Bleeding Heart Front Cover 300If you’re a frequent reader of mine, you know I have a novel coming out. Bleeding Heart, Book One of the Medici Protectorate Series, releases August 11.

I’m so excited!

It’s available now for preorder on Amazon and iTunes.

If you still aren’t sure what it’s about, let me give you a brief description:

Warrior Gianni protects Franki, secret legacy of the Medici, from prophesied assassins. (You can tweet this, if you’d like, by clicking here.)

For a better description, here’s what you need to know:

After her father’s murder, Franki is targeted for assassination by an unknown enemy. She finds her safety depends on the Medici Protectorate, the warriors who guarded her bloodline and their secret for centuries.

Gianni, Franki’s protector, struggles to garner her trust. As he assumes his new role, he also undergoes inexplicable, explosive changes… transformations he can’t control.

Their worlds collide in passion and violence, and Franki struggles to trust Gianni. When her life is on the line, Gianni will have to conquer both her fears and his own personal demons to rescue her in time.

If that interests you, here are a few teasers from inside the book. I hope you enjoy the writing and love the design work as much as I do. (I think my designer, Casey W. Cowan, did a phenomenal job on them.)


Kiss Properly Indecently Teaser Amazing When Sweaty Teaser

Targets Teaser 2

In the garage 2


I hope you enjoy these. Let me know what you think.

I love this photo. It reminds me of the days when authors bled ink and angst onto parchment pages, when printers painstakingly placed each letter and line of type until an entire tome took shape.

When readers took the time to hold books in their hands, smell the aroma of the ink and paper, immerse themselves in knowledge and verse.

Now, I’m old, but I’m not that old. I wasn’t REALLY there. And this photo doesn’t quite capture the essence of Gutenberg’s press. (I swear, I’m really not that old.)

But I can picture it. I feel the texture of the vellum, smell the tang of the ink. (Probably not as good as those purple dittoed pages we used to get in school—you know, the ones that were warm from hand-cranking and smelled sweet from the alcohols in the ink—but I bet it was a close second.)

But this photo evokes something in me. Something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.

Publishing.

medici protectorateI’ve been thinking about it because my next novel, Bleeding Heart, the first in the Medici Protectorate Series, is about to be released. August 11, 2015, to be precise. But I’m not talking about the publishing industry—or rather, I’m not talking only about the publishing industry—I’m talking about a writer sending her work out into the world.

The Briefest History of Publishing

Ages past, a writer had things to say and either he or a scribe recorded these messages. While cave paintings and hieroglyphs aren’t considered “literature” in the conventional sense, people have been recording stories for centuries. Tales exist from as early as the Sumerian version of Gilgamesh before 2000 BC, and there are reports of innumerable texts lost to us forever, like those of the Library at Alexandria. Traditionally, however, fictional tales were dispersed to the people through oral traditions. Many people couldn’t read, nor did “books” exist. And if they did, the majority of people wouldn’t have been able to afford them, anyway.

Enter Gutenberg and the printing press. First used for the Bible, the printing press is still used today to distribute messages to the masses. Not the same technology, of course, but the end result is the same. Just on a faster, cheaper, and more massive scale.

Oral traditions held favor for quite a while, though. Shakespeare had his work performed live on stage. Dickens read his work to audiences. Even today, audiobooks have become a viable option for people who want to hear the stories without sitting and scanning text. Authors sometimes give readings when they release a new work.

Printing/publishing wasn’t for fiction in the beginning. You see, as early as 1472, publishing houses were popping up in Europe. At first, they were basically printing companies, doing nothing more than reproducing work. Nonfiction work. The Church, however, was the head of the publishing company. They controlled the messages being distributed, making them the first gatekeepers of literature. (It’s a safe bet to assume Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey wouldn’t have made the cut back then.) And controlling gatekeepers still stand today. Although, with the advent of eBooks and self-publishing, those gatekeepers have lost much of their say regarding the works people publish. Now, anyone can publish a book. The gatekeepers now only have their reputation behind their works. Kind of a “we’re the experts and we vetted this content for you” kind of thing. But that doesn’t keep readers searching for only vetted material, which seriously hampers the power of those Powers That Be.

Reasons Authors Abhor Publishing

Every author will tell you that writing is both fun and difficult. And every author will have a different reason for feeling each way. But one thing is certain—the act of writing and the act of publishing are two very different things.

[tweetthis twitter_handles=”@stacitroilo”]Blog post, a short story, or an epic saga… doesn’t matter. #Publishing is scary. [/tweetthis]

It doesn’t matter if you’re publishing a blog post, a short story, or an epic saga. Publishing is scary. Often exhilarating, but scary.

Why? Well, readers, let me let you in on a few secrets. Five, to be exact.

  1. Writers Have Feelings.
    We have feelings. I know when you finish reading a novel and proceed to make fun of it with your friends, you’re just having a laugh. But someone worked hard on that. If a writer is worth her salt, she’s written and rewritten, revised and edited, designed and labored for longer than you’d guess. Some people take more than a decade to get their work in shape for the world. We hate publishing because we put so much in only to (sometimes) be ignored or panned. And I don’t know which is worse, really.
  2. Writers Work Hard.
    It doesn’t matter if an author is self-published or traditionally published, he or she has a lot of time and effort invested. Not just the actual book, but all the marketing that’s involved. How much is enough? How much is too much? We don’t want to spam, but we don’t want to get lost in the shuffle. Our words and stories matter to us, we want to share them, not scare folks away. For every person with a book to sell, there are millions more competing for the same audience. It’s daunting. Almost crippling.
  3. Writers Fear Rejection. Never having shared a story is easy. You can tell yourself people would love it if they heard it, but you don’t have to face reality. Once you’ve published something, it’s out there. Receiving no comments at all or negative comments hurts. Completely pierces your heart. You doubt your message, you doubt your calling, you doubt your worth. It’s crucial to get positive feedback. Let me back-track a bit. Maybe I should say constructive feedback. I’m not advocating trading favorable reviews with other authors or buying reviews. But I am saying reviews—good reviews—are necessary. They help get your work in front of other readers, and they help validate your efforts. But only honest good reviews will make a difference. And figuring out how to get them is really hard. Even if people love your writing, they have no real motivation to tell you or others. If they hate it, they might want to rant about it, though. That’s why negative reviews are more powerful than positive ones. And that’s why writers fret over it.
  4. Writers Aren’t Business Experts.
    Well, let me amend that. Successful writers have to learn to become business experts. But chances are, if you write fiction, you’re a creative-type. And, being one myself, I know that creatives aren’t necessarily the best at corporate minutiae. But these days, writers have to be. Writers write because they want to share stories with the world. But writers have to learn marketing, merchandising, distribution, bookkeeping… and every task on the business end takes them away from what they really want to do. Write. It’s a demand on the time and resources that no writer wants to sacrifice but every writer must endure.
  5. Writers Aren’t Patient.
    This last one deals with the traditional definition of publishing. Not hitting “post” on a blog article, but actually working with a publishing house to get a book released. Did you know it can take two years from when you submit your work to when it actually hits the shelves? Then you’re supposed to develop an audience for it, market it (even though you don’t have it yet), and all the while you should be creating new content. If you miss a deadline, your work can be delayed. If the publisher misses a deadline, your work will be delayed. The next time you’re complaining about an author not releasing book 12 in her series exactly nine months after book 11, remember it might not be her fault. That book was probably written years ago. It just hasn’t made it through the queue yet.

So what can you, the reader, do to make your favorite authors feel better? Chances are, if you have a favorite author, it’s because he or she has delivered more than one or two good works, so you think you don’t need to show your support.

Sorry, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Writers need reviews so their work has the potential to reach other readers. They need to know what you liked and what you didn’t like so they can better serve your needs/meet your expectations in the future. They need you to recommend them to friends and family… a personal recommendation goes so much further than an offhand comment from a random stranger. They need you to share their posts and Tweets. They need your help.

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And what do you get out of it?

Other than more good content, that is?

How about our undying gratitude and respect? That two minutes you spend on a share, review, or comment will garner you a lifetime of good will from us.

And I know, because I’m grateful to each and every single one of you.

My challenge to you—support an author today. Leave a comment on a website, a review on a sales page. Type a comment on Facebook or retweet an author’s content. It will cost you no money and next to no time. But it will make a difference in some author’s life.

Have a great day, friends. I plan on spending the day writing.

Here’s a short story starring Franki and Gianni. This takes place after the end of Bleeding Heart. (Part way through Mind Controlactually, although this won’t be found in that book.) I hope you enjoy it.


Fireworks Aren’t Always in the Sky

villa lanteFranki stood on the travertine-tiled patio and rubbed her arms against the night chill. Weather in Florence, Italy reminded her of weather at home in Pennsylvania—nearly ninety degrees (Fahrenheit) during the day and low sixties at night, but for some reason, that evening’s breeze blew exceptionally brisk. Unprepared for the cool wind, she’d stepped outside in a tank and shorts. And regretted it immediately.

But the view captivated her, so she stayed and braced herself against the cool air.

The Brotherhood’s home in Pennsylvania was beautiful. Their compound in New York was gorgeous. But their complex in Florence? It simply stole her breath. And she and her sisters knew quality properties. They’d been raised in the construction and design industries, and since the death of her father, were the owners of one of the most prestigious building and design firms in Pittsburgh.

It didn’t take her construction knowledge to know she stood on private property overlooking one of Italy’s most beautiful—and non-touristy—creations. The house behind her rivaled any palace or basilica she’d toured in her first visit to the country. The grounds, however, captured her interest at the moment. The hedge mazes and topiary created shadow-play on the paths as marble statuary gleamed a luminescent hue of white and water in the grottos sparkled from moonlight, star shine, and discrete lighting fixtures. The burbling fountains composed an organic melody, harmonizing with the chirping crickets.

Gianni walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. The warmth she felt from his arms over hers and his torso against her back spread through her body.

And caused her to shiver all over again.

“Cold?” he asked. “It’s a beautiful night.”

She smiled and leaned back against him, not revealing what caused her latest shiver. “The wind just gave me a chill. It is a beautiful night, though.”

“The glow flies are out. June’s nearly over.”

She tipped her head up and looked at him. “Glow flies?”

nighttime gardensHe nodded toward the hedge maze. “Glow flies. Those little floating blinking lights in the garden. You have them in the States.”

A chuckle escaped her. “Yes, we do. But we call them fireflies. Or lightning bugs.”

He kissed her neck and said, “Hmm.” The vibrations from his lips on her skin gave her another shiver. “I don’t like the sound of lightning bugs.” He nuzzled her neck. “Fireflies is kind of nice, though.”

“I think I like glow flies. And I love it when our cultures merge.”

He kissed her neck again. “Mmm. Me, too. I love it when we merge even more.”

Franki giggled. “I love it here. But I wish we were home for the festivities next week.”

His lips grazed against her shoulder. “Festivities?”

She sighed. “The Fourth of July.”

Gianni didn’t answer. He continued pressing his lips on her arms, her shoulder blades. The nape of her neck.

She shuddered again. “Independence Day?”

“I know what it is,” he murmured. “I just didn’t realize it was next week.”

“The food, the fireworks, the festival… music and dancing and seeing the whole town come out to celebrate.” She sighed. “I love that. I’m going to miss it.”

“Let me see if I can take your mind off it, then.”

He led her inside, and she saw fireworks that night.

*    *    *

They continued their work for the next week, and Franki tried not to fixate on missing yet another hometown comfort. She was pleasantly surprised when, on July 4, Gianni and Donni threw together a picnic that would rival any festival back home.

fried doughPlatters of pasta salads, grilled vegetables, and antipastos sat on the table between pulled pork, sausages, burgers, and dogs… all with fresh-baked rolls to put them in. Trays of grilled chicken and barbecued ribs nearly overflowed. Two huge bowls held fresh cut fruit, and sugar-dusted mounds of fried dough sat ready to be topped with gelato, fruit compotes, chopped nuts, homemade hot fudge and salted-caramel sauces, and vanilla-flavored whipped cream.

Why those two idiots loved to work in the kitchen, Franki would never understand. And she’d never complain. Everything was delicious.

After dinner, everyone took drinks out to the patio and settled down to digest their food. Franki sipped on coffee laced with Frangelico. The twins had glasses of Galliano. Jo and Vinnie had beer. The other guys had wine. She’d be content to taste everyone’s drinks, and after feeling comfortably fuzzy from the liquor, slip off to bed.

She sighed.

“What’s the matter?” Gianni asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Franki, you’re a lousy liar. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful.”

He waited, staring at her. The others had broken into pairs and talked quietly to each other. She turned toward Gianni, took his hand, and squeezed it. “You worked so hard today. Everything was wonderful. Delicious. I couldn’t ask for more.”

“But you want more?” he said.

“I just miss the fireworks. Despite the perfect picnic, it just doesn’t feel like the Fourth without fireworks.”

“I see.” He fumbled with something in his pocket.

“When I was little, I used to call them ‘a glittery extravaganza in the sky.’”

“Big words.” He sent a text and then looked at her. “How little?”

“I don’t know. Papa teased me about it for years, though.”

“It’s cute.”

“I guess he thought so, anyway.” She looked away from him, out over the gardens. Talking about her recently-deceased father still made her sad.

“Would fireworks tonight make you happy?”

Why dwell on something she couldn’t have. “I’m happy now, Gianni. Really.”

“So, I should cancel tonight’s festivities?”

She so loved his ‘festivities.’ She’d never say no to that. He’d provide her with her own personal fireworks, and that would be an excellent cap to the evening.

“Do you want to go upstairs now?” she asked.

He laughed and shook his head. “You and your one-track mind.”

She looked at him and raised her eyebrow. They didn’t have a language barrier, but every now and then, he confused her. “What are you talking about?”

Gianni sent a final text, then he nodded toward the gardens. “Watch.”

Italy_fireworksShe heard a faint whistle, then the sky exploded into sparkling embers of violet and gold. A loud boom echoed over the gardens, so loud she felt the air shake with the strength of it.

Fireworks.

Spinning toward Gianni, she flung her arms around him and planted a firm kiss on his lips.

He laughed and pulled away. “Turn around, cara. I don’t want you to miss the show.”

She leaned against his chest and watched as the sky sparkled with explosion after explosion of colorful mortars. The finale rivaled any she’d ever seen before.

Franki turned and wrapped her arms around him, and this time he didn’t turn her away. “You did all this for me?”

“Well, I am a joint citizen…”

She kissed him.

“I just want to make you happy, Franki. Always.”

She held him tight, head pressed against his chest. She felt the heat of his body, heard his heartbeat through the thick silence the end of the show left behind.

She pulled away and looked at him. “How about one more show?”

He frowned. “I think they set everything off, cara. I could call and—”

Franki put her finger over his lips, stopping him from continuing. She shook her head and smiled. “I mean the kind of festivities I thought you meant earlier. A private show.”

He stood, pulled her to her feet, and addressed everyone sitting outside. “Donni and I cooked. The rest of you are on dishes. Goodnight.”

They didn’t wait for an answer. He swept Franki off her feet and carried her upstairs for the second finale of the night.