 Gail Delaney is the well respected editor and co-owner of Desert Breeze Publishing, Inc. but visits us today in her role as author of another just released novel Janus, Book One of Phoenix Rising. Please tell us a little about your new series, Gail, and how you came to write it.
The Phoenix Rebellion -- the first series in this Phoenix Universe -- began as several separate, completely unconnected stories I couldn't get to work alone. But then I asked a question... and each of these stand alone stories slid together like puzzle pieces.
What if...
These are two very magical words for a science fiction writer. They open up an entire world of possibilities, and it is our job as the writer to answer the question.
What if... an advanced race came to our world and told us they wanted to be our benefactors? What if... they told us they were our ancestors, and we were their descendents. What if... their promises of a better world and an easier life was so wonderful the entire planet eventually welcomed them with open arms?
And what if... fifty years later... it all is discovered to be a lie?
The first series tell the stories of several members of an underground, rebel organization called Phoenix. A network so diverse and interlaced into society, they touch every aspect from government to science. They don't believe the words of the alien benefactors, and they spend decades trying to find the truth. With each book another lie is revealed, and the danger grows until the whole world is enveloped in war.
A war we intend to win.
Phoenix Rising, another four-book series, picks up almost a year after The Phoenix Rebellion. The world is in ruins, in a near-post-apocalyptic state. Our population is a fraction of what we had once been. Our government and military are being rebuilt from the ground up. Our people are beaten... but not yet broken. We have new allies in the universe, and now we know the truth behind the lies.
We face new enemies from within. Xenos. They are they new 'rebels', and they want to rid the Earth of anything they don't see as pure human. But the distinction is almost undetectable. So, like terrorists of today they kill and bomb and cry out against the outrage when they are the source of the problem. The question here is...
What if... not all our enemies are gone?
Phoenix Rising Book One: Janus begins to reveal the deceit that still lingers and the dangers we still face. How do you tell friend from foe when everyone wears the same mask?
Bio:
Gail R. Delaney has been actively writing 'for publication' since 1996. The first novel she ever wrote is still sitting on her computer, waiting for the major rewrite that will make it acceptable. She says she has learned a great deal since writing that book, and it shows when she looks back at that rough draft.
Gail has had several novels published in the genres of contemporary romance, romantic suspense and futuristic romance. Her novels have received several nominations and awards since she was first published in 2005.
Gail and her family recently moved from the cold and blustery east coast to Southern California, and is loving every moment of sunshine she can soak in -- without risking a sun burn.
Read on to enjoy a blurb and excerpt from Phoenix Rising Book One: Janus
 Phoenix Rising Book One: Janus begins to reveal the deceit that still lingers and the dangers we still face. How do you tell friend from foe when everyone wears the same mask? Blurb: It's been a year since Humanity rose up against their alien oppressors and took back Earth from the Sorracchi. The war left Earth devastated, crippled, but not beaten. Under the leadership of President Nick Tanner and in collaboration with their new Areth and Umani allies, the Earth seeks stable ground again. John Smith of the Areth was a soldier before his queen asked him to serve as ambassador to Earth, and he is out of his element. Restricted in his position from carrying a weapon, he has no way of defending himself or his adopted son when the Xenos -- a group of Humans wishing to purge the Earth of all alien influence -- decide they want him dead. Jenifer is a soldier for hire, and answers to no one but her own common sense. She first refused the "job" of serving as John's bodyguard, but a glimpse at the heart of the man convinces her to accept the responsibility. John has two faces: a soldier and an ambassador of peace. Jenifer has two faces: the steel-skinned warrior and the forgotten person she once was. Too many people hide behind masks, and it's those hiding who want John dead. Excerpt: John tried to sleep, but his body had gone too far past tired to allow him to rest. His body ached with exhaustion, his limbs heavy. Each blink was a chore, but when he closed his eyes to sleep, his mind refused to rest. Thoughts piled on top of each other, vying for priority. Meetings he needed to prepare for over the next week, data he needed to review and compile for the agricultural reconstruction committee, the one-on-one meeting he had scheduled with Drucillus Clodianus Hiacyntus in just a few hours -- all things he knew should be dealt with, it was his duty. But they all paled beneath the heavy knot in his chest left behind by the absence of his son and the tragedy of the Boston tunnel collapse. And every painful bit of his own personal tragedies re-awakened. He had let the visceral reaction snap out of him in Nick's office, and knew he had overwhelmed Beverly with the intensity of it, and it had been a chore to rein it all in to deal with the situation. Now, with nothing more than his own thoughts to distract him, planning meetings was inadequate to push the memories aside. Sleep was impossible. The clock beside his bed said 3:42 when he finally tossed off the twisted and rumpled bedding and walked barefoot through the dark apartment to the kitchen, not bothering with a tee shirt despite the cold bite in the air. The second and third levels of the embassy had been designed to be living spaces for himself and the Umani ambassador. Since Ambassador Drucillus Clodianus Hiacyntus usually preferred to sleep aboard his private carrier holding orbit in the airspace over Virginia, John and Silas were usually the only inhabitants of the embassy. Silas was gone, replaced by the brash and assertive Jenifer with no last name. He hadn't figured her out yet, but also accepted he probably never would. She was beautiful, but in a Southern Bagdaghir Desert Black Scorpion kind of way; sleek and mesmerizing, even graceful and seductive, but everything about her said, "Back off or risk being stung." The kitchen was simple, providing only the basics, just like the rest of the apartment. A sharp contrast to the embassy accommodations provided to the seven Umani ambassadors to Aretu, which were equivalent to palaces in comparison. Even if Earth had been able to provide John with that type of living quarters, he doubted he would have wanted it. Too many years of living on a farm or sleeping under the stars. John opened the small refrigeration unit provided and removed a bottle of purified water. He contemplated making some of the coffee in the tin on the counter, but decided against it. If he drank the strong brew, sleep would be even more impossible. Besides that, he hadn't developed the taste for coffee like so many Humans had. It reminded him too much of the thick, bitter drink called Kouffa on Zibal. He'd drank it only once because Tahlia had smiled, her violet eyes practically twinkling with mischief, and told him it was delicious. He paused, the bottle of water half way to his lips. Memories of Tahlia had been numerous, and sometimes vicious, since they'd heard the news of the Boston tunnel collapse that afternoon. It was like a new wound, everything reminded him of it. John took a last swallow from the bottle and left the kitchen, leaving the bottle on the counter. He moved through the apartment in darkness until he reached the large windows facing out the front of the embassy onto the street below. The majority of the city was in complete darkness, barely a silhouette against the starlit night, with only the moon to cast any form of light. Even in the darkness, he saw the remaining destruction from the attack on him just a week before. The building across the street was missing an entire section of brick from the impact of the hovercar, and portions of the street were darker from the burn of the explosions and pulse charges. He crossed his arms over his chest and bowed his head, closing his eyes. It seemed nothing was exempt from the thoughts and memories of twenty years past that were determined to keep him awake. How to find me: http:www.GailDelaney.com Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/PhoenixGailRDelaney Or http://www.facebook.com/AuthorGailRDelaney Email me at Gail@GailDelaney.com and I'll send you a free short story that stands as a prequel to The Phoenix Rebellion.
 This is National Library Week. Can you put your hands on your library card? Through the years mine has changed considerably. To apply for my first library card in California, I was required to bring in an envelope mailed to my current address, and allowed to check out two books. A week later I received a card for my wallet that became dog-eared long before a new one was issued.
Now everything is checked out electronically. My latest library card looks like a credit card. Works like one, too. I can even renew the books I check out by phone, but do I use my card as often as I use my credit card? No, not nearly often enough, however every time I step back into the library I'm amazed at the offerings I find there. I had no idea our branch library four block away hosted a monthly book club, eliminating the need to drive to Barnes and Noble for their's.
Like carrying a membership card for the fitness club or AAA, when I walk into the library I have a sense of belonging. I'm familiar with my surroundings, even if I've never been in that particular building before. I enjoy a sense of fellowship, and suspense. No telling what I'll find beneath the covers of the first book I remove from the shelf.
And the best part? I never lose the sense of wonder. All that knowledge at my fingertips. I race down the rows of shelves, fearful some other patron will beat me to the latest Nicholas Sparks release or video. Too busy to read? Check out a talking book for those forty-five minute commutes to work.
Why not put a visit to the local library on your shopping list this week. You're bound to find something there that interests you. Maybe an armful, like me.
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I do. In fact, I adore deadlines. Without a looming deadline I find myself taking longer walks than usual, shining the pots and pans, and spending endless time on social media sites, reading about other writer's deadline woes.
I suspect my accounting positions caused my obsession with deadlines. One of my duties was setting the calendar for the year, deciding when the company would close for the holidays, when to close the company books each month, and whether to observe Federal holidays over a long weekend, or midweek.
Even my monthly calendar was regimented. Three days into the new month balance the company bank account, post time cards every Thursday, distribute paychecks every other Friday, regardless of whether the payday and month-end close fell on the same day and required me working overtime to get everything done.
Such an uncompromising schedule served me well once I retired and began writing full time with the goal of being a published author. Eight a.m. to three p.m., found me seated at the computer, writing, revising, writing some more. Two nights a week I wrote for three more hours while my husband taught a college course.
Fourteen years and ten completed manuscripts later, all that changed. I sold my first manuscript. My husband retired. The release of my first novel opened social media doors I never knew existed, doors my publisher expected me to throw open and let readers know I existed so they would buy our books.
Self-promotion kills creativity, but I'm the one killing time.
I need to go back to that weekly and monthly schedule. Perhaps daily and weekly scheduling is more fitting for a published writer needing to complete more manuscripts.
I meet actual deadlines with no problem. The manuscript for my September release must be submitted by May first, along with the Cover Art Input Sheet. Do-ahead person that I am, both are ready to go well before that deadline.
Where I find myself having problems is with my discretionary time. Being retired, it's all discretionary time. I've been working on my latest WIP for over a year. The writing has progressed so slowly I've three times had to go back and read through everything I've written to reacquaint myself with who these characters are and where I left off, before I could pick up the writing again.
At my RWA chapter meetings I give myself deadlines like 'write another chapter,' and lately, 'finish it.' Nothing works. I did write a chapter last month, two more this month. Back when I was in my writing groove I'd write a chapter a day.
I'm debating what to try next. Would bribery work? Finish a chapter and you can tweet for an hour? At one time I loved the premise of my story. It's so hard to finish, I'm beginning to hate everything about it now. I know better than to move on to something new. I've tried that, and it didn't go well either. It's me the writer who has to change.
Maybe self-discipline is the answer. I'm beginning to think I’m sorely lacking in self-discipline. I must have had it in college, when I was working full time and taking twenty-one required units a semester to complete a business degree in information systems in record time.
I'm not addicted to social media sites the way I've heard some writer's have become, but I am easily distracted. This week, I'm going to set a timer, and will let you know how it goes.
 You know the sayings: "A man's home is his castle." "Home sweet home." "You can never go home again."
In my newest release Restored Dreams my hero Buck doesn't want to go home again. He walked away from his father's questionable business practices and never once looked back. Even after his father's death he refused to run his corporation, or live in his marble and glass mansion with the coldly modern décor.
No, Buck never felt at home in his father's house. Seemingly abandoned by his mother and ignored by his father, Buck was shipped off to private schools, received his allowance from servants, but from the stableman learned a love of horses he capitalized on by joining the rodeo circuit a while back.
Home to him now is the toy box he tows with a Peter Built truck, his horse tucked safely in the stall he built for Satan inside his RV, too, and instead of home being "anywhere he lays his hat", it's anywhere he parks his rig.
Most recently he parked it at Restful Dreams Campground just outside of Lakeview, California, and he's thinking about sticking around. He feels he owes the good people of Lakeview at debt he'd like to repay with the millions he inherited and never intends to spend on himself.
Fifty years back his grandfather, a fast-talking charlatan, swindled some of the residents of Lakeview and made off with their life savings, money he'd convinced them to invest in a railroad never intended to come through their town.
Buck has his eye on Treasure Montgomery's stately old Victorian house. The pretty teacher's home needs a new roof, but she is stubborn as his grandmother's mule. He'd gladly re-roof Treasure's house for free, thanks to his bulging bank accounts, money he doesn't want and would please him to see go to a good cause. Treasure's too proud, though. She's determined to pay her own way.
On a teacher's salary? She's not thinking straight, but maybe Buck can make her listen to reason. He spent summers with his grandmother in her classic Victorian farm house, and hopes to bring Treasure's house back to its original beauty, one rusty pipe and rotted board at a time.
Man, he wishes the little lady wasn't so hard headed. Like the idea she sprang on him about him taking her to bed. Unless he's mistaken, Treasure has a hidden agenda, one he hopes she'll reveal while he courts her. The idea of being courted surprised her, but she warmed up to the notion about as fast as he warmed up to her.
Now, if he can just find a way to spend time with her without giving in to her demands he'll be a happy man, and might have even found a happy home.
Somebody claimed "home is where the heart is". How could he go wrong giving his heart to the big-hearted woman just named California's Best Middle School Teacher? Maybe then she'll let him restore her home.
You shouldn't. Writers often think something is on the page when it isn't, a word they meant to type, but didn't.
This is contest judging season. One recent contest entrant wrote, "She looked away in discuss," when the author meant disgust. Spell checker doesn't catch this kind of mistake. Another pair of eyes perhaps would.
Updated software versions make a writer's life easier. I often type it's when the apostrophe is not needed. I turn on the 'Non-Print Formatting Characters' when I write. My word processing software underlines anything the software authors consider a problem. If I've typed it's and should have typed its, a little green line shows up under the word. All I have to do is figure out why, and correct my mistake.
Learn to use all the features of your software. Then, as the final step before submitting your manuscript or posting a blog, ask a trusted reader to read what you've written. Not a sister or good friend. Find someone who knows mistakes creep into our writing like ants sneak into my house on hot, dry days. Your job as a writer is to identify the mistakes on a written page and eliminate them from the printed page.
Twice while writing the paragraph above a little green line showed up, once to show me I'd pluralized a word that didn't need it, another time to show me to add an s to a word that should have been plural. Trust your software.
Let's see if my software catches a mistake in verb tense. He look at her with a question in his eyes. Yes, a little green line appeared beneath look to show me there is a problem. If I make the present-tense verb past-tense, the green line goes away. I often see the wrong tense of verbs used when I'm judging manuscripts, and most often with the word look, perhaps because this word is often overused.
The ease with which a word processor allows a writer to revise a sentence can also shoot you in the foot. Watch out for mistakes in verb tense.
In writing this I noticed a green line I could not explain beneath a word followed by a comma. I deleted the comma and the green line went away. I'm not sure I trust my software that much. I'd rather have too many commas than not enough. I want the reader to understand what I've written, not have to go back and read the sentence again to determine the meaning.
So, update your software, find a trusted reader you can depend on to find the numerous typos, missing words and punctuation errors we all make.
 Meet Toto, newly adopted member of out family. We fell in love with her at Helen Woodward Animal Center in late October. She came to the Center from Utah, a five-year-old Cairn Terrier- Scottish Terrier mix.
After six weeks housed in shelters, she fell in love with our back yard, promptly scaring off all the lizards who'd moved in after our last dog passed away.
A week after Toto arrived someone from Helen Woodard called to ask if we'd lost Toto. "No, she's right upstairs or in the back yard," we replied. Not so! She'd run away when I went out the front door and some teens three blocks away had befriended her and called the Center!
I don't think she'd do that now. I drug my feet about getting another dog, but with my husband facing a round of radiation he insisted we adopt. I gave in, thinking he'd be the one to walk the dog. Not so! She races me upstairs so she can crawl into the corner beside my computer desk before I'm seated, and there she stays as long as I do. But let me turn in my chair and she's out of there. She quickly learned I'm prone to knock things off my cluttered desk and runs. At night, if I get up out of my recliner, she's awake and ready to follow me.
Toto doesn't sit like a normal dog. Someone spent a lot of time training her to beg, sitting on her haunches, and she does this frequently at night. Our task is to figure out what she wants when she does it. I've learned when she sits up and desperately waves her paws in front of her eyes like a cat washing its face, she needs to go out. We're yet to figure out the beady-eyes stare she turns on first one of us, then the other, while she begs.
I've learned to say, "Stay," when the front screen is open and she no longer runs away. And she stands patiently for us to slip the choke collar over her head so she can go for a walk. Daytime, she behaves more like a cat than a dog, slipping off upstairs to sleep all day on a bathroom on a thick bathmat.
And like a cat, she's a finicky eater. Most meals we have to tempt her with unhealthy gravies and sauces to get her to eat. She tears up new toys with her sharp little teeth in less than a minute, takes the skin right off a new tennis ball, but loves to play ball.
Our lives were dull before we adopted Toto, and we didn't even know it. She has made our life much more interesting, and if she would only stop getting sprayed by skunks and we learned to interpret all her signals, we'd be a prefect match.
Have you considered adopting a pet? Or do you have a dog story you'd like to tell here?
 More than anything else that year for Christmas I wanted a friendship ring like all the other girls at church had. One friend's ring had a pretty blue stone set in gold. The stone caught the sun streaming through the church window and projected colorful rainbows on the wall. All through the preacher's sermon I'd stare at the pretty ring on her slender finger and wonder, Why not me? Why couldn't I have a ring like my friends? But she didn't live in the country, didn't have to slop the pigs and dirty her hands. I'd never be able to keep a ring like hers looking pretty. Even though the stone in her ring matched my blue eyes, I had my heart set on a friendship ring, the kind another friend received for her birthday. Her shiny, wide band of silver had two little dangling hearts attached, and I'd set my heart a ring like hers. Long before Thanksgiving I found a picture of the ring in a newspaper ad, cut it out, and started dropping hints. The newspaper clipping never left my purse, but I slept with my purse under my pillow to make sure I'd dream about heart's desire. Christmas morning finally arrived, and to my delight in the toe of my stocking, I found a small ring box. Not daring to hope, I carefully opened the box. The ring inside was nothing like the picture I kept in my purse. My ring was even better than I'd hoped. The ring fit my finger perfectly and the silver hearts jingled every time my hand moved. The silver flashed in the sunlight, so bright it hurt my eyes. I loved the way the ring looked on my finger. Unable to believe my good fortune, I spent the morning admiring it, even while I peeled potatoes and fed the pigs. I couldn't wait to show it off when our relatives came for the annual feast and gift exchange. Our house had the biggest dining room so we usually hosted Christmas dinner. The relatives arrived by threes and fours, bringing presents for later and their contributions to the meal. I hurried each of my cousins out to the swing where I first showed off my pretty ring, then pushed each one in the rope swing. My ring finger soon began to hurt. When I checked to see why, I discovered a blister was forming at its base. It really hurt, so I slipped off my ring and carefully placed it in the small dirt-filled circle formed by the nearest tree's roots where I could easily find it when I was ready to put the ring back on. Tired of doing girl stuff, my cousin Donald began to complain. He wanted to go over on the school grounds and do boy things, so I led the way to the chin-up bar and he showed off on it until my sister Ann called everybody in to eat. After dinner Diane and I took turns washing dishes, then dried our hands. That's when I missed my ring. "Come on," I whispered to her and headed out the front door. I ran up the slight grade, Diane right on my heels. "Where are you going?" she asked, out of breath. "You'll see." I stopped at the tree that supported the kid's swing and dropped to my knees on the ground. "Huh!" My heart sank. "Well?" Diane asked. "It's gone. The ring I got for Christmas is gone. How can that be? Who could have taken it?" We felt around all the tree roots, searched under those that made big circles above the ground. My ring was nowhere to be found. "Momma is going to kill me," I whispered. "I just got my ring this morning, and now it's gone." Ann called us in for the gift exchange. I refused to cry. Someone was bound to notice my eyes were red and then I'd have to confess. How could I have been so careless? Was I jinxed when it came to rings? When the company left, I searched under the tree again. How could I confess to my parents I'd already lost my special gift? After what had happened to my other ring when I was in second grade I'd planned to be especially careful with this one. That time I had been cleaning the goldfish bowl when my ring with the pretty blue stone disappeared down the school sink drain. Me losing this ring would really disappoint Momma. We both had thought I was mature enough now to keep up with my things. I didn't sleep well that night and next morning crept out before breakfast to search for the ring again. What was I hoping? That fairies had brought it back? I still couldn't find the ring, sadly gave up and went in to eat. Slumped in my seat, pondering how to come clean about my loss, I glanced at my empty cereal bowl. Not empty at all! There sat my lost ring, shining up at me. Lesson learned. I didn't take my ring off again until I outgrew it. I never knew who found that lost ring, but suspect it was my sister Ann, the adult pleaser, the only one in our household who would have gone straight to Momma instead of giving it back to me. This is a chapter from Why Not Me? a memoir written at the request of my adult daughters, who have an insatiable curiosity about my childhood. If you enjoyed this story, go to http://lasrguest.blogspot.com/for December 20 to read about my earliest Christmas recollections.
Around Thanksgiving each year Momma would start a big pot of spiced tea simmering on the back of the stove. She called it Russia tea and daily would add more fresh-squeezed orange juice, lemon juice, lemon peels and brewed tea to the pot. It made the entire house smell good, and was delicious when sipped with fruit cake, or to ward off the chill.
If anyone caught a cold out of season (meaning not around the holidays), she'd bring out the spices, brew a pot and deliver a full jug of it to the sick room. For nearly sixty years I've continued the tradition, sharing this aromatic brew with under-the-weather bosses, neighbors, and family.
I've since converted the recipe to use instant ingredients so I can keep a tightly sealed container of powdered mix in the pantry and brew a quick cup of my instant Spiced Tea. I think my time-saving recipe is equally delicious. You can keep a jar of these dry ingredients tightly sealed in the pantry and brew your own cuppa tea whenever you like.
Give the mix for a welcomed gift for family and coworkers. My granddaughters living in the East recently requested this recipe, so I decided to share it with you. A bottle of Instant Spiced Tea mix makes a welcomed gift for family and coworkers.
Here's my Instant Spiced Tea recipe. Buy:
1 large bottle Unsweetened Instant Tea. Do not buy sweetened instant tea.
1 big container of TANG.
1 box powdered lemonade. (The box contains 2 pkgs. Use both.)
.9 oz or 1 oz containers of:
Ground cinnamon
All spice
Ground cloves
Nutmeg (use only half of this)
I buy unsweetened instant tea, the largest bottle of instant tea (with lemon if you can find it), more than 16 oz, but less than 32 oz size. Do not use sweetened tea or this mix will be too sweet.
Depending on the size instant tea you purchased empty 2/3 to all of the tea into a large mixing bowl.
Add the lemonade.
Add half the Tang. You can always add more for taste.
If you add too much Tang, add more tea.
Add the spices, using only half the nutmeg. Too much nutmeg will make your tea bitter.
Use only fresh spices.
Mix well, but not rapidly. You don't want the powder to get in the air.
Sample the mixture. Add one cup of boiling water to one teaspoon of mix in the bottom of a teacup. Taste and doctor as needed. You want a sweet mix that is faintly tart.
Make a label with how to make instructions and attach to each gift:
SPICE TEA mix
Add boiling water to 1 ½ teaspoons of dry mix.
(Or the quantity you prefer for a good up of tea)
Add a little rum if you have a cold.
Package in pretty, airtight containers or Ziplock bags.
Be sure to save yourself some, and enjoy. I doubled this recipe when I shopped last year. My ingredients added up to about $32 and made 9 welcomed gifts.
Join me at the Long and Short Reviews' Stocking Stuffers Blogfest on December 20 for a glimpse into my fondest childhood Christmas memories.
http://www.longandshortreviews.com/
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