Mindful Musings Book Blog

During the course of writing novels, I come to places in my stories where I need to share information with readers, adding historical background, context, character development, plotting details, and clues. The problem, I feel, is that the information should be revealed gradually, and it must also move the story along and help my readers solve the mystery before them. The caveat is that these new facts can’t be delivered in the form of an information dump, which might have odd sounding dialogue or appear as an unnatural topic of conversation. As an example, all too often, when I’m watching a detective movie, I’ll see a protagonist and his secret informant meet inside a strip bar to share information, which strikes me as an overworked cliché—and in real life would be dangerous for the snitch. Not all cops or detectives do their business openly in strip bars, but Hollywood seems to love it, possibly because it gives them a chance to showcase naked women and make a point that the producti

Aiden Bailey has shredded wheat squares for breakfast. Every breakfast. At the same time each morning, the exact same amount, arranged the same way in his bowl. It’s part of what his mother Melanie calls the Routine. Aiden needs the Routine. Aiden has autism, and is pretty far out on the spectrum, with severe communication issues. Having a rigid structure to his day gives him an anchor in the world, and that anchor gives him the internal peace to function. But the outbreak of the paleovirus on Long Island, New York destroys his routines, and everyone else’s. The virus turns the infected into crazed killers, and the government quarantines the whole island. Aiden and Melanie are trapped. Aiden becomes infected. But he doesn’t get sick. In fact, his autism gets better. The aspect of his personality that caused his mother so much work and heartache now may hold the cure to the spreading virus. But only if she can get him off the island. She has to get him past the infected, she has to get

Charmfall finds 15-year-old Lily Parker picking through the pile in [her] palm, eating the raisins and the other dried fruit first to get them out of the way before moving on to the nuts and – last but not least – chocolate chips. As she says: There may not be an order to the world, but there was definitely an order to trail mix. But her sentiment’s not quite accurate – her world does have an order. No, not the St. Sophia’s School for Girls in Chicago world; that one has classes and schedules, sure, but the social game there is a minefield of unmarked safezones and bombs that de- and re-activate at will. Oh, wait – that’s all high schools, actually. Anyway, I think Lily was referring to her other world – the newly-discovered magical realm that she’s trying to navigate between trig quizzes. And that world definitely has an order. There are two metaphorical camps: the Adepts (Lily’s side) and the Reapers. Adepts, in short, are teenagers with magic, their powers ranging from psychic a

Ballerinas: aren’t they allergic to food? Sasha Sinclair, heroine of Desert Flower and Kingdom of the Shades , doesn’t think so. She’ll munch on a Danish at the drop of a pointe shoe. After all, how fat can she get when she dances ten hours a day? Her partner complains, but she knows he’s only goofing on her. Her father paired them when they were kids, so he’s closer than a brother. Besides, she eats healthy most of the time. She hasn’t much choice, having married a pilot from a culture that specializes in vegan cuisine. It was love at first sight, Tarkei-style—an ancient tradition commonly dismissed as a legend until Sasha and Danion, without even lifting a finger, proved the doubters wrong. Neither of them has time to cook, but in the twenty-fourth century they don’t have to: machines spit out restaurant-level meals on command. Danion pays little attention to what goes in his mouth, but he does have standards. The virulent orange soup his protegé loves because it reminds him of the