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Welcome to It's Raining Books, Tegon. Why do you write in your genre?
I write a variety of genre… Sci-Fi, Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Paranormal, Romantic Comedy, Action Adventure. All are a product of the story. I write the story that forms in my head. I have no idea what genre it is until I’m done.
What draws you to it?
Purely the story. Once it’s in my head I can’t shake it until I write it down or a better… more entertaining one takes its place.
What research is required?
I generally work with common knowledge to take advantage of how people feel or think about a particular subject. Then I like to move the story just a little off center… just a little out of sync at first so my readers don’t notice… then before they realize it they are down the rabbit hole. Now they believe anything… everything I show them !
Name one thing you learned from your hero/heroine.
In my day job I see people in every light imaginable. You can tell if a person is good at heart or only wants to take advantage right away. All of them… correct that… all of us have a quirk or two – some a little more. My heroes are merely a mirror that shows all the little flaws we struggle so desperately to cover up. We are all flawed to the point of hilarity, it just depends on how you look at it.
Do you have any odd or interesting writing quirks, habits or superstitions?
Not really… I do like to wear my lucky writing shirt while at the computer… inspiration comes from a fresh box of fig newtons and a handful of M&Ms separated by color or a box of Gob Stoppers with a little salt while I work. I wouldn’t call that odd or a superstition… nope. Can’t think of a thing… not really.
Are you a plotter or pantser?
100% a pantser… I like to be surprised where the story takes me.
Look to your right – what’s sitting there?
My printer, of course… a new box of Fig Newtons and assorted other goodies… sorted by color and a stack of bills a foot thick.
Anything new coming up from you? What?
The 3rd book in THE EVE PROJECT SERIES… The Cordovian Effect. It’s a soft SCi-Fi book about the ramifications of living life as an Android… of trying to hold on to a love that was the meaning of life in the first place. What would you do? How far would you be willing to go to save it? How far is too far? Would you have a soul? Would it matter to you compared to losing all you hold dear?
Do you have a question for our readers?
Can’t think of a one… I will say look for my books, I’m very funny!
The first time I heard it, I thought nothing of it at all... nothing. I've been in the newspaper game for more than twenty-seven years and that kind of experience gave a guy an edge but even that didn't prepare me. I'd been beaten, shot at, even stabbed a couple of times over the years but I always got the story... always. But this one... this one was big... too big perhaps... Maybe we were ready, maybe not. Either way, it wasn't my call. None of which filled me with the fear, the trepidation... the anguish of five little words that still haunted me today... "Is okay. I have cousin."Enjoy an excerpt: "Bob?" I began, pointing toward the dark, stooped figure of Fred threading his way through the underbrush.
"Is Fred's way... live to close too nuclear plant. What Bob going to do?" he said, holding up both hands in defeat.
I had no idea what to say to that.
Bob, following Fred's lead, pulled a black ski mask over his face, before handing me a baseball cap.
"What's this?" I asked totally expecting a ski mask, turning the cap over in my hands.
"Beginner’s hat. Maybe, next time, for you," he smirked.
I'd been ribbed before, and I can take it almost as good as I can give it but this... from Bob? Damn aggravating.
I tripped along in the dark, getting my feet tangled on every stick, every root, every obstacle that stuck up out of the ground as I trailed behind him.
He, unlike Fred, seemed to be more than comfortable in the woods as well as the dark. Fred walked slightly ahead, darting from tree to tree as if hiding himself from some unseen observer.
Bob and I simply stood in place, waiting for him to wave us on as he dashed to the next tree or rock outcropping.
After what seemed like forever and more scratches and bruises than I had acquired in a lifetime, we found the house.
Fred, his back pressed against a sizable rock as if he were keeping it in place, held his position a dozen yards ahead of us. He waved frantically, signaling for us to get down and we obeyed.
A moment later headlights swept over where we had stood. The sound of tires grinding through the dirt filled the air.
"Shit," I breathed to myself. I hadn't expected this to be easy. It never had been in the past, but with Bob and Fred leading the way, we were screwed.
Fred scampered to his next position, waving us on to the rock he had just left behind when he felt the coast was clear.
It took us another fifteen minutes to cross the distance from where we first saw the house to physically touching the building.
I had to admit, my heart pounded hard in my chest, certain we were about to be caught as Fred pulled himself up to peer into a window.
"Clear," Fred whispered and we crept around the corner.
There were no cars, no trucks, no men with guns to be seen anywhere. Fred had hit it on the mark. For all outward appearances no one was home.
We continued to follow Fred as he made his way to a back door. Slowly, silently, he eased himself onto the porch kneeling before the door, slipping a hand into his shirt pocket.
Removing two small, shiny tools from its folds, he went to work on the knob.
Faster than I could say "is belt" Fred worked the lock, turning the knob. The door opened slightly.
We held a collective breath, waiting for the sound of an alarm.
"Clear," Fred whispered softly as he allowed the door to open fully. Crouched, almost on all fours, he scooted inside, closing the door behind him.
Unfathomable amounts of time seemed to slip by with each heartbeat as Bob and I stood outside in the dark and waited.
My anxiety, a mere seed in the pit of my stomach, had begun to run away with me. My palms grew sweaty.
"Is nice," Bob offered, leaning against the building, pushing both hands into his pockets.
"What?" I asked with disbelief.
"Is nice. Bob always busy... go here, go there. Wife always - when take wife to dinner? When go to opera? When take wife to see sister? When have time for wife? When Bob take out trash?"
"We just broke and entered. We can go to jail for this."
"Is nice, out with friends. That's all Bob say."
Before I could formulate an answer the door eased opened again.
"We're alone," Fred said.
Bob and I slipped in, closing the door behind us. We now stood in the mud room off the kitchen.
No more than six by five it held a built-in bench on one of the paneled walls, with a coat rack filling the opposite. The oversized tile floor continued throughout the kitchen as well.
The dim glow of a night light traced the edges of the granite topped cabinets and dining table. On the opposite side of the room was an opening to the hallway.
My attention was drawn by the sound of someone going through one of the cabinets.
"Fred," I whispered hoarsely, looking about the room for him.
"Da," he responded, popping up from under one of the cabinets, a large frying pan and matching lid in his hands.
"What the hell are you doing?" I asked angrily.
He began to speak in Russian as Bob patted him down, removing a stainless steel sauce pan from under his shirt.
Bob said nothing beyond a couple of quick snaps of his fingers before pointing to me.
Fred's arms went limp again as his hands went to his pocket, retrieving a fifty, handing it reluctantly to me.
"You should be ashamed," I admonished, happily snapping the money right out of his hand.
We moved through the kitchen to the hall and to the door that someone had used to spy on us.
At that moment, the sound of a toilet flushing reached us from somewhere upstairs.
Like little kids, all three of us dove for the door, rushing inside. On the other side the floor vanished, becoming little more than a small landing with stairs trailing into the darkness.
About the Author: I was raised pretty much the same as everyone else... devoted mother, strict father and all the imaginary friends I could conjure. Not that I wasn't friendly, I just wasn't "people orientated". Maybe I lived in my head way more than I should have, maybe not. I liked machines more than people, at least I did until I met my wife.
The first thing I can remember writing was for her. For the life of me I can't remember what it was about... something about dust bunnies under the bed and monsters in my closet. It must have been pretty good because she married me shortly after that. I spent a good number of years after inventing games and prototypes for a variety of ideas before I got back to writing.
It wasn't a deliberate conscious thought, it was more of a stepping stone. My wife and I had joined a dream interpret group and we were encouraged to write down our dreams as they occurred. "Be as detailed as you can," we were told.
I was thrilled. If there is one thing I enjoy it's making people believe me and I like to exaggerate. Not a big exaggeration or an outright lie mine you, just a little step out of sync, just enough so you couldn't be sure if it were true or not. When I write, I always write with the effort of "it could happen" very much in mind and nothing, I guarantee you, nothing, makes me happier.
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Tegon-Maus/e/B009PFZILW
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