mat. I can write anywhere—at a desk, a café table, in bed, on a park bench, on sand at a beach—and at any time of day or night.

Two things I can say about what writing is for me: first, it’s a process of recording. The ancients believed that the were given their art by divinities, by muses for whom they were simply translators or elements of transmission to a human realm. I completely understand this idea. When I write, I don’t know where the stuff comes from. It surely doesn’t come from me! The words, the images, the characters, the stories—none of this is mine. It all comes into my brain from somewhere, from out of nowhere. It’s like a movie playing in my mind, and it’s up to my hands to get it onto the screen or the page. Apollo and the Muses
Second, writing is a craft, like basket weaving. Once the ideas start coming, it’s a matter of using the right words, the best words, les mots justes, to render my vision as accurately as possible. If I’ve succeeded, the reader experiences exactly what I experienced when the thoughts came into my head.

I hope you’ll enjoy my book, Listening to Ian Magick, which is due out this fall.

Posted by Tamworth Grice at 10:31 PM 0 comments 

The Introduction to a Talk I Delivered Last Summer in Wales

As I continue to work on my Tudor-era historical novel, I thought I'd post the introductory paragraph of a lecture I delivered last summer in Wales at a conference titled "Representing the Tudors." I'll be releasing the lecture soon as an ebook. How Issues of Infertility, Illness, and Injury Affect Representations of the Characters in the Showtime TV Series The Tudors

In April 2007 the British-Irish-Canadian television show The Tudors made its debut, and a year later it was referred to as the series that “viewers are eating up” (Gates, 2008). The Showtime series was enormously popular, and this popularity has continued via DVD, Blu-Ray, and streaming. As a USA Today writer observed in an article about the series during its final season, “The 16th-century English king and his Tudor clan are never going away” (Puente, 2010). The Tudors, both as a TV series and as historical figures, have a universal appeal for twenty-first-century audiences. In assessing this popularity, one perhaps thinks first of the themes of love, sex, war, and violence inherent in the series; or of the visual charm of costuming, architecture, and interior design; or possibly of the compelling nature of palace politics and intrigues. But while such representations of the Tudor era are entertaining, one may still wonder what universal elements of the human condition in The Tudors are the sparks that ignite its fire in the imaginations of twenty-first-century audiences. The answer is that problems of infertility, illness, and injury, as well as the characters’ reactions to these, are a large part of what creates the drama of The Tudors; audiences relate to these concerns because such situations create their own human dramas, and taken together these issues are a major common element between twenty-first-century viewers and the characters of The Tudors.
Posted by Tamworth Grice at 1:25 PM 0 comments Labels: Anne Boleyn, beheading, Britain, England, Henry VIII, history, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, king, queen, royal, sex, Showtime, Tamworth Grice, The Tudors, Tudor, TV, violence, Wales



Okay, I haven't written a blog entry in, like, forever.

So this is to tell everyone that, inspired by last summer's 100-day trip to Britain, I'm completely changing direction.

My new work-in-progress is a Tudor-era historical novel that takes place at the court of Henry VIII.

Right now the novel is about 2/3 complete, and I'll tell you more about it here as I move forward.

Thanks for reading this, everyone! Posted by Tamworth Grice at 4:20 PM 0 comments 

Screenplay Critique--aka "Coverage"

Many budding screenwriters pay big bucks to send their scripts out for critiques by supposed experts.

The purpose is to get tips about how to improve the screenplay.

However, sometimes the coverage can go beyond constructive criticism and be brutal.

With this in mind, a writer friend of mine (Chris Neiman) recently sent the following message to a company called Scriptapalooza about the coverage a fellow screenwriter (not me) had received:

Dear Scriptapalooza:

I am sending this to explain why I did not order coverage from Scriptapalooza.

I recently saw coverage that another writer received from Scriptapalooza. It's understandable and desirable that you would be negative in your coverage; no script is perfect, and it is helpful to the writer that you point out flaws to be corrected. However, this coverage went far beyond that. It was extremely negative, to the point of seeming, at worst, hostile, and at best, annoyed. There was not one word of encouragement in the coverage. The overall tone of the coverage was rude and condescending and almost angry.

It's a miracle to me that the writer who received your coverage – who is actually quite talented – went on to write another script.

I think the people who do your coverage need to be aware that writers tend to be sensitive people who can be easily hurt and easily discouraged. The writer who received your coverage apparently isn't, but I am. And because I am, I don't want to risk getting the kind of rude, discouraging, and condescending coverage that was given to this other screenwriter. I certainly don't want to pay $100 for the level of hostility and verbal abuse that I observed in that coverage document.

I hope that reading this will remind you that the people who order coverage are your customers, and that while you are certainly being paid to point out flaws, it is possible to do so and to be kind and supportive and encouraging at the same time. That's what good coverage and good customer service are about, and if your coverage writers in particular and Scriptapalooza in general are unable to do this, you should not be providing coverage.

I hope this message is helpful to you.

Chris Neiman

In fairness to Scriptapalooza, I want to add that the president, Mark Andrushko, promptly wrote a nice note to Chris, in which he said, in part, "I completely agree with you."

Posted by Tamworth Grice at 5:32 PM 0 comments Labels: coverage, coverage companies, criticism, Mark Andrushko, screenplay, screenplay coverage, screenplay coverage companies, screenwriting, script, Scriptapalooza, scripts, writers


Book Review: Roles of Women in Mystery and Suspense Film and Fiction

Here’s a book worth reading for fans of the mystery and suspense genre: Roles of Women in Mystery and Suspense Film and Fiction by Kathryn Ann Ward. As the author points out, “Raymond Chandler said, ‘Love interest . . . weakens a mystery because it [is] antagonistic to the detective’s struggle.’ Yet love stories are often seen in the mystery/suspense genre, including in The Big Sleep by Chandler himself!”

The author begins with a fascinating overview of the history of the mystery/suspense genre that reaches into the Old Testament to consider whether Cain’s slaying of his brother Abel was the world’s first murder mystery. She moves forward to medieval times to discuss the criminal Robin Hood as a “noble outlaw” character, then crosses the pond to cover Edgar Allan Poe as “the father of the modern detective story.

Having laid this groundwork in an introductory chapter, the narrative moves into the twentieth century to its main subject: an exploration of love stories in mystery/suspense works by Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Kenneth Millar (Ross Macdonald), and in films based on these works. The conclusion surveys love stories in three mystery and suspense films that are not book adaptations: Klute, Chinatown, and a lesser-known thriller, The Late Show.

This book is not one of those feminist critiques—I hate them; they’re typically, I find, too glib or too dense for pleasant reading.

Instead, Roles of Women in Mystery and Suspense Film and Fiction applauds the strong, brave, and able women who people the works the authorWard discusses. Each of these characters is not just equal but superior to her male counterpart, especially when it comes to cleverness, courage, and coping skills.

Roles of Women in Mystery and Suspense Film and Fiction by Kathryn Ann Ward is highly recommended.

You can buy it here: http://www.amazon.com/Roles-Women-Mystery-Suspense-Fiction-ebook/dp/B00CNWGDWC/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8andqid=1392667725andsr=8-3andkeywords=kathryn+ann+ward

Posted by Tamworth Grice at 12:50 PM 0 comments 

My World According to FARGO

[After watching Fargo one night many months ago, I sat down and wrote the following blog post. It’s perhaps the most heartfelt and personal piece I’ve ever written. I wrote it for myself, and for a long time I've kept it to myself and not put it on my blog. But now I’m posting it here to perhaps inspire all who might feel as I once felt, and to show them they’re not alone. I hope anyone who reads it will find it worthwhile.]

You know how at the end of Fargo, the Frances McDormand character is driving away with the bad guy in the back of her patrol car, and she’s talking to him in a kind of sad and befuddled voice?

She’s saying, “So that was Mrs. Lundegaard [dead] on the floor in there. And I guess that was your accomplice in the wood chipper. And three people in Brainerd. . . . And here you are. And it’s a beautiful day. I just don’t understand it.”

That was how I felt about my constant stream of rejections from editors, publishers, and agents:

There I was.

And it was a beautiful day.

And I just didn’t understand it.

I tried to do everything right. I wrote the best query letters I could possibly create. I chose agents/editors/publishers who were interested in the types of books I’d written. I used up-to-date information to be sure of having the right names and addresses. I followed directions about what to submit and how. And I spent a lot of money going to conferences so I could pitch my stuff face-to-face.

Nothing worked.

I couldn’t even get a short story published, let alone a novel.

With nothing to show for all my hard work but hundreds of rejections, I tried to make excuses. My main one was this: “It’s the wrong time.” But I knew this wasn’t true. Other unknown writers got published and soared to the tops of the bestseller lists.

I just didn’t understand it.

I’ve my share of pain but nothing was more heartbreaking than my failure as a writer.

Amanda Hocking writes of receiving a rejection and being tempted to destroy everything she’d ever written, and even to destroy herself.

I totally get that. Feeling humiliated that I’d dared to try. Feeling no one understood.

Feeling like an utter loser.

My faith in my work never faltered, however. I know I’m not Dean Koontz or Stephen King or Elmore Leonard. But I also know my work isn’t terrible. And at the time it was a lot better than some of the other stuff on bookstore shelves.

A handful of friends who read my work confirmed this. “Your characters are interesting. Your storylines are intriguing. You're a great writer! We don’t understand why you can’t get published,” they’d say.

I didn’t understand it either.

I still don’t.

But it no longer matters.

I took control by self-publishing my novel as an eBook, first for Kindle, then for Nook, then via Smashwords and AllRomance. And then I published another eBook, and another, and I encouraged my friends and fellow writers Destiny Drake and Nick Navarre to do the same.

And we'll all maintain control by self-publishing yet another, and another, and another, and more and more and more!

So now I’m content. I’m no longer at the mercy of the corrupt and callous publishing industry (see a previous post to read cruel things said in rejection letters). I no longer submit my work and pray for acceptance. (By the way, think about that word: “submit.”) I no longer say to myself, “Here I am. It’s a beautiful day. And I just don’t understand.”

I control my own life. I don't "submit." That’s something I do understand.

And right now, that’s enough.

Posted by Tamworth Grice at 11:34 AM 0 comments 

The Opening Scene of My Book, LISTENING TO IAN MAGICK 

Posted by Tamworth Grice at 10:11 AM 0 comments 

Guest Author William Gagliani

Guest Author's Introduction:

This is how I described the novel for promotional purposes:

W.D. Gagliani
Milwaukee, WI Guest author bio:


Twitter: @WDGagliani

Posted by Tamworth Grice at 2:09 PM 0 comments 


How to Create a Hyperlinked Table of Contents for Smashwords

Posted by Tamworth Grice at 12:47 PM 0 comments 


June Miller 

Posted by Tamworth Grice at 11:51 PM 2 comments 


Indie Support Day 2012

Friday, June 22, is Indie Support Day!