tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39185410564828305652024-03-10T10:49:06.390-07:00A man who never gave up on romance - Mario Saincic's Writing BlogDiscover Passion - It Defines YouMario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-52944340601434904372019-06-06T06:15:00.001-07:002019-07-08T06:30:24.772-07:00Look forward to shit...Yesterday, every time I changed my son's nappy he had only made a pee.<br />
<br />
Yes, a pee nappy is far better than a toxic mess, but when they are that age it is important to monitor their stool frequency. It isn't as regular as clockwork. So by late afternoon and while changing him again, we made a pact that the only time I would put on a new nappy was if he had made a poo. He unfortunately did not uphold his end and when my wife got home, she frowned at me wondering why our son had suddenly picked up so much weight.<br />
<br />
Just kidding, it wasn't that bad.<br />
<br />
So, everytime he made even the slightest fart (some are trumpeted) during the night and this morning, I jumped up expecting a reward based on our agreement. I know this sounds strange, but I have never before looked forward to a shit nappy as today.<br />
Then it happened. I was so excited I immediately messaged my wife. She knows I'm a nut so she merely replied with a smiling emoji. Afterwards, when my son offered a smile of relief, it reminded me of when I first started writing.<br />
<br />
Once the writing bug had bitten, I searched the web far and wide for a writing forum I could join that didn't frown upon or make fun of newbies like me. One eventually stood out, so I subscribed. I felt like Alice falling through the rabbit hole to discover an entirely new and wonderful world. They sat me down and explained how everything worked, and also advised me on which animals to feed and not feed. In fact, I am still in contact with writing friends I met soon after becoming a member.<br />
<br />
And now for the shit part...<br />
<br />
One of the <i>rooms</i> on this forum was a place where you could submit your writing to be reviewed by other writers, editors and readers alike. If you had the balls to do so, that is. I scrolled through comments posted for other pieces of work just to get a feel of how it all worked, and also to pluck up enough courage to offer my lamb for the slaughter. This was a great learning curve as I soon realised what to keep and what to discard as some feedback began with: "<i>If this was my work, I would have started it like this...</i>"<br />
Those people were instantly put high on my list of ones to ignore, because, quite frankly, you didn't write it.<br />
<br />
In this very same room, a certain presence roamed like a ghostly figure. You could compare them to to Keanu Reeves - genius, yet shrouded in secrecy. Rumour had it that this person had English degrees coming out of every orifice, and could quote Sol Stein's <i>On Writing</i> line by line. So every now and then (and let's refer to the person as <i>he</i>) he would pop in and make a comment on a certain piece of writing. Other than these appearances, he never spoke to anyone or socialised in chat rooms, as often is the case on a forum.<br />
<br />
Totally unapproachable, everyone feared him, and I could only imagine how hearts must have sank when his avatar appeared under the comments section. As a perfectionist, he would lash out his wrath, which I later realised was due to his obsession to write perfect prose, bringing about an anger fueled by his own inability to finish a book that measured up to his standards.<br />
<br />
But he was brilliant. He literally ripped your work apart, limb by limb, slapping you with the meaty end, yet always advised on how to put it back together based on language structure. And basic common sense.<br />
<br />
So with me being me, I decided to wake the dragon by doing the unthinkable.<br />
I need to know if my writing is crap or not and never shy away from constructive critism, so I sent him a direct message asking for a review of my work. Yes, I'm cheeky in that way.<br />
A brave move, if your idea of thrill-seeking is trying to dodge a highway of cars at rush hour.<br />
<br />
Absolutely outraged at the gall of me, he responded.<br />
The result was akin to a scene from <i>Natural Born Killers. </i>There was blood everywhere. So much so that I think even Tarantino would have cringed. In fact, if I tilted my laptop to one side it would probably have oozed red commentry. Friends who had witnessed the war contacted me immeditely, offering support and assuring me that it was not the end.<br />
<br />
But I loved it.<br />
Down to every single red word, underline, and exclamation mark.<br />
My plan had worked.<br />
<br />
You see, I looked forward to the shit that would definitely rain down on me. I was covered in it, and it stank. Because I had followed his reviews for some time, I knew that his attack would sadisticly cut to the bone, but I also knew that his feedback would be the honest and brutal truth. I read it over and over and over again, making notes and carving it into my writing mind until I was assured it would remain permanently. He went the extra mile, and it was the best lesson I have ever had.<br />
<br />
Funny enough, I have thought of provoking agents in the same way, but I don't think it would have the desired effect.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-46079946930555918902019-06-01T01:34:00.000-07:002019-06-12T23:38:11.883-07:00You will never get it right...I bought a nasal aspirator.<br />
<br />
Before taking my son for his 10 week immunisations, I checked to see whether I had the correct folder with all his details my wife had so efficiently filed away. Nodding my head and smiling that I had in fact found what I needed, a pamphlet fell out which the paediatrician had handed me on our first visit, advertising an aspirator.<br />
<br />
Seeing as our baby boy does have congestion issues from time to time, I picked up the ad and read the text, wondering whether this item really worked. The image again raised concern in my mind because even though the simple design of mouthpiece, clear tube and cylinder on the end seemed practical enough, it still looked like something you'd buy in a sex shop.<br />
<br />
That aside, I YouTubed the thing and was amazed to see how effective it was. The reviews were good. So, after his shots (God, I hate needles) I went out and got one. He is now so at ease that five-hour sleeping sessions have become the norm. Well, not all the time. He still has his one-hour intervals of moaning just to keep me on my toes. During one such episode, I tried everything, only to finally see his face redden as if it would explode, followed by a smell from hell. I cleaned him and he instantly began a conversation. Mutterings most wouldn't comprehend, but I understood perfectly well: "<i>Thanks, Dad, for wiping my arse at 3 in the morning.</i>"<br />
<br />
I take my hat off to my wife for handling the graveyard shift so well the past couple of months.<br />
<br />
So with his sleeping pattern levelling out and intervals becoming longer, I have more time to write without interruptions, and after having a writing mentor advise that I needed to add more sexual tension to my book, I decided to give it a try.<br />
Until then, the term <i>sexual tension</i> was something I despised. In my mind it meant adding nakedness and graphic sex scenes just for the sake of it, which my wife explained to the contrary in her <i>not my mother tongue </i>English. This is not a jab at her, but a compliment seeing as she is fluent in four languages. The accent is sexy, though.<br />
<br />
Getting back to this post's title, I need to clarify that it is not a consumerism marketing strategy stating that if you don't drive a certain car or drink a specific drink or wear <i>this</i> brand of clothing you are deemed as inferior. A failure. It rather reflects on me as a writer, and I am certain it will also hit home with others in the profession.<br />
<br />
You will never get it right...or will you?<br />
<br />
Sexual tension, as I understand it, is adding a spark that ignites a flame.<br />
<i>She peered out the corner of her eye and caught him staring...</i>as example, should raise a number of questions: How did it make her feel - and short of having instant wet panties, did it do something inside?<br />
I always had this in my books, but clearly not enough. Or rather, not explained enough.<br />
Apparently <i>She smiled in response</i> doesn't quite cut it for the reader.<br />
<br />
Even though I edit while I write and can't continue with today's words until I feel that the previous was okay and made sense, I always go back and edit, edit, edit. It's a curse, and I tend to suffer from CDO, which is OCD put alpahbetically.<br />
I am querying again after a time of absense, and decided to dive back into one specific story and add more of this tension. I do not add shit for the sake of adding shit as I hate that in books I read, but halway into the my story I have added an extra 5K words already, and this not only with extra spark but clarifying description as well. I mean, if she's in London, surely she would see Big Ben and The London Eye (or whatever it is called at the moment seeing as the name changes so often).<br />
<br />
How does she react? Does he notice her reaction? How does her reaction make him feel?<br />
<br />
A ripple effect of sexual tension.<br />
<br />
The point I am trying to make is that, in our own eyes, we will never get it right. Five years and six completed novels later, I know for a fact that if I start reading through any of my books again, I will add and subtract. Make changes.<br />
<br />
I have read up and watched videos about agents and their lives, and what their typical day looks like. With this in mind, I realise that receiving a rejection (or no response at all) is not directly linked to my work submitted, and therefore doesn't mean I write crap.<br />
Getting a book deal, as stated by some, is 20% talent and 80% luck, the luck part meaning that your submission lands on the right desk at the right time, and that the recipient thereof has not had a day filled with too many personal issues or work stress.<br />
<br />
I continually find reasons why I haven't recieved a response yet: <i>I didn't get my cover letter right</i>... <i>I shared too much about myself... I didn't share enough about myself... I didn't come across seriously enough... I sounded too serious and should have added a quirk or a joke...</i><br />
<br />
It. Is. Endless.<br />
<br />
But just because a rejection is received or a book isn't selling online doesn't mean it is crap, it just means to never stop trying. The way I am feeling at the moment, I'm going to have a hundred unpublished books by the time I die. At least I'm knocking on agency doors and not allowing the feeling of <i>You will never get it right </i>to stand in my way.<br />
<br />
When in doubt, WRITE!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-11603265810818886102019-05-28T00:54:00.000-07:002019-06-12T23:39:20.689-07:00Learn to listen...My wife understands baby talk.<br />
<br />
Whether a groan, squeak, niggle, cry, scream or even just the flapping of arms, she knows exactly what our son needs.<br />
I don't.<br />
With me, it's a process of elimination: feed me, burp me, change me, smile at me, play with me or put my dummy back in my mouth. And very often it is all of the above, just not in that order. It is usually a case of feed me, burp me, feed me, smile at me, burp me, feed me some more, and finally, clean my bottom.<br />
<br />
When writing, I have a similar situation, and that because my characters are always based on people I have met at one stage or another.<br />
We have conversations, negotiations, and lay out a general list of actions to be taken. Most of the time they would say, "<i>You want me to do what?</i>"<br />
<br />
In real life, the average human being is driven by the primal instinct to survive. Whether creating a safety net for those within their bubble, working towards that promotion or mending bridges to achieve emotional peace, the situation dictates the way they would react to (and in) a situation.<br />
<br />
Like a large percentage of marriages, my first ended with a divorce.<br />
No details necessary other than I had to find a way to deal with it, so I wrote a book where my MC lost his wife in a car accident. In a way the two are very similar, because one day they're there and the next they are not.<br />
So, his wife died and he's a mess, but if you listen to what your character is saying you will realise that there is a lot more beneath the surface. Feelings of loss, guilt and blame come to mind.<br />
But search deeper... Ask questions like: <i>How do you see yourself going forward - Will you ever love again - Are you able to love again seeing as, at the moment, you are emotionally numb...?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
This applies to the romance genre and how I write it, and has also helped me when developing three-dimensional characters in other genres I have written. I may be wrong, but as a reader I like being able to relate to the character. Get inside their head. Feel what they are feeling.<br />
<br />
So listen. Talk to your characters. Share a beer or a shower - whatever it takes to make them as real as you can, and you'll find that writing them becomes second nature.<br />
<br />
Even though it has been done over and over, I will one day have a writer as a character, and describe how it feels to send out queries...<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-11229574486779088062019-05-24T15:32:00.000-07:002019-06-12T23:40:12.807-07:00HI!Five years ago, today, while scrolling through my social media followers, I once again paused on the profile of an angel.<br />
<br />
She was a German living in Paris. Exotic. An unreachable dream.<br />
I mean, a multi-published author, blonde, young and beautiful, with her bedroom window opening up to the Eiffel Tower. I looked down at my keyboard missing three keys and wondered: "What if?"<br />
<br />
What if I could meet her, by accident or in passing. Would I have the courage to say hello, and if so, would she even give me the time of day?<br />
<br />
Separated and living in a room in my brother's house, how could I ever stand a chance? Nevermind that being unemployed at the time meant not having the means to travel to Europe, I wouldn't even be able to buy her a cup of coffee if the miracle ever happened.<br />
<br />
I'd been researching date sites for a book idea (No, I didn't sign up for any, because again, I didn't have an income and was unable to get past viewing pictures) and I was shocked at some of the whack-jobs out there. So, while still staring at her smile, I thought of how strange it might seem for her to get a message from someone halfway around the world. She'd probably see me as totally daft. Or a psycho stalker. Desperate.<br />
<br />
I suppose that in a way I was in fact desperate. Desperate for company. Desperate to have someone to talk to. Desperate to be be able to discuss my writing with a person that wouldn't brush aside the fact that I was already busy on my third novel; see it as insignificant. So I closed my eyes. Said a silent prayer which probably went along the lines of "Please don't let her laugh at me," and remembered something from a movie I'd watched about having 20 seconds of insane courage. A short time span in which you had permission to throw caution to the wind and do something utterly insane.<br />
<br />
My mouse cursor hovered, then clicked on her message box. I typed two letters. Staring at my screen, I waited for the timer to count down. While it got closer and closer to my deadline, I wondered what the hell I was doing.<br />
<br />
"Hi."<br />
<br />
A simple word that didn't exactly challenge the boundaries of communication, nor set an example of how brilliant a writer I thought I was. Five seconds left, and still an all-consuming fear that I was about to make a total fool of myself. But it couldn't be <i>that</i> bad. I mean, if my message turned out to be the best laugh she'd had in weeks, at least it was good for something.<br />
That thought made me wonder what her laugh sounded like. Soft as a feather brushing my ear, contained and civilized, or the piercing honk of a horn?<br />
It didn't matter, I'd never get to hear it.<br />
<br />
My time had almost run out, and in a way I wanted it to. I wanted a reason not to put myself out there, even if only in conversation. I was happy in my tiny hole, typing away on a broken keyboard. It was my saving grace. My peace. My comfort zone. My healing.<br />
<br />
But I'm a writer, right? Just like her. And writers follow writers, and therefore have something in common. I followed her and she followed me. I couldn't remember which came first. So why shouldn't I reach out? At least it wasn't the typical: "Hello, and thanks for following, now buy my book!"<br />
<br />
I pushed <i>SEND,</i> and immediately started imagining her face when she read my feeble message, and then also her response if she even took the time to send one. Possible words and sentences drew straws in my mind, with the most likely comeback from her being two words - the first starting with <i>F</i>, and the second being <i>OFF</i>. I hoped she wouldn't add an exclamation mark. That would be embarrassing.<br />
<br />
Anyway, it was done, and I was officially the daftest arse on social media.<br />
<br />
My wait for a response more than likely involved a glass of liquid with a percentage. Probably more than one. I eventually decided to put her out of my mind and continue writing, but couldn't. Maybe a walk. Get some fresh air. So I did, and when I returned, I had received a message.<br />
<br />
I clicked on it and her face appeared. The same smile I had seen over and over and over. Unchanged. Happy. And then I took a deep breath and read her answer. Writers are able to use an array of words to describe just about anything under the sun, but at that precise moment, I couldn't think of a single one to describe the way I felt. There was no <i>F</i> followed by an <i>OFF, </i>or a rejection in any form. The message in front of me was simple.<br />
One word.<br />
Two letters.<br />
<br />
"Hi."<br />
<br />
Five months later I stood at the airport, nervous as hell, and waited to see the woman I had fallen in love with. A man next to me asked what she was like, and without thinking I answered "amazing." You see, even though we'd never met, we knew each other inside out. During the time from her response until standing in the arrivals hall, I had read her books and she had read mine. <i>She writes so much better than me.</i> We went from Twitter's limited characters to e-mail. We had movie nights over Blackberry's BBM: lying with our phones next to us and watching together, her on her laptop and me on mine.<br />
<br />
So I stood there not knowing what her hair smelt like, the smoothness of her skin or how her eyes glistened in the sunlight, but I waited for someone I knew better than myself. Because in those months, our souls had touched, hugged, and made love.<br />
<br />
So today, the 24th of May, will always be our official "Hi" day as, five years later, we have been married for two years and share a bundle of joy in the form of our blue-eyed boy.<br />
<br />
Natalie, my love, you will always be the co-writer of our life together, a story I hope never ends.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-62342459965056021472019-05-11T06:13:00.000-07:002019-06-12T23:41:07.721-07:00There's always a story...After my last post, I am happy to announce that I finally found my story, and it wasn't under the bed.<br />
<br />
With reference to the blog I mentioned previously, I continue along the lines that a writer's blog should have writery things, and if at all possible, writery things within your own genre. So I am going to try and explain my reason for writing romance.<br />
<br />
I did not wake up one day deciding to be a writer, followed by extensive market research on which genres sold well and brought authors the highest return for their hard work. You see, that was the last thing on my mind.<br />
Growing up and based on what I read, I was more of a fantasy and supernatural kind of guy with the likes of Tolkien, Koontz, King and Asimov filling my book shelf. I was also always interested in Arthur and the knights of the round table. Only after I decided to seriously put pen to paper was I drawn to the previously unmentioned world of romance.<br />
<br />
At the time the idea of my first book prodded me in the ribs, I was separated and on a steady course to divorce. I'll spare you all the details, but basically I had to do something to keep sane. So I did. Everything I was feeling inside ended up on paper. Yes, I started writing using an exam pad and pen. When this life raft for survival presented itself, something akin to a volcano erupted inside and I felt warm. The words flowed, and I found that writing about feelings, heartache and hope of a better future was as easy as filling my lungs with air. Basically, I write romance because I believe it still exists.<br />
<br />
My first two books were more about making sense of what I was going through. Listing questions of <i>why </i>and sorting the possible answers in chronological order, even though there is absolutely nothing logical about feeling pain. From there on the bug had not just bitten, but instead took a chunk out of me and I couldn't put my pen down. Fine. I had two books and wanted to write more, so where would I get the inspiration to guide my thought process?<br />
<br />
The answer is quite simple, or at least it was for me.<br />
<br />
One of my favourite TV shows of late is <i>Castle</i>, and in an odd kind of way watching a writer trail a police officer to get first hand experiences in order to write books, helped me.<br />
The series is murder/mystery, <i>the macabre</i>, so you might ask how that could possibly influence a romance writer. The thing that was drummed into me was his catch phrase of: <i>"Follow the story, There's always a story."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
That is so, so true. There is always a story. Every single person on God's green earth has a story, whether a billionaire with a void inside as large as his bank balance, a top exec working their butt off to be able to retire comfortably, or a chef that's lost his or her passion to continue challenging their own creativity. There is always a story, and writers are the one's to find out what it is and turn it into something people will want to read.<br />
<br />
I'll use an example of when I recently spent a few hours at a coffee shop. A writing cliché, I know, but at least I left my laptop, ideas book and dictaphone in the car. I went in and sat down with my only intention being to pass the time before my next meeting. Nothing more.<br />
<br />
But being a writer didn't make it easy. Within the first five minutes I had counted the number of tables and chairs - I have always counted things, and made a mental note of the number to describe the restaurant's size. I also panned the room, paying close attention to the decor, bric-a-brac, and also the staff. Whilst absorbing the mood I could use to create a scene, the patrons sitting at each table spoke to me.<br />
<br />
Not literally, of course, but one by one they started telling me their story.<br />
<br />
Some writers would have a dark phantom walk in and start beheading the guests, or a giant snake immerging from the salad valley and burping as a result of lying in the calamata dressing for too long. Maybe the East-European-looking female waiter pulls her apron aside, lifting an Uzi and reeling in laughter while blowing grumpy clients away because she's had enough of their shit.<br />
Mine spoke to me, but in a way that I could use them to build a true romance story with characters like you and me.<br />
<br />
Two men dressed in suits sat to my right. I picked up that they were colleagues, but their conversation went deeper than mere associates. They work at the same company or, based on the way they dress, in the same profession. Acquaintances from varsity days, perhaps. A comradery. Family friends. Kid's at the same school or church... And if you really wanted to, they could be star-struck lovers.<br />
Romance is about everyday people living everyday lives with everyday issues. I mean, the heart of a fetus develops before the brain for a reason. Everybody wants to love and be loved. These guys just opened the door of opportunity a writer relishes.<br />
<br />
And then the golden goose walks in and lays an egg...<br />
<br />
Late twenties or early thirties, pencil skirt, stockings with a pattern zig-zagging down to her heels. Scrolling my eyes up revealed dark hair hanging down to the middle of her back, partially covering a white blouse.<br />
What? Man first, writer second.<br />
Anyway, she walks in and chooses a table furthest from the door, moves her chair away a little more than normal and sits down, legs crossed. She doesn't look around at the rest of the people, choosing instead to glance out the window, but in a way that her peripheral vision would still pick up movement at the entrance. A sign that she's expecting company.<br />
<br />
The story begins...<br />
<br />
She could have a number of reasons for sitting at the far end of the restaurant, like wanting the man she's waiting for to keep his eyes focussed soley on her while walking to the table. The longer, the better.<br />
Moments later he arrives, looks around and then sighs when he finally sees her. She notices him but tries her best to hide it. His gate is slow and strugglesome like a man walking to the gallows, and if he had a tail it would be tucked between his legs.<br />
In other words, he's in shit.<br />
He leans in for a kiss and she barely offers her cheek. So there's signs of intimacy, and an IMAX 3D showing of the trouble he's in.<br />
<br />
This can carry on and on, but do you get the picture?<br />
<br />
I write romance because I write about people. Not jetsetting billionaires or movie stars, but the average Joe Soap on the street trying to find a reason to value his existence. To love and be loved in return.<br />
<br />
And then, just for measure, I like my books to end with a moral question.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-25280947156354324792019-05-10T04:00:00.000-07:002019-06-12T23:41:45.280-07:00Write. It. DownIt's 2 AM and I'm awakened by the niggling sounds of my son.<br />
<br />
He seems to get congested with gross snotty stuff which, apparently, is normal for a baby only a few weeks old. Google says so.<br />
As per routine, my wife administers saline drops and starts clearing his nasal passage. There's a bit of crying and tons of soothing words, afterwhich he looks up and smiles, and then falls back to sleep.<br />
<br />
So, it's just past midnight, my wife and I are knackered, and my mind wanders to a blogpost I recently read. Trust me, any attempt at having sex at this moment will end up feeling like a warm glass of water instead of a delectable, steaming Irish coffee.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.everywritersresource.com/create-successful-writing-blog/" target="_blank">The blog post mentioned</a> refers to being specific about what you are trying to say. If you're writing a travelling blog, you can go bonkers and speak about pretty much any subject under the sun which relates to the place you are visiting. But as an author of fiction, you can't. I won't give a LBL (line-by-line) on what the author of that post said, so go and read it for yourself.<br />
<br />
Pondering his words, I began crafting a post that would convey my message and hopefully leave you as reader rubbing your chin while pensively staring into a pool of ideas. Like a LEGO masterpiece, one idea slotted in with the next until my creation took form. It looked brilliant. Sounded profound. And while this process developed, my baby boy calmed down, muttered some <i>goo-goo ga-ga</i> thing and fell asleep. My wife, bless her soul, was out within seconds.<br />
<br />
I lay there, turning the end product a full 360 in my hand while polishing any rough edges. Done. Perfect. This will definitely win a prize, and have agents knocking on my door.<br />
<br />
Write. It. Down.<br />
<br />
I pulled back the covers and it felt like I had just stepped into a polar vortex. Well, not that extreme, but pretty close. Do I, or don't I? With the warmth of a fireplace on my back and a blizzard against my face, I chose to stay put. After all, my words had gelled into a sculpture worthy of a gallery, so there was no way I would forget it.<br />
<br />
Hours later, the early morning sun crept into my room and slowly peeled my eyes open. A conversation was going on next to me, so I sat up and watched mother and son discussing their plans for the day.<br />
<br />
"Sleep well?" my wife asked.<br />
<br />
"I did," I answered, still musing at the little guy sporting a toothless smile. "And I have a great idea for a block post."<br />
<br />
"Really?" she said. Now for those of you that don't know, when it comes to my writing my wife is the sugar in my coffee. The <i>ragu</i> that makes my pasta taste out of this world. "Tell me about it."<br />
<br />
Excited, I opened the first drawer of my perfectly-filed memory and reached inside. Nothing. I opened another and felt around, then another, and another, and another. It wasn't there. I shifted in bed and almost leaned over the side to see whether my brainstorm had accidently fallen on the floor while I slept. Then a realisation hit me: "Oh shit! I can't find it."<br />
Embarrassed after making such a bold statement mere minutes before, I said, "It's a bit hazy, so I'll tell you after we've had coffee.<br />
<br />
Coffee came and coffee went, and she looked at me with a knowing smile, a raised brow, a tilted head, and all those descriptive things writers use when one character challenges another.<br />
<br />
"It's somewhere," I said, trying to reassure myself more than her. "I'll find it."<br />
<br />
<br />
So the prize-winning blog I had prepared only hours ago has now turned into a post of a different kind. As writers, you will all understand that this is fairly common. You start a chapter going north, and often end it in a southerly direction.<br />
<br />
Putting ideas on the backburner is a mistake we all make, and each time it happens we vow never to do it again. But we do. Over and over. Finally admitting to my wife that the image of what I wanted to say had sunk to the bottom of the Med, she stood up and kissed me on the forehead. "You should have written it down."<br />
<br />
Going back to when I started writing, I didn't really have the problem of forgetting because I wrote my first two books non-stop. In fact, I'd often go through a weekend of almost twenty thousand words with my only rest coming after the blood in my winestream pulled my lids shut. But during my next books, there has been a number of instances where I put a scene on a shelf - temporarily, of course, only to return and find it missing. It got so bad at one stage that I went out and bought myself an <i>ideas book</i>. And a dictaphone.<br />
<br />
This morning, the first thing I'm going to do after writing this post, is to download a recording app on my phone. And then I'm going to search for that perfect little bugger hiding from me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-70393239115811254882018-08-20T00:56:00.000-07:002019-06-12T23:42:29.207-07:00Plot Twist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Every story takes an unexpected turn... </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpyFsYm_Rq7cW2SRsbj7NrFkJKh37W19FkmymXQy44XOCJd6HjMBU-JjcO6kE-k2fu9jaIkjajsGsFi6vaP6id_GMIpxGvrELcpbWOeSWAJA9XhCZb9wUr2CEkcCun6dwoV1zPdwFk93Br/s1600/Plot+Twist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpyFsYm_Rq7cW2SRsbj7NrFkJKh37W19FkmymXQy44XOCJd6HjMBU-JjcO6kE-k2fu9jaIkjajsGsFi6vaP6id_GMIpxGvrELcpbWOeSWAJA9XhCZb9wUr2CEkcCun6dwoV1zPdwFk93Br/s320/Plot+Twist.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
...and as much as you think you can plan everything and end up with a predicted outcome,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
change always adds flavour to the bestseller you are writing.</div>
Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-73971767285717769272018-08-04T02:23:00.000-07:002019-04-21T00:24:45.751-07:00R18!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://scontent.fjnb4-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/38419271_2633613180198010_7829584372536705024_n.jpg?_nc_cat=107&_nc_ht=scontent.fjnb4-1.fna&oh=08332573274429c5fbfdf49105675eba&oe=5D70955E" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="671" data-original-width="720" height="298" src="https://scontent.fjnb4-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/38419271_2633613180198010_7829584372536705024_n.jpg?_nc_cat=107&_nc_ht=scontent.fjnb4-1.fna&oh=08332573274429c5fbfdf49105675eba&oe=5D70955E" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-67607250594507339822018-03-22T01:20:00.000-07:002019-04-21T00:21:31.082-07:00Creative minds: enough said!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://scontent.fjnb4-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/29511398_2507533639472632_8564834051502899200_n.jpg?_nc_cat=110&_nc_ht=scontent.fjnb4-1.fna&oh=531c6e815f6bd4f487990cd56f5ebafb&oe=5D4474B2" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://scontent.fjnb4-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/29511398_2507533639472632_8564834051502899200_n.jpg?_nc_cat=110&_nc_ht=scontent.fjnb4-1.fna&oh=531c6e815f6bd4f487990cd56f5ebafb&oe=5D4474B2" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-5632612812712776332018-03-05T15:00:00.000-08:002019-04-21T00:30:50.737-07:00Agent Nightmare...It's way after midnight and I am wide awake.<br />
<br />
It could be an old habit instilled in me since I started writing five years ago, the aftershock of my curry dinner, or merely a sense of uneasiness.<br />
<br />
Probably the latter.<br />
<br />
You see, I am querying agents again. Not the usual shopping list of men and women I have made use of before, but a more personal approach. Yes, I stalk them (kinda) to see whether I would be a good fit for whatever makes them tick, and each time I say a silent prayer and push the 'send' button, I once again offer a piece of myself to an unknown world knowing that I have edited and polished my covering letter and opening chapters based on the last comment from a person inundated with query requests.<br />
Yes, there are agents out there that respond. It is neither myth nor urban legend.<br />
<br />
But each time I get a response - some personal and others not, and decide to change my original story, it reminds me of the greatest <i>deal</i> I could ever have received. I found myself drifting back to the day I first started building my platform; that moment when every new follower was seen as a UFO sighting. Writers follow writers because writers read, and if writers read... It was a plan. A good one.<br />
<br />
Back to my deal.<br />
<br />
One author in particular stood out.<br />
I found myself going through my growing list while axing those that had unfollowed me, and always paused when a profile appeared. She was beautiful. Exotic. A German living in Paris. And a writer.<br />
It turns out that by the time I plucked up enough courage to say <i>Hi</i>, she had already moved to Ireland. Not that I was in a position to fly to Europe, anyway.<br />
Irrespective of geographics, those two letters, one simple word, snowballed into a series of events neither of us expected. Seeing as this is not one of my books and you don't have days to read my mutterings, I'll cut to the chase.<br />
Five years later, and we are happily married.<br />
<br />
So what has all this to do with querying agents, you may ask. Well, it reminded me that if you truly believe in something you should not change a damned thing.<br />
<br />
Comments of 'We want new, exciting and with a unique voice' is often met with a reply of 'You don't fit in.' Frustrating, I know. But at the end of the day, every agent wants to sell books to publishers. If mine smells of bacon and the editor is looking for chicken, then so be it. I understand and respect that.<br />
Again...what has this to do with my amazing deal?<br />
<br />
After uttering one magical and powerful word (my cover letter), my dream girl took a while to respond. Thinking I had struck out, she had in fact stalked the crap out of me and ended up buying one of my books. Yes, it was on Amazon for a while until I realised that monitoring sales ten times an hour was more demotivating than the already wretched fear of never seeing my work published.<br />
Back to my angel.<br />
She had bought my book. And read it. And loved it.<br />
<br />
Deal signed.<br />
<br />
So if something I had written and edited myself could leave her wanting more, surely I must be doing something right. And now, I would like to share the passage that made her realise I wasn't some psycho halfway around the world...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
****</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“You look funny, Daddy,” she called out. “Next year you can be the
clown at my party.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">I loved it when she laughed. Walking towards her with an animal
clenched under each arm, I tried to scoop some mud on the front of my boot and
kick it at her. It didn’t work. One of the lambs wriggled fiercely the moment I
planned to launch the soggy projectile, and I lost my balance. With one foot
elevated, the other slid sideways and I ended up in a pool of water. She
screeched again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“See what happens when you try to be nasty.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Nasty?" I asked. "What did I do?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“I may be six, but I’m not stupid, you know. I saw that foot aiming
at me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">I stowed the lambs to be taken to Giuseppe’s in the barn, and
we took off our boots before walking into the house. I spat remaining bits of
mud through the open top of the door, and Nastassja ran ahead to go run her
bath. After a quick shower I knocked on the bathroom door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Yes?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Can I come in?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Give me a minute.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">This was another sign of her growing up, a realisation that she
wouldn’t be my little girl for ever. Previously I would knock twice and walk
in, but the last few weeks she made it clear that I couldn’t do that anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Okay, you can come in now,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Here’s your towel,” I said as I opened the
door, my hand shielding my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“It’s okay, I’m covered in bubbles.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Don’t worry sweety, I’ll put this down and leave.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“You can sit. I want to chat,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“About what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Things.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“What kind of things?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Just things.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">There was a long-standing rule in the house. If somebody had
something to say, we would put time aside for it; not the usual run of the mill
stuff about who said what and when, but the kind of talking that started with
‘I want to chat.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“But we’re in the bathroom; can’t we do this at dinner?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“No. Mommy always said that if you want a man’s undivided attention,
you spoke while in the bath. So, do I have your attention?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Yes, yes you do,” I answered, smiling at her pouted lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Good.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">Looking at her was like seeing a smaller version of her mother. She
sang as she washed, and it brought back memories of the two of them bathing
together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“So, what would you like to talk about?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Just things.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Nastassja, you might have my attention, but mommy also told you to
keep a man interested in your conversation otherwise he will either fall asleep
or walk away.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“But you won’t walk away from me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“No, sweetheart. Never.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Well that’s settled, then. You have to stay.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">Moments like these were special, a time to leave the outside world
on the doorstep. I would often stand in the corridor listening to the two women
in my life as they spoke. Sometimes I was the topic of discussion, and other times not. The
best was when Nastassja asked Olivia what it would be like when she grew up,
and what kind of man she would meet some day. It always warmed me when she said,
‘I want a husband like my daddy.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Daddy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Yes?” I answered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Do you like Jessica?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">Knowing that she was not my father and couldn’t easily be put aside
with a simple ‘basta,’ I got off the stool and sat on the bathroom floor.
Straightening my legs and leaning against the door, I saw her little face
peering at me over the rim.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Well?” she asked, eyes fixed on me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“She’s okay,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Just okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Sweety, why do you ask?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Well,” she paused, “I think she likes you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“And why do you say that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Well,” she said, pausing again. “She seems to smile a lot when
she’s around you. Other times she seems a bit sad. Did you know she paints?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“No, I didn’t know she paints,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Probably not as good as mommy, but it’s a start.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“A start for what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Nothing,” she said, lowering her head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">Trying to remember anything out of the ordinary, I played the first
days we met over in my mind. Yes, she was full of fire, and in a way a bit
cheeky, but I never noticed any sign of interest. Jessica was a long way from
home, far from family and friends, and I took her pleasant tone to be a way of
trying to fit in. What if she was interested in me? The thought scared me a
bit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Daddy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“Yes, Nastassja?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 23.05pt;">
<span lang="EN-ZA">“I like her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-86029915886764868912017-11-30T03:16:00.000-08:002019-04-21T00:17:27.168-07:00Note to self...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://scontent.fjnb4-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/24131195_2425931207632876_8037674367849975198_n.jpg?_nc_cat=100&_nc_ht=scontent.fjnb4-1.fna&oh=9beb943e1b1c8e3a066326b7757dd449&oe=5D737574" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="565" height="320" src="https://scontent.fjnb4-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/24131195_2425931207632876_8037674367849975198_n.jpg?_nc_cat=100&_nc_ht=scontent.fjnb4-1.fna&oh=9beb943e1b1c8e3a066326b7757dd449&oe=5D737574" width="226" /></a></div>
<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-49070897328920690692017-08-20T10:11:00.000-07:002018-01-01T10:24:21.522-08:00I Found A New Moonlighting JobKilling people.<br />
<br />
Fictionally, of course.<br />
<br />
Following the successful murder mystery evening, I began a co-write with Natalie. She is my wife, in case you were wondering. Six weeks have gone by since that inspiring evening, and we are done.<br />
<br />
Yes - Done! A novel in six weeks!<br />
<br />
I still sit and wonder why the bloody hell I have gone from writing romance to urban fantasy, and then finally a <i>Who Dunnit?</i> The answer I found is actually quite simple: Why the bloody hell not!Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-32995838531136026912017-07-09T09:40:00.000-07:002018-01-01T10:09:51.186-08:00A Killer Party...The mood was set.<br />
<br />
While displaying vodka jelly shots on a boob-shaped platter, I looked up at the noose hanging from above my head. Children playing outside stopped to stare through the window, whispering among themselves. I could almost read their minds: "They turned their lounge into gallows..."<br />
Smiling wryly, I was actually looking forward to curious glances once they had told their parents.<br />
<br />
In our circles, my wife and I were renowned for discussing the strangest of topics. Murder was a new dark alley we wanted to explore...<br />
Before anyone calls the cops or searches for Horatio Caine's cell number, we mean this in a literary sense.<br />
<br />
The guests arrived.<br />
Wide smiles dimmed and hands holding up wine bottles lowered when they took in the scene. Like a credit card ad catch-phrase, the expressions were <i>priceless</i>. Our murder mystery night had begun.<br />
<br />
Off with their heads!!Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-73754089700131446202017-05-31T12:49:00.000-07:002017-06-22T12:50:55.009-07:00Inspiring<iframe allowfullscreen="true" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="315" scrolling="no" src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/video.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fgarytvcom%2Fvideos%2F1333146080073970%2F&show_text=0&width=560" style="border: none; overflow: hidden;" width="560"></iframe>Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-69182085106264858942017-03-11T13:01:00.000-08:002017-06-22T13:01:31.491-07:00Dance for Rhinos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-25614172312892250352017-02-17T12:46:00.000-08:002017-06-22T12:47:20.461-07:00Panther attacks<iframe allowfullscreen="true" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="308" scrolling="no" src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/video.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2F1438101933082480%2Fvideos%2F2222615314631134%2F&show_text=0&width=560" style="border: none; overflow: hidden;" width="560"></iframe><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><br />Panther attacks rhino.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rare footage.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wildlife. </span>Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-40451710209696457982017-02-09T12:45:00.000-08:002017-06-22T13:05:04.761-07:00Facing extinction<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/facingextinction?source=feed_text&story_id=2216390855253580">#facingextinction</a> is our problem. It's a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/humanissue?source=feed_text&story_id=2216390855253580">#humanissue</a> not nature</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-87563029993865395412017-02-06T12:52:00.000-08:002017-06-22T12:53:05.429-07:00#Quote<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://pbs.twimg.com/media/C38-UHEWIAAwjrP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://pbs.twimg.com/media/C38-UHEWIAAwjrP.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-75757165351007283152016-12-05T12:39:00.000-08:002017-06-22T12:40:31.095-07:00Stay focussed<iframe allowfullscreen="true" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="420" scrolling="no" src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/video.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2FHichamBennir%2Fvideos%2F1648075548850732%2F&show_text=0&width=560" style="border: none; overflow: hidden;" width="560"></iframe>Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-40964992542561337372016-11-21T12:37:00.000-08:002017-06-22T12:38:51.411-07:00The naked truth...<iframe allowfullscreen="true" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="315" scrolling="no" src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/video.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fajplusenglish%2Fvideos%2F837428243065351%2F&show_text=0&width=560" style="border: none; overflow: hidden;" width="560"></iframe>Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-28330703208320434172016-11-04T12:41:00.000-07:002017-06-22T12:41:54.342-07:00#Quote<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-12192822091486314602016-08-03T12:32:00.000-07:002017-06-22T12:33:11.544-07:00#Quote<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Co6WOJzWEAEm4RS.jpg:large" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="600" height="160" src="https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Co6WOJzWEAEm4RS.jpg:large" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-14910428853194249612016-07-18T12:28:00.000-07:002017-06-22T12:30:31.949-07:00Honesty, the best policy?<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Reading through a health and safety medical questionnaire for a job application, I would have to lie...</div>
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Q: Do you hear voices nobody else does?<br />A: All day long.<br />(Examiner response) After serious consideration, we have decided to offer you a different position where you will have a private office with padded walls and a secure (barred) view of lush gardens.</div>
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Q: Do you ever have thoughts of a violent nature which include grievous bodily harm?<br />A: Yes, frequently<br />(Examiner response) As standard precaution, we will also supply you with a white, oversized company jacket.</div>
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Writers are unfairly judged...</div>
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Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-62352409891578124022016-07-07T12:31:00.000-07:002017-06-22T12:31:20.648-07:00#Truth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CmxXNNfWAAE97xo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="706" data-original-width="720" height="313" src="https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CmxXNNfWAAE97xo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3918541056482830565.post-89457006742920693732016-02-11T08:13:00.001-08:002016-02-11T08:13:21.261-08:00Giveaway - The Guard Duet by Natalie Herzer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMTdiHTEGS1UxxYxJAlF-b_CmAJNzBPPvqiz4yeDghnHhD_yjI9VIFm0PBJacXLdFLTGf0507jqcTydFxeebO4fzmClbd3-3CpNfyW9mjobckf92vXRKvPl4NTPFCbPDs2AnBFmPi0HQS/s1600/EbonyFight-Giveaway-Banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMTdiHTEGS1UxxYxJAlF-b_CmAJNzBPPvqiz4yeDghnHhD_yjI9VIFm0PBJacXLdFLTGf0507jqcTydFxeebO4fzmClbd3-3CpNfyW9mjobckf92vXRKvPl4NTPFCbPDs2AnBFmPi0HQS/s1600/EbonyFight-Giveaway-Banner.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To celebrate the release of her paranormal romance <i>Ebony Fight</i> (The Guard Duet #2), Natalie Herzer is giving away both books in her series to 5 lucky winners.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOaHsyxEtF-PfzO98dH836KcPGg2e5-2Pql5hI7n-TKmdPvMyh0JU2tR3vxXtXkSG7JxlwOCGxj_vWgkzEXuvYGKP2lCYyKsfyC2XVdHKpqhCXdhJ2PDNiaG1LPM0i_6AUq1aWkyUr3ILq/s1600/1-Ivory+Guard+New+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOaHsyxEtF-PfzO98dH836KcPGg2e5-2Pql5hI7n-TKmdPvMyh0JU2tR3vxXtXkSG7JxlwOCGxj_vWgkzEXuvYGKP2lCYyKsfyC2XVdHKpqhCXdhJ2PDNiaG1LPM0i_6AUq1aWkyUr3ILq/s320/1-Ivory+Guard+New+Cover.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgRJ087Z2LLaREMcyHOM6BF2mWBAThhDwCsOkWG0iU4f7U8k2eioFnsFbq-IxjtF_8yGB88f7_p7Vb0gyr-1ARzCe45Dh-SHxJlj6ZvFPb8foRvyEo-2jbqL3gAcFM8teSm6Gdf-h66RyT/s1600/Ebony+Fight+-Natalie+Herzer+-+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgRJ087Z2LLaREMcyHOM6BF2mWBAThhDwCsOkWG0iU4f7U8k2eioFnsFbq-IxjtF_8yGB88f7_p7Vb0gyr-1ARzCe45Dh-SHxJlj6ZvFPb8foRvyEo-2jbqL3gAcFM8teSm6Gdf-h66RyT/s320/Ebony+Fight+-Natalie+Herzer+-+Cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<i><b>Ebony Fight</b></i></div>
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(The Guard Duet #2)</div>
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<b><i>A witch on the run...</i></b></div>
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After allying Lillian’s Ivory Guard, Becca is determined to round up more like-minded demons and Ebonys that could help in their fight against the old system. She knows her actions draw unwelcome attention and that she has to be careful now more than ever before.</div>
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So, is she foolish to trust Stone, the man who saves her brother's life - and stirs her blood?</div>
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<b><i>A demon out to get her...</i></b></div>
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Stone is as cold and hard as his namesake. When he infiltrates a group of rebellious demons to find out how far the do-gooder attitude has spread, he doesn’t even blink at his orders to kill the leader. What he didn’t count on was Becca - the hot whirlwind turning his world and heart upside down. </div>
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<b><i>...and all hell breaks loose.</i></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAWZ1Amab1XzxS79eiUT5r5O_fnRmAnOQvALpEf8PMtyIrRu6nO53DMBI2hDUpk1Qznjmk0YLhG8AaYI73-qSNoZYWpZbGKm3Nv-vHqKUc0ohkSSSqcKVObZ3x98tHER14y-BrTVxRQ4hK/s1600/Ebony+Fight-sneak+peek+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAWZ1Amab1XzxS79eiUT5r5O_fnRmAnOQvALpEf8PMtyIrRu6nO53DMBI2hDUpk1Qznjmk0YLhG8AaYI73-qSNoZYWpZbGKm3Nv-vHqKUc0ohkSSSqcKVObZ3x98tHER14y-BrTVxRQ4hK/s400/Ebony+Fight-sneak+peek+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01AK8VZ7S" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://bradminns.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/amazon-button-a-300x202.png" height="134" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a class="rcptr" data-raflid="06af804d20" data-template="" data-theme="classic" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/06af804d20/" id="rcwidget_2etuvbai" rel="nofollow">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a>
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Mario Saincichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09917008847018214087noreply@blogger.com3