An Interview with author Michael Embry

Michael's favorite quote:
"The art of writing is the art
of discovering what you believe."
-- Gustave Flaubert

Author's website
Author's Blog
Author on FaceBook
Twitter: @MichaelEmbry


When did you start fiction writing and what genre(s) do you like to write?

I participated in a creative writing conference in 1974 but it took me another 25 years to write my first novel, "The Touch." I've since written eight more novels, falling under contemporary mainstream, murder mystery, young adult, and boomer lit genres. I like variety in reading and writing.

Why this/these genre(s)? What attracts you to them?

These genres resonate with me. I enjoy probing the thoughts and actions of characters as they unfold in my stories. My last three novels have been in the boomer lit genre, which I plan to continue because it allows me to examine my amazing generation.

Generally speaking, what is the driving force behind your characters?

The driving force is confronting unforeseen problems and trying to make sense out of everything that is happening around them. Life isn't easy as we all deal with numerous pitfalls, disappointments, and heartbreaks.

Have any of your characters changed in a dramatic way from what you imagined
at the start during the writing process?

I would say most of the characters have grown and gained courage along the way. I want my characters to come across as real and have strengths and weaknesses that are relatable to readers.

What do you find the most difficult in finishing a story and approximately how long does it take for you to write a story?

It would be wrapping up loose ends, and in writing a series, leaving a few things that will bring readers back for the next book. It generally takes me from six to twelve weeks to write the first draft, then I go through about ten rewrites before I'm ninety-nine percent satisfied with the story (are authors ever totally satisfied?). I then rely on my editor for advice on improving the novel.

 

Are there other types of writing you do such as non-fiction, or short
fiction?

I've written three non-fiction sports books (I was a sportswriter years ago) and one short-story collection. Although I've been approached, I doubt if I write any more non-fiction. However, I do plan to write another collection of short stories.

Has your writing affected you in any way and what would you recommend to
someone wanting to start writing fiction?

I believe writing helps me gain a better understanding of myself and others as I explore different areas of life. As for advice about writing fiction, I would recommend that the person read fiction, especially in the genre(s) they intend to write, and to read primers on fiction writing such as Jack M. Bickham's "The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes (And How to Avoid Them)." I'd also suggest joining local writing groups, attending writing events, and getting to know other authors. Writing is a lifelong learning experience but it's necessary to learn the basics.

Read an excerpt of Michael Embry's latest release "New Horizons" (Release date: May 1, 2019)

The Teddy Bear Eye Club

By Suzanne M. Hurley
Young Adult, 286 pages
Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald

Sometimes a person walks into your life and changes it forever.
That is exactly what happened to fourteen-year-old Mayah Lewis.
Depressed, she hides from the world, until she meets new girl, beautiful bald-headed Celeste Daniels. Her love of life, inspires Mayah to live again.
Everything begins looking up, until one day, Celeste disappears.

Excerpt:
“Oh, what’s the point?”

Fourteen-year-old Mayah Lewis threw the tube of lipstick at the mirror. It bounced off the glass, hit the wall and rolled under a stall.

She didn’t care.

She was the only one there, having sneaked out of boring Biology class when the teacher was writing their homework on the board. Mostly hating the way she looked, she didn’t like doing her makeup when anyone was around and she wanted to look good—or at least relatively okay—cuz Joey Marshall was in her next class and she had a huge crush on him. This way she had the girls’ bathroom to herself, for at least a few minutes, since no one was supposed to be in there during instruction time, unless it was a dire emergency.

She stared at her face—ugly freckles creating swirls of uneven patterns across her nose and cheeks that no amount of foundation cream seemed to cover, beady blue eyes, two zits on her chin big enough to ski down and long, wiry red hair that curled as if having a life of its own. Blue eyes were usually an asset, except hers were a dull pale blue. Not attractive in the least. Sigh.

She dumped the rest of her make-up in her backpack, flipped her mirror image the bird, shouting out, “Forget it. It’s hopeless.”

“No, it’s not.”

What the…?

She turned to watch beautiful, blond Kitty Richards come swinging around the corner, her golden curls flying behind her.

Mayah was stunned.

She’d looked when she came in and hadn’t seen anyone, but she’d forgotten about the wheelchair accessible stall way at the back, basically because no one ever went there. Or at least that was what she’d thought, since no one was in a wheelchair in the whole school. Obviously, that was where Kitty was, which was kinda weird. She was not handicapped in the least—or at least not physically. Now, personality-wise, maybe a bit, or at least she always came across stuck-up as anything.

Crap.

Mayah had no luck whatsoever.

And why, oh why, had she picked up Isobel’s habit of talking out loud when alone? It was bad enough to agonize about her face, but to have a witness was horrifying. And especially Kitty, the most gorgeous girl in grade nine, if not the whole school. Yep, she was stereotypically tall and thin with one of those perfect complexions. No way would pimples ever take up residence there—she was a masterpiece. And to think she was smiling, looking real friendly-like.

Yeah, right.

Kitty’d never spoken to her before. She only associated with the ‘cool’ crowd, not paying any attention to the rest of the so-called losers. Today must be just a pity call, like mock the ugly girl by building her up, then ripping her down later—probably in front of a crowd of students all laughing at her.

Embarrassed, wanting to die, Mayah ignored her and tore out of the room, down the hall to a door at the back of the auditorium. She pulled out her key, inserted it, tugged it open and ran up the stairs to the projection room. This was her hideaway, for no one ever came here during the day and it was only used when there were assemblies or plays.

Holy Fudgesicles

By Jason Bougger

Young Adult, 237 pages

Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald

Purchase from Barnes and Noble, Smashwords or Amazon

Getting run over by a bus can ruin your day, but it doesn't have to ruin your summer. The accident leaves ninth grader Kyle Hickman seemingly dead at the scene as he makes a quick visit to an unexpected afterlife. He awakens unscathed with a new sense of being, an unclear mission, and mystical healing powers.

Holy Fudgesicles follows Kyle as he comes to terms with the new life resulting from his powers, while taking on the increasingly difficult tasks of covering his tracks and fulfilling his purpose.

Excerpt:

One

“We’ll never get laid playing Dungeons and Dragons.”

Those were the words my pal Chris used to convince me to put down the dice and pick up the pigskin.

The words that so eloquently hit me over the head, telling me I was a dork.

They were also, of course, the words that ran through my head as I died.

I suppose it shouldn’t have come as a big shock to anyone. I always did lack the basic coordination required to succeed in any kind of athletic activity. But on that infamous Sunday afternoon, when Zack and Mike reluctantly hit the backyard to throw around a football with me, I knew something great was about to come down the horizon for all of us.

Our gaming group consisted of Zack, Mike, and Chris, but it was Chris who was the first to drop out. He was right, of course. It was time to give up the silly kid’s stuff and start trying to fit in if we wanted our lives to amount to anything.

It was time to put the days of role playing and video games behind us. In their place: sports, beer, and girls. We were, after all, entering our final summer vacation before starting high school.

So with a canceled gaming session, I felt we had no alternative but to try following the killer advice given to me by Chris just an hour earlier. I dusted off the unused football my dad bought me for Christmas last year and brought it over to Zack’s house.

“What the hell are we supposed to do with that?” Mike asked, using the same tone he might have used to ask why someone would bring an antique porcelain statue to a pre-school birthday party.

“I don’t know.” The thing still felt awkward in my hands. “Throw it around, I guess.”

“Why would we want to do that?” He grimaced, backing up a few steps as he said it.

I thought about it for a couple of seconds, looking at the way he wore one of his too-tight-shirts tucked into his too-short-shorts really making his gut stick out, and then the correct answer came to me: “Because it’s what the cool kids do.”

Zack poked his head out from around the corner. “What? We’re not cool?”

“No. We’re not,” I said, staring squarely at his mullet.

“But I’ve got a Monty Python’s Flying Circus DVD on in the living room as we speak.”

“You know what? We’ll never get laid watching Monty Python’s Flying Circus.” I didn’t let the fact that I was standing in his front door stop me from throwing the ball directly at him. Or at least attempting to throw the ball directly at him. Since that was the first time I had ever actually thrown a football, it just kind of spun out of control in his general direction.

In The Blink of an Eye

By Lynn Solte
Young Adult, 197 pages
Cover art provided by Lynn Solte
Blurb:
Until that peace-shattering night, Rachael's life had been perfect. Nothing in the child's world could have prepared her for the pounding on the door, or the nightmarish events that would follow…

Excerpt:
An ivory satin kerchief draped loosely over my hair, I struck a match and lit the two white Sabbath candles. As I sang the customary Hebrew blessing, another Sabbath evening, the traumatic, life-altering memories of which I had long since tucked away, chose this moment to burst into my here and now. Swept back to another time and another place, as sharply as I could see those bright, flickering flames, I saw Father as he looked years ago, standing at the head of our dining room table with the yarmulke Mother had crocheted, buried deep in his thick, curly, fudge-brown hair, raise his silver wine goblet.

"Boruch atah adonoy, eloheynu melech ha-o-lom…" he chanted in Hebrew, "Bo-ray pri hag-a-fen." He drank from the cup.

It was Friday evening, my favorite time of the week. Father, a physician, was rarely able to join us for dinner, but on Fridays at sundown, onset of the Jewish Sabbath, he always managed to be at home, so our family could share this special time together.

At its start, there was nothing out of the ordinary about this Friday evening. Mother lit the traditional candles then served the usual Sabbath meal of soup, thick with chunks of chicken and vegetables, roast chicken smothered in gravy with baked potatoes and spinach. The conversation revolved around me and my four-year-old brother, David, and what we had learned in school that week. Not only had I memorized a poem, but, on Monday, my friend Leah taught me to squeeze one eye shut without closing the other, and I had waited all week to show Father this wonderful accomplishment. Grinning proudly, he said, "That is called winking, Rachael." When I proved equally talented with both eyes, he laughed and said to Mother, "Look, Hanna, our daughter is an expert winker!" Mother laughed, too, and David, watching my face contort, bounced in his seat and squealed with delight.

Enjoying the attention of my appreciative audience, I was in the middle of reciting the poem I'd memorized, when a loud pounding on the front door rudely interrupted my performance. The unexpected noise frightened me, and made Father drop his fork.

For a few moments, there was an intense quiet. Then, suddenly, the silence was filled with a man's angry voice shouting, "We want Alexander Wasserman!" The expression in Father's eyes sent chills up my spine, and I sat rigid in my chair.

The Bully List

By Michael Embry
Young Adult, 233 pages
Cover art by Pat Evans
Blurb: Dealing with bullies isn't an easy thing to do. My parents tell me to ignore or avoid them. But it seems if you ignore them, it gets under their skin and they want to bully you even more. And that makes it's even harder to avoid them. Does that make sense?

My teachers seem to be too busy with other things when it comes to bullies. I guess they have so many students they can't be bothered by it all. They say they want to treat everybody the same. I think I understand that but it doesn't always work out so well. I even wonder if some of the teachers aren't scared of bullies.

I'm not the only one who gets bullied. I have some friends who have to deal with bullies, too. Sometimes we hang out together in hopes that the bullies will leave us alone. It works most of the time unless there are some bullies together.

Excerpt:
Several minutes later, he stood at the entrance to his office and motioned for me to come in. I picked up my backpack and went inside. Before sitting down, he asked me to shut the door.

"Well, I suppose you want to know why I called you in?" he asked.

"Uh, yes, sir," I said.

"It's about an altercation you had after school yesterday."

I nodded but didn't say anything.

"I think you know what I'm referring to."

"Yes, sir."

"So do you want to explain to me the circumstances that led to the altercation?"

Mr. Bishop sat patiently behind his desk while I tried to tell what had happened. It would have been easier if he had asked some questions along the way. It was almost like he was trying to read my mind or wait for me to say other stuff. I was very uncomfortable.

When I finished, he informed me that Earl's mom had called about the fight. That surprised me a little because I thought that one of our classmates had told someone and then it had spread around school.

"I'm not sure what I should do about it," Mr. Bishop said as he rose from his chair. "You've been a very good student here and I don't quite know how you should be punished."

Now that did surprise me. I shook my head, "Punished?" I blurted out. "What did I do?"

"You just told me what you did," Mr. Bishop said.
"But I was helping a friend. They were fighting Sam. I was only…"

Mr. Bishop raised his hand to cut me off from finishing what I wanted to say. "You should have come to this office and reported what was going on," he said.

I didn't say a word. What could I say? Mr. Bishop seemed determined to punish me. But what about Earl and Freddie? I wonder what kind of story Earl's mom told him?

"I'm going to let you go home now, but next week I want you in detention for one hour after school each day. And I also want you to write me a paper on what you did and why you won't do it again."

"Yes, sir." I rose from the chair and lifted the backpack over my shoulder. I left his office feeling kinda empty. I didn't expect to be punished for what I did. It didn't seem fair.

Sam was waiting in the front lobby, staring out the door as if he was scouting the area. He turned when I came out of the principal's office.

"That took a long time," he said.

"Too long," I said.

"So is he going to suspend Earl and Freddie?"

"Nope."

"Nope?"

"He's put me in detention next week. Mr. Bishop is blaming me for what happened."

"What?" Sam's eyes widened. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm serious," I said. We walked out the front door, down the steps and toward the bike rack at the side of the building.

As we were unlocking our bikes, we noticed Earl and Freddie across the street. They were both grinning. I also could see something shiny in Freddie's right hand.

"Oh, crap," Sam said. "What are we gonna do?"

The Onion Caper

By William O. Weldy
Young Adult 227 pages
Cover art by Pat Evans
Blurb:
Young Cole Mckenna finds himself with a criminal record for stealing onions. He struggles to overcome the stigmatism by helping Officer Bradley with investigations of a burglary and later drugs in his small town high school. Along the way he discovers the dangers of police work when he's almost killed.
Excerpt:
The man had his back to Cole, totally focused on kicking Jason. Cole sprinted on the balls of his feet. The guy looked up just as Cole drove a shoulder into his side, like blind-siding a quarterback. They both went down. Cole bounced up thinking the other guy would stay down. To his surprise the thug jumped up and squared off in a fighting stance.

They eyed each other a second, before the guy took a wild swing at Cole's head. Cole leaned back from the blow. He tried to see the face under the hoodie but the overhead light shone behind the stranger. Cole started to wade into the attacker when the guy reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife. The blade sprung from the handle. Cole stared at the weapon and stumbled back a few more paces. His own right hand dug into his pocket and closed on the lock-blade Buck. He pulled it out and fumbled to open the blade.

What am I doing? I can't get into a knife fight. I'll get killed. But he held it up for the other man to see. They circled each other. Cole's every nerve concentrated on his opponent. Fear gripped his stomach, as his brain screamed-Run! He skittered around defensively, trying to keep his distance from the attacker, and the silver blade he waved. Lurching to the side, Cole bumped into the dumpster and stumbled for balance.

An excruciating pain exploded in the back of his head. Next thing he knew he sprawled face down in the rubble. Multi-colored spots danced in his eyes. His brain refused to focus. Dizziness distorted everything. Shifting to his right side, he lifted a hand to the back of his head. It came away wet. Lying on the ground, Cole fought to remain conscious. He heard another voice behind him.

"Kill both the sons-a-bitches and let's get out of here."

A blurred pair of dirty sneakers approached Cole's head. He tried to push himself up but failed. The grubby sneakers straddled his head. Cole held his breath.

I'm going to die! His mind flashed: Mom-Mikey-.With his last ounce of strength, he lunged up and jammed his Buck knife to the hilt in the leg of the man standing over him. He heard his attacker scream. Cole tried to fight the dizziness. In the foggy distance, he heard, "Hey!" echo down the alley.

Then-a dark void.

The Riddler's Fearsome Secret

By Louise Hendricksen

Young Adult, 272 pages

Cover art by Richard Stroud

Four cousins visit their grandparent’s ancient mansion, learn their grandmother has found old silver coins on the beach...and discover a ship loaded with wealthy passengers had wrecked outside their grandparent’s beach. This revelation sends them on a series of perilous adventures that uncovers a dreadful one-hundred-year-old secret.

Excerpt:

The children sat on the floor of Sara’s room giggling at sight of their green faces as they peered through the night vision glasses the men had let them keep.

“Woo-ee! What a night,” J.J. gave a chuckle and scooted closer to Ben. “Bet they were surprised when they opened that manhole entrance in the floor.”

Ben grabbed his arm. “Did you tell them where it was?”

“No! Didn’t you?”

“Oh-my-god!” Ben smacked his forehead and jumped to his feet. “They were in such a hurry I took them through the pantry to save time.” He glanced at Sara and Tristan. “Did either of you mention it?”

Tristan shook his head.

“Me neither,” Sara said, her voice quavering. “And-and that’s the one Skip used, I-I just know it...”

“Yeah,” Tristan added with a ferocious frown. “And that means his buddies know too.”

“Yep.” Ben grabbed his packsack and sleeping bag. “I gotta make sure they don’t get in!” He eyed each of his companions in turn. “Keep the door locked. Don’t open it for any reason.” He headed for the door.

“Wait, Ben,” Sara cried. “You can’t be down there all by yourself.”

“I’m the one who messed up and Grampa’s too old to be creeping around in the dark.” He shrugged. “So, who else?”

“Us.” Sara, J.J. and Tristan said as one.

“Where you go, we go big bro.” J.J. jabbed his fist in the air. “What do we need, Ben?”

“I can’t let you kids go with me.”

“We’re going.” Sara swallowed hard and grasped Tristan’s hand.

“Yeah,” J.J. said, “and you can’t stop us.”

Ben ran a hand over his face. “If you come, you have to do as I say.” He fixed the boys with a fierce look until they both nodded then went on. “We’ll need a couple sleeping bags, our backpacks, and...and some kind of weapon.” He thought for a moment. “I have a baseball bat in my room, and if we use the North Room panel we can grab some of the fireplace tools.”

A knock sounded on the door, and they all froze.

“Time for you kids to settle down in there,” Gram said.

“We will,” they all chorused and blew out their breath with relief.

Tiptoeing here and there about the room, they gathered their gear. Ben caught hold of Sara’s arm and whispered. “What if she comes back later?”

Sara took a key from her pocket. “I’ll lock up when I leave.”

Nodding, Ben made certain everyone had their night vision glasses on, told Mac to 'stay,' and eased the door open.

Soul Control

By C. Elizabeth

Young Adult Paranormal Fantasy, 457 pages

Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald

“Lead us not into temptation, deliver us from evil.”

These words ring true for seventeen-year-old Saydi Gardiner upon discovering her ancestry. But if she has any doubts, further confirmation is forthcoming and it comes in the form of a wickedly gorgeous Nathanael Braxton, when he steals her heart and cuddles into her sole – the last place the boy should be.

Nineteen-year-old Nathanael’s unrelenting good looks aren’t the only thing that make him dangerous – and he knows it! However, his caring half-human self struggles with a loyalty – a loyalty that binds him to the hunt for the soul that will give his family the power they seek. There’s only one problem: When he finds her, Nathanael falls in love with his prey – Saydi.

Excerpt:

The house could have been featured in a magazine and was easily something for the town to brag on. A staircase rose in front of me that led to a landing which went both ways at the top. On my left, old dark wood pocket doors opened to a room full of kids. On my right, the same kind of doors opened to another room, also full of kids, but was also filled with floor to ceiling bookcases. A hallway lay off to the side of the stairs that led to the back of the house. It was in perfect order—not one box, carton or piece of newspaper anywhere.

My attention was drawn to the bookshelf room, and in hopes of finding my friends, I snaked through the people, working my way to the back. Not one friend was to be found and instead of fighting the crowd again, I used the door in the back of that room. It, in turn, stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t the hallway as I had anticipated; it was another room, not quite as big as the other one, but much more beautiful—to me, anyway.

The earthy scent of leather coated my senses. Shelves upon shelves were filled with leather-bound books of all colors and shapes.

“Wow!” slipped from my mouth as I walked closer to a glass cabinet that displayed some old scroll-like papers written in a different language. Then my gaze moved on to the other bookshelves that lined each and every wall, all had to be at least sixteen feet tall, some displaying special treasures.

With each book spine I could reach came an overwhelming desire to touch and read them. Some were written in different languages and some sounded incredibly interesting—especially one. In simple type, the spine read: The Two Thousandth Year War of the Spirit Light. Even though it was obvious the room was supposed to be off limits, I couldn’t help myself and gently pulled it from its resting place, touching the cover. I knew from research that the oil in people’s hands could deteriorate the pages in an old book, and so, being even more nosey, I pulled my sleeve over my fingers and opened it. The writing was English and each letter swirled with curlicues, like old English script. There was no dedication to an author, nor a date of publication. Only the title graced the first page. A few pages later came the first chapter: “The Discovery.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

I jumped; the booked slipped from my fingers and landed on the floor with a light thud. “I’m sorry!” For a second I hesitated, wondering if I should make a break for it and just leave the book there—but my conscience wouldn’t let me. My hand shook as I picked it off the floor and prayed that upon inspection, there wouldn’t be any rips, tears or bends.

Nathanael stepped further into the room, holding a drink. “That’s father’s favorite book,” he said, tipping his glass slightly my way.

Great! “I’m sorry,” I repeated, pushing the book back into its rightful spot. I moved quickly toward the door, not looking at him when I passed.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” he asked.

“I should go home...I’m sorry. Truly...I usually know better. Bye!”

The front door couldn’t be in my sight quickly enough. Forgetting about my friends, I burst through the people on the porch and ran down the sidewalk. Stupid! Stupid! When I reached the front gate, that’s when it hit me...how stifling the house felt, almost like being cloaked in a blanket!