Interview with Therese Kincaide

Therese Kinkaide is an author of women’s fiction. Her newest work Fairytale is available from Wings E Press.

What is the name of your latest book? And how did you come up with the title?

My latest book is called Fairytale. It’s a story that moves from present to past and certain chapters fall under certain fairytales, depending on what is going on in the story. There are Rapunzel chapters, Cinderella chapters, Beauty and the Beast chapters and the final chapter belongs to the heroine of the book, Caroline. She doesn’t have a fairytale love, and she has to summon the inner courage and strength to save herself.

What is Fairytale about?

Fairytale is a suspense/thriller for women. It is the story of a woman who has awakened from a coma, with a body that has sustained severe injuries and no memory of how those injuries happened. Caroline Wolfe has to use gut instinct to decide who she trusts as she becomes familiar with a house that is supposedly hers and fights for the memories she feels have been taken from her. Her very life may depend on regaining those memories.

What books have most influenced your life most?

The Deep End of the Ocean by Jacquelyn Mitchard had a big influence on my life, both in regard to my writing and my daughter. She was only three at the time I read it, and I was so scared after reading about the abduction in that book that I would get up all through the night and check on her while she slept. It was also the book that helped me scrap an old manuscript and rewrite it. It’s self-published now, but it did lead me to my current writing style. There are other books that were so powerful they’ve stayed with me for years after I’ve read them, but I can’t say they influenced my life, other than my writing. Patricia Cornwell’s book Trace really influenced my writing style. I loved her use of present tense. I felt like I was involved in the action as it happened, and apparently it really affected me, because every time I sit down to write, I find myself writing in present tense. Some publishers don’t care for present tense, so sometimes I have to go back and change everything to past tense.

If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?

I’m not sure I can choose. I haven’t really worked hand in hand with any writers; however, I will say certain writers have had a big influence on my style and voice and other writers have been very supportive of my efforts. I’ve been told that my writing (style, not subject matter) is comparable to Patricia Cornwell’s, Audriana Triggiani’s, Alice Hoffman’s, and Jodi Picoult’s writing. I don’t know how comparable my style is, but I will say I admire these women very much. I have always loved Diane Chamberlain’s books, and she has always had kind words and encouragement for me. Also, Linda Rettstatt, a fellow Wings author, has been very supportive of my writing, as well as a great inspiration. There are days when the blank screen on my computer is very daunting, but Linda is so prolific, I think okay, Linda’s working so hard, you can do it too.

What are your current projects?

I am currently writing a Christmas themed women’s fiction novel, and I hope I can finish a rough draft soon. The Christmas music is killing me now that Christmas is over. I also have two other manuscripts started: one is a disco time travel romance, which is very different from anything I’ve written but so much fun, and the other is a young adult romance. Following that, I have plans for a sequel to a young adult book I wrote last spring.

Is there anything you find particularly challenging in your writing?

I am not one to outline much. The more notes I take, the less compelled I am to write the story. I’m getting better about envisioning my story line as an arc and picturing myself moving around that arc as I write in order to keep the pace of the story. Having that image in my mind helps me stay focused on what I need to write, and yet it can still be difficult to sit down and write something every day. Sometimes after I’ve been sitting at the computer for fifteen or twenty minutes, I decide it’d be much easier to do laundry or more fun to check email.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

I guess the advice I’ve taken from other writers that’s helped me the most is to write. Don’t talk about the book you’re going to write, write it. Don’t get hung up on edits or genre or word count. Write your story. Be passionate about your writing. Believe in yourself.

Here's a blurb from Fairytale:

Caroline Wolfe is a modern day Rapunzel, locked away in a third story bedroom. She has no memory, no past. In fact, Caroline has nothing but a son she doesn’t remember, a friend she is afraid to trust, a husband she isn’t sure she wants to remember, and a gut feeling that something is very wrong in her house.

As Caroline begins to remember bits and pieces of her past, she is overcome with fear. The more she remembers, the more desperate she is to regain her complete memory. Her life may depend on it.

Another New Cover and Trailer!

These are for one of my Terry Campbell books, Slam Sisters of Serendipity, but I had to share.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Welcome to Marriage With Style

Hi everyone, I hope you don’t mind meeting in my bridal boutique. You see, Henrietta Franklin is due in about thirty minutes for a fitting. She can be a bit persnickety and a regular faucet, so I don’t dare try to leave in case I can’t get back in time. I do love to talk and sometimes I find it hard to stop. You know how it is when you’re the unofficial AP for a small town.

Grab yourself some coffee. I have hot water and tea bags too. You choose. Now to why I’m here. My sister hijacked Bobbye’s blog again. You see, Trix is a bit out-of-sorts with Bobbye. Seems our author has been finishing another manuscript and not working on ours. As Trixie says, Marriage Murders is just waiting to be told. She figured it was only fitting I explain why. Okay, the plain truth forces me to fess up to the fact I threatened her beyond an inch of her life if she tried to sneak in here again and take over until I’d had my say.

Oh, my goodness, where are my manners? I’m Roxie Turner. Whatever lies my sister told you before, please ignore them. She’s still miffed I was the baby and got all the attention, not to mention I am only in my early forties while she’s twelve years older and facing senility. Oh, and then there’s the fact she’s married to Floyd, the Great White Couch Potato, while I am the gay widow. Gay as in happy, let’s not spread any rumors.

Now, as Trix told you, I’m sure, because she just blurts out everything she knows, our first book in the Briny Bay Mysteries, Buried in Briny Bay, comes out in mid-March from Turquoise Morning Press. The second book will tell the story of my lead role in solving the mystery of my marriage party’s murders. Why would anyone murder the groom, much less start picking off other members in the same wedding? It was a mite deadly for a while, but not half as explosive as my cat-war with one Marlowe Malone. Snarling red-nailed she-lion. That woman better leave my Greg Norris alone. Okay, maybe he doesn’t know the full extent of my affections and the fact I’ve laid full-fledge claim to him, but women have to keep their secrets, you know.

I suppose I’ve jumped too far ahead. First you need to join me as I get out of my tussle and a jail sentence for the murder of Georgia Collins. A fortune teller told me my life would be full of excitement, but she never told me what kind.
Whoops! Gotta go now, I hear Bobbye coming back with a cup of tea. She’s such a Southern lady. See ya’!

Welcome to the Happy Daze Diner

Hi, folks, take a seat in the Happy Daze Diner and let Trix get you a house special icebox lemon pie and some sweet tea. You say you just came in from the snow? Oh, that’s right, the South does have a bitter front going through. No problem, I have the Blue Plate Special too, slow cooking pot roast, mashed potatoes with gravy, and green beans made from some out of my very own freezer. Of course if you’re a vegetarian, not that I think it’s normal, I was after all brought up a true salt pork and ham hock Southern girl, I can make you a veggie plate. Coffee’s on the house.

Now for those of you who are confused, this is Bobbye Terry’s blog. She’s just busy right now writing the sequel to my sister, Roxie’s and my first novella, “Buried in Briny Bay.” I told Rox I was going to sneak in here and introduce myself. Trixie Frye here. As you can see, I own this diner. I’m married to Floyd Frye, my very own couch potato when he’s not working as a barber at his shop. Of course even at work he can watch TV, which does make me ponder how good his haircuts really are. Never mind, enough about Floyd. He is an albatross I have to bear. I shouldn’t subject him on others.

Now about Bobbye, she’s not much on publicity, which is why I sneaked in here, but my sister and I know all the ropes. After all, I have this diner and Roxie runs the Marriage with Style Bridal Boutique. Poor Rox, always a bridal consultant, never a bride. Okay, she did up and marry a fella more than twenty years ago but he ended up dead in the most curious manner. I don’t want to spoil the first book, so please excuse me for not sharing all the details. That feels a mite strange, cause it’s not like me at all. The price one has to pay for being in a book. Oh, well.

About the book, novella, that is, it’ll be in electronic form and published by Turquoise Morning Press March 14th. “Buried in Briny Bay” takes place in the fine town of Briny Bay, North Carolina, just off the Pamlico Sound. Normally, nothing much happens in Briny Bay, but starting with Roxie’s supposed alien abduction (not that I’m buying it) and now with the death of her nemesis, Georgia Collins, at the beginning of the novella, I’d say things are going to get a whole lot hotter around here.

Speaking of hot, did I mention we have a newcomer to Briny Bay, Greg Norris, hunky P.I.? He does make Roxie’s heart go pitty pat. But, I swear the woman moves slower than Floyd on Sports Sunday. Don’t know if she’ll even know how to move down the right path, so we’ll just have to see.

Whoops! Just heard Bobbye coming this way, so better skedaddle. Uh, this visit’s just between us, okay? *Wink wink* That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Bye!

New Novel Contracted!

I'm on a roll, folks! I am happy to announce my sequel to Coming to Climax will now become a reality. I don't have a release date yet for Nick of Time, probably in 2012, but Turquoise Morning Press has accepted it for publication. Just a bit to entice you:

Video trailer for new short story

My short story, co-written with Linda Campbell as Terry Campbell, was just released in Dreamspell Mystery, Volume 1 on Halloween evening. I've posted the trailer here with a buy link, should you want to read it and some more mysteries--worth the $2.99 IMHO.



"Man in the Moon,"
Dreamspell Mystery Volume 1 (ebook anthology)
http://www.lldreamspell.com/DreamspellMysteryVol1.htm
http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-dreamspellmysteryvolume1-477918-152.html

Mystery motive of the alleged multi-state serial stabber

Outside at night—alone
The knife attacks and killings attributed to a serial stabber, sometimes referred to as the "Flint serial killer," are believed to have begun on May 24, 2010, a Monday, in Flint, Mich. On that date, David Dwayne Motley, 31, was killed in an attack at approximately 6 a.m. on Leith Street and North Dexter Street. Police found his body in a residential yard a short time later, after receiving a call about "a man down." Motley had been stabbed repeatedly and died at the scene.

All of the violent attacks appear to have been committed on unsuspecting victims, and all of the victims seem to have been strangers to the perpetrator. The victims, as far as police have so far announced, were mostly men with dark skin. Police are uncertain, though, whether the attacks were racially motivated or the victims picked out at random. Flint's population is predominantly black, so some authorities do not believe that the victims were chosen because of their race. Many of the surviving victims' names have not been released, some at their own request.

The stabber's victims were outside at night, alone, and some were approached by their attacker using the ruse of either needing directions or help with a vehicle that had broken down. After gaining a victim's confidence, according to Flint police lieutenant T.P. Johnson, the attacker would then pull a knife and attack.
"A knife is a very personal weapon," Johnson added. "To stab somebody repeatedly, there has to be some rage going on."

The victims injured or killed in the attacks ranged in age from as young as 15 to as old as 67. Although detectives had been investigating the violent crimes from the time they began, it would be more than two months before the pattern of the attacks became apparent to them.

The second fatal attack came nearly a month later, on June 21, 2010—also a Monday—when Emmanuel Muhammad, 59, was knifed approximately 2:00 a.m. on Wood Street and Avenue B in Flint. His body was found a short time later; police had few clues and no suspects. At first, there was little to suggest that Motley's and Muhammad's deaths were linked, and at that time there was no evidence that a serial killer was at work.

The serial killings continued into other states over a three-month period.
The rest of this story can be read at:http://www.trutv.com/library/crime/serial_killers/weird/elias-abuelazam/outside-at-night-alone.html?print=yes

Murder in Lynchburg, Virginia 1973

It happened in early spring, the actual murder occuring just inside the brick walls of what was then Randolph-Macon Woman's College. Cynthia Hellman, the daughter of the Hellman Mayonnaise millionaire was found dead with her face up against a steam pipe outside the science building. Many years ago I wrote a partial write-up of the events pieced from court documents. It's not perfect writing, folks, as it was many years ago, but it depicts the events from that evening. Interestingly enough, Douglas Wilder, later elected first African American governor of Virginia, was a defense attorney in this case.

Stan stood on his front porch and stared into space. Nothing had worked out the way he planned. His wife and kids were in New Jersey, and he was here. The job at the Post Office hadn’t worked out. He had kept the job at Vaughan’s Chevrolet longer. But, after all, he had been a Machinist in the Air Force. Even when he tried to go back to school, they had discriminated against him. He knew he deserved better grades than they had given him.

Now, standing on the porch, he knew it wasn’t his fault. It was all of those narrow-minded small-town middle-class Southern Baptist bigots that had caused everything. He needed a way to get his vengeance. Even his own family didn’t understand him. They had signed involuntary committal papers twice, sending him away to Central State for evaluation. Thank God the professionals realized the truth: he wasn’t crazy.

No one spent enough time to try to get to know him. His religion was all he had. That, and the little voice that had begun to come to him at dusk. “Go, ahead. Do it. Show her. Show them. You owe it to yourself.” The time would come soon. He could feel it. . .
He had known it the minute he saw her. There was another one of the bitches! Stan saw the girl with long auburn curls, clad simply in her red and black shirt, slacks, and clogs, enter the 7-11. They were always on his street - laughing - running around in sheets - going to the Dahlia for their stupid initiations. They were always making fun of him, telling him not to go into the Cellar or some redneck would beat him up! He was 6’ 4”, a sturdy 198 pounds - a lean, mean fighting machine! He had nicknamed himself “Big Stan,” and sooner or later he’d enter the Dahlia and show those assholes just who they were dealing with.

But first he had to stop the pointing fingers, the laughs, the stuck-up,rich Randy-Mac bitches. He had tried once up at old Ruffner School. Another blond-haired wench was trying to do her duty by helping out the “poor little black kids.” She didn’t know anything about his people. She didn’t know anything about his street. Why couldn’t they all stay away? If that damn Dahlia wasn’t there, they wouldn’t be infringing on his territory.

The Dahlia didn’t even encourage men of his color to come in anymore the way he used to when he was 18. And the new owner was catering to the college kids, setting up a band downstairs every Wednesday night, Wonderful Wednesday for the Randy-Mac girls, and also on weekends.

Well, he had spotted the little red-headed high-and-mighty, and this one was going to pay!

Standaly decided the best way to follow her was to go behind the 7-11, walk down Cleveland Avenue, and wait for her next to the Lexington Apartments. She wouldn’t make it past Randee’s Restaurant! Then he would show her how strong he was--prove to her that he couldn’t be laughed at! The rest of them would leave him and Bedford Avenue alone. He would see to it.

Poised at the top of Elmwood Avenue, Standaly looked up at the tower of St. John’s Church. Cars were milling around this Sunday evening, but no one really noticed him. He felt secure, as he blended with the twilight. But the bitch stood out like a neon light with her long auburn hair. He saw her round the corner from Bedford Avenue and approach his hiding place....


Cynthia walked slowly around the corner of Bedford. The air was slightly cool and clean, the promise of spring on its breath. The day had been beautiful, and she really didn’t mind walking all the way down to the 7-11. King’s Grocery Store always closed early on Sunday evenings, so if she wanted some munchies, she had to walk. All was very quiet, except for a few strains of organ music from the church down the block. All of the stores were closed on the Avenue on Sundays. After all, she was in the middle of the Bible Belt! It seemed like another planet compared to her hometown of Houston, Texas.

Out of the corner of her eye Cynthia saw a large fleeting shadow. She increased her step, but the clogs were cumbersome for fast walking--or running. She knew someone was watching her, but where? As she crossed to the parking lot next to Pearson’s Drug, she saw a black man cross from the bushes. She was sure she was being followed.

Cynthia tried to run, but the shoes wouldn’t let her. She slipped them off and tucked them under her arm, trying to hold onto her bag in the other hand. He was gaining on her. She began to sprint in her stocking-feet. Maybe the barber was in his shop around the corner. The campus was so close! Surely she could make it.


Charlie walked through the fragrant early evening dew around the corner of East Hall and started down the path to construction site for the new Physical Education Building. The air was humid, but cooling down after another record-breaking day of Lynchburg weather. Charlie took his job with the Pinkerton Agency very seriously. Sometimes it was fun. All of the college students had adopted him. He was the campus Teddy Bear, kind of chubby, but still very competent. They called all of the guards Pinkies, but he was different. Of course, he stretched the rules for some of them, helping them back into the dorms after closing hours, holding them up as they weaved back from the Pines after an evening of over-imbibing an yet another UVa fraternity party. He’d waited for more than one student while she puked her brains out, and then guided her back to the entrance of her dorm.

Tonight was a typical quiet Sunday evening. Most of the girls had returned from their roll down the road to the University of Virginia or to Washington & Lee. His walkie-talkie went off, paging him that there was a reported scream from down in the general vacinity of Martin Science Building. Charlie turned around and retraced his steps from behind East and crossed between the overhead trolley that held East and Main together.

As he walked down the hill next to the well-manicured lawn of front campus, he heard nothing but a still calm, and he felt the enveloping heavy fog which enshrouded the overhead lights, causing an aurora of color above.
The warm spring day became eerie night.

As he approached Martin, he felt an inexplanatory shiver shoot up his spine. He had never been afraid of exploring this campus before. How silly! He walked in front of the building, circling its right border into the naturally wooded area next to the school’s brick wall which bordered Norfolk Avenue.

The air began to fall heavier around his shoulders. He felt like a dead weight, an unwelcome demon, had settled upon him. Still no noises confronted him as made his way behind the science building. He thought he saw a figure across the wall. But the wall was too high to view the facing street.

Charlie continued on toward the pride and joy of Martin, the botanical section complete with a cross-section of flora and fauna inside its protective greenhouse. Still there were no signs of trouble. He stepped next to the greenhouse, just avoiding a small foot, partially obscured by the greenery. The body was small, stockings obliterated at the toes, almost flapping on the ankles. And the leg showed signs of beatings, bruises and mud up the slightly hiked pants leg.

Charlie ran to her head, and grabbed for a pulse. Could he save her? Was she okay? He prepared to undertake CPR, grabbed her head, pulled her toward him. Her head--her face--were next to the steam pipe from the greenhouse. She--didn’t have a face! Charlie fell to his knees and wept.

Serial Killer - Eight deaths in Louisiana small town. - Topix

They say truth is stranger than fiction. This seems to the truth on a regular basis. So, those people who don't believe the novels that speak about serial killers in small towns, listen up. Can murder and mayhem descend on the same town over and over again? You betcha'. I'll bring you stories that make you a believer.

Serial Killer - Eight deaths in Louisiana small town. - Topix

A new book trailer!

Please tell me what you think.

Just took a Booktrailer Class

It was lots of fun and very helpful. I have posted my romantic fantasy video for Honey Blood and the Collector at my website on my other blog. My website is at www.daryncross.com.

Here is the one for my mainstream/suspense, Coming to Climax:

A WHISPER IN THE NIGHT

Man’s stumbles on the road of life are not defeat but simply delays to success. It’s God’s way of making us humble and makes the triumphs that much sweeter. 11/1995

That's what I heard in my ear as I woke up in the middle of the night that November. I've never forgotten it. It has always been a beacon of hope when times are rough. We all have those moments when we wonder, why are we hitting our heads up against a brick wall? Writers have those times more than the average population, I think, because rejection comes not as a thief in the night but a sometimes not very courteous note in the mail or "not for me" comment on e-mail.

But this is what I know. If I can't believe in myself, than why is anyone else going to? Because when I do succeed, and I probably do that more, too, than the average person, I feel like telling all those who rejected me, "sorry you didn't get a chance to work with me."