As authors, we look for tevery avenue to exploit promote/market our work. We engage in social media promotion, via Facebook, Tweet, LinkedIn, Google+, and hit the blogging promos hard in our own blogs, guest blogs, and host blog tours, events and giveaways. To promote even more we become conventioneers and book tour blitzes. Authors trap potential readers in grocery market checkout lines, promote work in Christmas cards, litter bookstore shelves with promotional stuffers. There are even some that have probably invested (or at least thought about it) in skywriting. ANYTHING in the name of promotion to make sure the world knows about our work.
Today is little different. A shameless plug for myself. It’s on Book One of my paranormal thriller/contemporary fantasy series A Touch of Darkness, An Abigail St. Michael Novel.
Abigail St. Michael, a former cop, has joined the recently growing ranks of metaphysicals, individuals with abilities outside that of normal human nature. When a murderer stalks her town killing children, Abbey uses her ability of touch clairvoyance to hunt him down. Her only roadblock is that her murderer seems to have his own unique talent, the ability to ‘wipe’ his victims and their surroundings of any metaphysical energy. With little physical evidence and no supernatural evidence, Abbey is forced to rely on instinct and luck to solve the case. However both Abbey’s luck and instinct seem to have taken a permanent vacation as the victims keep piling up with the killer’s escalating blood lust.
“This evocative novel presents us with a unique way to see relationships, all the while giving us an innovative, candid eye on the seemingly normal world in which we live.” – Bibliophile (Amazon Customer Review)
“Quite a good mystery . . . a little romance . . . good characters . . . good writing style!” – fhm513 (Amazon Customer Review)
Du-du-du-du: You are now entering a place, another dimension, known as The Twilight Zone…
The police speculated that Irving Schleck was mugged and then shoved down a flight of subway stairs not far from his home. These brilliant deductions by our fine men and women in uniform were made based on the fact that Mr. Schleck was located at the bottom of the stairwell and his wallet was missing.
Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary.
It helped that, while the Schleck neighborhood was generally pretty tame, some unsavory elements crept into the once nice neighborhood a little more every year.
If it walks like a duck…
Davis didn’t think it was a duck, and he called me in. Of course, the quote-end-quote real police work had led the fine detectives to a dead end in the case. Davis only had permission to call me in on a case once all the real leads were exhausted.
No, that’s not sarcasm in my voice or anything?!
I’d gotten the call on my work cell. I have a second that I carried for just police consulting For a while, my advisory jobs became so hectic the calls outnumbered my personal ones. Davis spoke to the police chief and had the force to foot the bill for a company phone.
Everyone referred to it as the “Bat Signal.”
Davis called me in and, almost a week after the incident, I walked the crime scene for the first time. I was more than a little pissed. I was even more pissed when I arrived on the crime scene amidst a light drizzle.
Rain is a problem for individuals with my unique talents. Water washes away metaphysical energy as quickly as it washes away physical evidence. A violent event can get trapped for longer but eventually time and the elements fade the energy no matter how violent the event. I mean, I’m not still picking up shit from the Manson murders or anything.
Once I arrived on the crime scene, I was doubtful I’d pick up anything left over. I told Davis my doubts. He encouraged me to try, regardless; he always encouraged me to try. It was his unique talent. So I slipped off my special-made gloves.
Clothing doesn’t always protect me from seeing impressions, but the gloves were a damned sight better than my walking around bare-skinned. That would land me back in the funny farm in no time. Trust me, I know, I’d been there once already. I once brushed up against a woman who beat her two children on a twice-daily basis. Her glee rippled through me as she did it like pouring hot caramel. The quiver of happiness at each snap of their bones under her/my hands…
Davis knew my doubts, but I did my job. I slipped off my sweet Italian designer gloves and touched everything in sight. The railing, the stairs, the curb where Schleck busted his damned head, and… nothing. Nada, zip, nein – no pun intended, Mr. Schleck. There was nothing left to see. I told my ex-boss as much, but I was wrong.
There was a cat.