I am often asked how I came to be a writer and my answer is always the same – I was born this way. Writing isn’t something I decided to do, it was something I was born doing. Okay, so perhaps I couldn’t write when I was born, but as soon as I could talk, I began telling stories to anyone who would listen. I often told such fantastic stories to my teachers, they would often call my mother to find out if they were true or not. By the time I learned to make letters, I was off and running.

I wrote stories and plays for my friends, classmates and cousins. All through school I wrote stories and read books. In the fifth grade I won a little pin for reading the most books during the school year. In the eighth grade I wrote my first full-length novel, a historical western about a young woman from Boston who traveled to the wild, Wild West to teach school and fell in love with the town sheriff. I remember there was kissing between the H/H, but I think that was as far as my budding libido had ever wandered in real life or fiction.

Being a writer is not something a person chooses rather writing chooses the person. Perhaps there are muses instead of angels sitting on the clouds watching all of us on earth. Muses of writing, painting, music, dance, singing, and every other artistic talent just sitting there watching deciding which of us gets what. I always wished I could sing, play the piano (or any other instrument), and for most of my life felt as if I wasn’t artistic at all. There was never anyone who told me that writing was an art, and it was a mostly un-nurtured talent. My father plays guitar and sings, my mother writes lyrics and sings but beyond their own talents, neither nurtured any type of creativity in their children. Fortunately, the muse is not reliant upon human nurturing to remain alive within someone, although that nurturing is so important if one desires to become better at their talent. For me, being a writer isn’t something I do; it’s who I am. What I do is write books, but even if I didn’t, the writer within me would still be prodding and poking until I obeyed.

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Rie McGaha is an author, editor, and reviewer. She has more than a dozen books to her credit, and her recent release, Calen, is the first book in the My Soul To Keep Trilogy, with the other two books being released later this year from Silver Publishing. You can join Rie, GA Hauser, & Stormy Glenn for Blog Blast 2011 , on Blog Talk Radio, May 14, 2011 at noon CST, with an all day group chat at Erotic Promo.

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/eroticpromo

Prizes will be given away all day long, so join us! And check out Blog Blast 2011 for a list of prizes, and “follow” us to be entered into the grand prize drawing.

Everyone who comments on this blog is also eligible to win!

GA Hauser – http://authorgahauser.com
Stormy Glenn – http://stormyglenn.com
Rie McGaha – http://www.riemcgaha.com


When Calen MacLeod begins having dreams of an ethereal beauty who beckons to him, he passes it off as just having an itch he hasn’t scratched in a long time. But when he leaves on a journey to find her, following the directions she’s given him in his dreams, he begins to doubt his sanity. And when he finds himself high in the Mackinaw Mountains in a secret fortress with unicorns and a pink and white castle, surrounded by women, each one more beautiful than the next, it’s a fantasy no man would want to wake up from. But Arianna is the only woman for Calen.

The women of the Fortress have lived in peace, hidden away from the humans who tried to annihilate them all. But now a 500-year-old demon is out to destroy the women’s matriarch, Ariella, and he’ll stop at nothing to complete his mission. When Calen MacLeod shows up, he throws a wrench into Damon’s plans. Never let it be said Damon isn’t ready for anything, but when he kidnaps Arianna and takes her to modern day San Francisco, is he ready to meet Calen, who will stop at nothing to save his ladylove?


Calen by Rie McGaha Excerpt:
The fire rose in the dark, casting its light in a wide circle. The woman stood with her hands raised over her head, her back arched and her face tilted toward the moonless sky. Only a backdrop of black velvet covered in stars glittering like diamonds lay overhead. She chanted in a language strange to his ears while her body swayed rhythmically. Blue, red and yellow sparks shot from the fire. The wind gusted and blew her long hair back, while her sheer gown billowed around her. He was mesmerized, enchanted, aroused. He remained in the shadows, wanting her, but not wanting to intrude. Suddenly, all went still, and she looked directly at him. Though he remained hidden, he sensed she knew he was there. She began walking toward him, but stayed within the circle of light cast by the fire.

“Come,” she whispered.

He stood frozen in place.

“Come to me,” she whispered again.

He remained where he was.

“When you are ready to know, come to me.”

Calen bolted upright, ready for action, but nothing stirred. A dream, he thought, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness.