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Many cultures consider three to be a lucky number.
Lucky shamrocks have three leaves. To the
Chinese the number three means life. Three, the triune
or trident concept is found in almost all spiritual
traditions. For the Hindu it is Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva—
creator, preserver, destroyer. In the Christian
tradition it is Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Some
cultures celebrate the three stages of woman as virgin,
mother and crone. Visually, the number three resembles
a pregnant woman. Three is about creation, cycles,
connection, reproduction and balance. These meanings
show up in western numerology and the Tarot, though there
are other meanings as well.
In astronomy there are three types of galaxies.
Earth is the third planet in our solar system. Atoms are made up of protons,
neutrons and electrons. White light is a mixture of red, green and blue. Our
universe is perceived to have three dimensions.
I do not think it
is an accident that all the mystic teachings incorporate the
number three. Spirit, mind, body. Past, present, future.
Thought, feeling, emotion. Three is the birth of wisdom and
unlimited potential.
When we come
together to do something, we sometimes say, “on the count of
three” or “ready, set, go.” And that is exactly where
Samhain is poised for the following year. Happy birthday to
everyone in my Samhain family.
Ready, set, go!
--
Debra Parmley is thrilled
to have published her first novel, A Desperate
Journey, with Samhain Publishing. Whether penning
tales of the Wild West, packing her bags for another trip or
dancing as a gypsy fortune teller with her belly dance
troupe, Debra is always traveling somewhere. To learn more
about Debra, please visit
www.debraparmley.com. |
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Three Year Olds
Shelley Munro
I remember the day you were born, a bouncing baby
with a charming smile. Some say the second year of
life is traumatic. They call it the terrible twos.
Thankfully, you slipped into routine like a champ
and didn’t go through the same tantrums other
two-year-olds display.
So what can we expect during the third year of your
life? |
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You’re growing, learning your place in the world. You’ll
test your parents, learning what is acceptable and what
isn’t. There may be the odd tantrum since you’re still
learning how to handle anger and aggression.
You’ll have vivid fantasies and travel to new and exotic
destinations in your imagination. Sometimes you’ll invent
invisible playmates. You’ll constantly move between reality
and imagination. Some days you’ll want me to address you as
“Your Majesty” while on other days you’ll be Samhain.
I’m afraid I’ll have to monitor your television viewing
since you can’t always differentiate between fact and
fantasy. Only PG rating shows for you! Of course, privately
I’m hoping you’ll continue to slip in those saucy little
reads I’m so fond of downloading.
Your speaking repertoire will continue to grow, and you will
even start to use sentences containing more than one verb.
Your speech is clear and strangers will comprehend
everything you say.
Physically, you’re set to grow. Sometimes you’ll grow
quicker than you can put on pounds, which might make you
look a little lanky. You’ll run, jump and walk. Climbing
becomes second nature, and you’ll be able to handle scissors
with proficiency.
You’ll interact more with your peers and dip into group
fantasy, creating elaborate scenes and use both imaginary
and household objects as props. Can I say “Yay!” to this?
These days you play nice, sharing your toys and taking
turns. You’ll start to identify with your own gender, but
still play well with both boys and girls. Variety is a good
thing.
You’ll want to do things your own way, and as parents, we
want to support you in this. We’re going to keep you busy
with household chores, keep your behavior positive so you
never move toward the negative. We’re going to stay firm but
kind and dole out regular hugs and love so you evolve into a
likeable child. Actually, we’re pleased with you now and
very glad we’re a part of your life. You make us proud.
Happy third birthday, Samhain Publishing!
--
Shelley
Munro writes for several publishers. Her most recent release
is TEA FOR TWO, published by Samhain Publishing. Read more
about Shelley at
www.shelleymunro.com
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Cutting
Words from your Manuscript
Anne Whitfield
As an
editor and author, I find many writers have either
edited their work too much or too little.
The key
is to edit well enough to create a great story, but
not too much that your work no longer has heart.
When
writers are confronted by the prospect of cutting
words, they panic and think it can’t be done without
destroying plots and characters. |
In actual fact,
most writers will learn that there is a skill to trimming
word count. Once that skill is learnt, they can apply it to
other works, and this will change the way they write future
manuscripts.
Sometimes, the
act of cutting words from the manuscript is simply a case of
re-writing the odd paragraph, of eliminating passive writing
or over telling, deleting repeated or redundant words. Look
for instances where you have explained the same thing more
than once, but perhaps in different ways or by different
character’s viewpoint. There are many good websites built to
aid writers in writing the best work they can. I have a list
on my website of several such websites.
http://www.annewhitfield.com/writingwebsites.html
In the end, write the story of
your heart, but edit it with a business mind and the chances
are you’ll have a better prospect of becoming published and
the journey with your future editor may be also smoother.
--
You can visit
Anne's website at
http://www.annewhitfield.com
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Torture your
Characters
Evangeline Anderson
Are you thinking of writing a book?
Want to try your hand at a hot blooded erotica or maybe a mysterious paranormal?
Whatever your genre I have some advice if you’re just starting out—torture your
characters.
Yes, I said torture them. Not in a
put-them-on-a-rack or beat-them-with-a-whip kinda way (although if you’re
writing an erotic BDSM novel that might be an option.) No, what I’m saying is
don’t make things easy on them. Think about it—when was the last time you wanted
to read a novel about someone with a perfectly calm life? Calm equals boring so
shake it up and put your protagonist through the meat grinder to get the best
out of them and the most thrills and chills out of your plot. |
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For example, in
my new romantic/erotic comedy, Wishful Thinking,
Philomena Swan and her sisters have a problem. Being only
one eighth fairy means they don’t have any magic of their
own, but they do qualify for a fairy godmother who
grants them all birthday wishes. Sounds great, doesn’t it?
But if I wrote a story about three pretty girls who got all
their wishes granted and lived a perfect life it would be
incredibly dull. In order to torture my characters and keep
things interesting, I wanted to make the yearly birthday
gifts a problem.
So while Phil,
Cass, and Rory seem to have an ideal situation what they
really have is trouble. Their godmother is a chain-smoking,
anorexic fairy bitch who resents being forced to grant
birthday wishes for “half-breeds” like Phil and her sisters.
This makes her pretty careless with her magic, and she
really doesn’t care if it helps or hurts the girls. And
mostly, it hurts.
Phil and Cass and
Rory have all had their problems in the past. There was the
time when she was a kid that Phil wished she could wear all
of her Barbie’s clothes. Instead of making the clothes big
enough to fit her, their fairy godmother made Phil eleven
inches tall. Or the time Rory wished to be able to talk to
animals and their fairy godmother turned her into a
Schnauzer. Or the time in high school that Cass wished for a
bigger bra size only to end up with double G “porno” boobs.
All these
disastrous events have made the Swann sisters extremely
careful when making their birthday wishes because they’ve
found it’s surprisingly hard to make a wish that doesn’t
backfire. As the book opens, Phil is about to turn
twenty-five and she is trying to think of something to wish
for that won’t ruin her life forever.
Of course, since
Phil is my protagonist in this book, I couldn’t let her off
easy. One thing about Phil is that she has a very mild
personality. She doesn’t like to rock the boat, and she’d
rather die than make a scene. So when she accidentally makes
a wish to be able to speak her mind, it makes her life a
horrible mess because she literally has to say everything
she’s thinking.
From telling off
her annoying coworkers to letting her misogynistic boss know
what she really thinks of him, Phil is on a roll. And
because of her shy, retiring nature, it is complete and
utter torture for her. She can’t believe the things that are
pouring out of her mouth, but because of her fairy
godmother’s magic, she can’t stop them either.
I think my
favorite part of the book is when Phil is forced to tell her
best friend Josh about an erotic dream she had about him.
Josh is one of those guys that lights up the room when he
comes into it—he’s always cracking Phil up, but she knows
he’d kill anyone that tried to mess with her. He’s an IT guy
with big brown eyes and adorably tousled hair, but under his
geeky clothes and computer skills he has a smokin’ hot bod
which Phil tries not to notice since she has a fiancé.
Unfortunately no one told her subconscious not to
notice—hence her incredibly naughty dream.
Phil tries
everything in her power not to tell her best friend she’s
been dreaming about him, but because of her fairy
godmother’s magic she’s forced to confess it all. Every
last erotic detail. See? More torture. Luckily for her,
Josh isn’t adverse to listening, and for the first time Phil
begins to see him as more than just a best friend.
And that’s only
what I put Phil through in the first part of the
book. After she begs her fairy godmother to reverse the
spell everyone in her life is forced to tell her
exactly what they’re thinking. She finds out some
startling facts about her friends, family and coworkers
including Josh who tells her how he really feels
about her which leads to some pretty steamy scenes.
Okay, I have to
admit the yummy, naughty sex parts of the book aren’t
exactly torture but they were lots of fun to write. And in
between the juicy parts, Phil’s life is still spiraling out
of control. Every time she begs her fairy godmother to
reverse or change her wish, things get worse. Worse for her,
but more fun for the reader.
I don’t want to
give everything away so you’ll have to read Wishful
Thinking, coming out Nov 17th, to find out
what else I put Phil through. And after Phil, it’s her
sister Cass’s turn. I’m about halfway done with her book
now, and you wouldn’t believe what a mess she has to go
through to get her HEA.
So whether you’re
just sitting down to write your first novel or you’re only
in the idea stages with a cast of characters knocking around
in your head, remember not to make things too easy on them.
Character torture can move your plot and give depth to your
novel like nothing else.
Plus it’s lots of
fun.
--
She is the author of over
thirty published novels but Wishful Thinking, the
first book in the Swann Sisters Chronicles, is her first
book for Samhain. You can visit
her and join her newsletter
for monthly updates and naughty excerpts at
www.evangelineanderson.com or
friend her on MySpace or facebook.
|
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Inside A Writer's Twisted Imagination
Denise Agnew
If you
are a reader without any writing inclinations, you
may wonder how an author takes the fruit of first
ideas and turns it into a full-fledged novel. I’m as
guilty as the next reader, wanting to know what my
favorite authors do, wanting to understand the
process that brings their exciting tomes to life.
Two authors I admire are Stephen King and Dean
Koontz. Reading interviews and articles about them
is fascinating, and I was inspired beyond
expectation by King’s book ON WRITING. When I
realized that my processes, my way of thinking and
what can inspire me is often the same thing that
motivates these men, I felt a kinship. My
imagination can be as twisted and impatient as
theirs can, and this is gratifying. |
I can’t tell you
how many times I’ve had people ask me, “Where do you get
ideas for your books?” I also can’t tell you how many times
I haven’t given a coherent answer. I should be able to
explain how I get from slot A to tab B. Ah, perhaps not.
Explaining a writer’s imagination is complicated because
most writers are complex people with a rich fantasy world.
In grade school, we doodled too much and daydreamed too
much. We created elaborate universes only we could see, and
we often had imaginary friends. Many times, we saw the
forest and the trees at the same time, and yet could only
explain the forest and not the trees. Sometimes we could
give you the answer to a math problem, but we couldn’t tell
you how we arrived at the correct answer. Writing is a right
brain and left brain activity combined. So when many
writers are asked how we come up with our ideas, we often
stare at the questioner as if they’ve lost their mind. There
is simply no easy way to explain it, for most of us.
There are two
types of writers when it comes to creating stories, those
that outline and those that don’t do much, if any. I fall
in to the “don’t do much, if any” category. Recently I had
to write a synopsis and it almost turned me into a babbling
idiot. I rewrote it nine times before it came together
properly. Condensing a hundred thousand word manuscript into
nine pages coherently isn’t my forte. My thought processes
can be chaotic, and because I don’t outline my novels for
the most part, I create by virtue of “what comes next”
without a flow chart. For many logically oriented, left
brained individuals, the idea of creating on a high wire
with no rope is foolhardy. Yet it works for me and many
other writers.
So where do I
come up with those ideas? Out of nowhere. Some authors will
say the ideas come from something they saw on television or
read in the papers. For me it is more a notion that jumps
out from a clear blue sky. Two weeks ago, I remembered my
trip to the tunnels under the South Bridge in Edinburgh, and
that creepy experience in the tunnels gave me an idea. I
wanted to write a story revolving around catacombs. That
book is now a work in progress.
I wrote Love
From the Ashes because I’d wanted to write a story for
years set during the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. I wrote
Midnight Rose because of my lifelong interest in the
Jack the Ripper case. My ideas can come from anywhere, day
or night, and logic has nothing whatsoever to do with how I
formulate the idea.
One other thing
I’d like to say about imagination. Sometimes writers forget
that our imaginations are extremely potent and above
average. Our imaginations prove that everything that can
happen, can be thought of first. A tragedy happens and
reporters say, “No one ever could have imagined this
horrible tragedy.” I shake my head, because I know it’s not
true. I find that most writers have the same reaction as I
do. Few things surprise us when it comes to tragedy whether
created by man or nature. Writers are in the business of
envisioning possibilities, and that includes the very worst
and best things in life, even those most terrible or
“unthinkable”.
As a writer, I
used my imagination and trekked into jungles I have designed
in my own head, been to 1906 San Francisco during the
earthquake, been through a tornado, a warehouse fire, a
building collapse, tangled with supernatural forces and
escaped from a serial killer. Believe me, writers have
thought of it and they will continue to think of it. Nothing
is beyond imagination. What makes the best writer? Those
who can open a vein, spill emotion and imagine every
scenario. This is why writing is often exhausting work. A
good piece of writing can reflect the deepest lows and the
highest highs. Excellent writing shows dedication to
authenticity, to finding the unique in things everyday, and
the ordinary in the extraordinary.
I’ve run into
plenty of people who’ve asked me how I come up with such
heinous villains. Simple, really. The best villains I’ve
written are my versions of Jack the Ripper in Midnight
Rose, the serial killer in Treacherous Wishes and
the crazed Fort Leavenworth prisoner in Sins and Secrets.
While I like the “bad guys” in Dangerous Intentions
and Combustion quite a bit, I think I found a
particular stride with Jack, the villain in Treacherous
Wishes, and the insane fellow in Sins and Secrets.
Why? Because I was willing to let it all hang out and not be
afraid of what people might say or think that little ole
Denise could create monsters like these. And as Gavin De
Becker says in the fascinating book, The Gift of Fear,
criminals, even the most odious, are not as different from
the rest of us as we might think.
I’ve given you
only a tiny peek into a writer’s twisted imagination. I hope
you enjoyed the journey.
--
Romantic
Times Book Review Magazine called her romantic suspense
novels “top-notch” and she’s received a TOP PICK from
Romantic Times Book Review Magazine in erotic romance. Visit
Denise’s website at
www.deniseagnew.com
to read excerpts, enter contests and sign up for her chat
group and newsletter.
|
Recipe:
Southern Turkey Cornbread Pot Pie
Mary Eason
Wondering what to do
with all those Thanksgiving leftovers?
INGREDIENTS
1 (10.75 ounce)
can Campbell's®
Condensed Cream of Chicken Soup (Regular or 98% Fat
Free)
1/8 teaspoon ground
black pepper
2 cups cubed cooked
turkey
1 (8 ounce) can whole
kernel corn, drained
1 (11 ounce) package
refrigerated cornbread twists
DIRECTIONS
Heat the oven to 425
degrees F.
Heat the soup, black
pepper, turkey and corn in a 2-quart saucepan over medium heat until the mixture is hot and bubbling.
Pour the turkey mixture into a 9-inch pie plate.
Separate the cornbread
into 8 pieces along perforations. (Do not unroll
dough.) Place over the hot turkey mixture. Bake for
15 minutes or until the bread is golden.
FOOTNOTE
Easy Substitution Tip:
Substitute cooked chicken for the turkey.
|
The Price of a Kiss
Misty Evans
That summer was hot; the
woman I was torturing, hotter.
The CIA had rotated me out of the field to run new
recruits through The Farm, a training camp located
in the Virginia woods where spies learn paramilitary
and tradecraft skills. Because of my background, I
was in charge of Isolation and Interrogation in the
mock prison camp set up as alternate reality where
recruits are subjected to torture much like
fraternity hazing. My kill rate—getting students to
break under extreme stress—was a hundred percent.
Until that summer, until that woman.
To graduate The Farm, you must jump from a tower
positioned at the exact height to break your neck if
you land wrong or the rope harness snaps. You must
fling yourself from a helicopter with an M-16
machine gun ready to fire the moment the helo lands.
You must survive being hunted through the Virginia
woods without food, water or bug repellent by
qualified military specialists. And you must fail
Isolation and Interrogation.
Every person, even a trained operative, will break
at some point. If you want accurate information, you
must manipulate a person’s weaknesses; break their
mind along with their body.
The woman in the three-by-three isolation chamber
was like no other student I’d dealt with. She’d sat
in the corner, knees bent, head bowed, not in
frustration or worry, but calm rest for forty-eight
hours. She’d shown no signs of separation anxiety,
panic or agitation.
Digging for what made her tick, I scanned her
classified file, reviewing her history, Myers-Briggs
personality test results and psych eval. Julia
Torrison was a high analytic who preferred working
alone. She sought out peace and quiet and avoided
socializing. She was a lone wolf that isolation
alone would not break.
Changing tactics, I sent in other trainers to get in
her face. They yelled at her like drill sergeants,
told her raunchy jokes like drunken sea dogs,
interrogated her about the delicate subject of the
child abuse she suffered at the hands of her
stepfather.
She gave up nothing.
More hours passed. She leaned against the cell wall,
unmoving, her eyes hard as stones. What would it
take to make this woman dissolve into tears? To make
her beg me to let her go?
Entering her cubicle, I moved in close to her,
pressing her body against the cold concrete wall
with mine. Her eyes were a startling emerald green,
but the fire I’d seen in them earlier was gone.
Still she locked her gaze on me, a battle line being
drawn, as I lowered my face so close to hers our
noses almost touched.
“I’d love to kiss you,” I whispered. I wasn’t lying.
Since the moment I’d spotted her in the new
recruits, she’d become a wicked form of Venus
taunting me day and night. Her flirty lips teasing
me, her gutsy bravado challenging me, her carefree
attitude pissing me off.
She hadn’t slept more than an hour in four days.
She’d eaten only bread and water. Her long hair was
a wild tangle around her pale face and there was
dirt smudged on her jaw line. In the two months of
watching her excel at everything from hand-to-hand
combat to passing a lie detector test, I wanted her
just as badly as ever.
Waves of heat rolled off her body onto mine.
Something sparked in her eyes, the fire in her gut
not dead after all. In one swift movement, her knee
connected with my balls.
I buckled, white-hot pain searing my groin. As I
fell, she snatched the gun from my waistband and
pointed it at my head. “The price of a kiss is your
life, Conrad Flynn.”
My perfect record took a hit that summer, but I got
what I wanted.
The kiss was just the beginning...
--
Misty Evans believes a natural born adventurer
lies in the heart of every woman and writes her
super agent suspense series in order to let hers out
to play. Her first CIA suspense, Operation Sheba, is
available from Samhain this month. To find out more
about Misty and her super agents, visit
www.readmistyevans.com |
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Political
Assassination
Jerri Drennen
Langdon Gregory sat at his desk and stared in disbelief at the bold headline on his computer screen topping the front page of the Daily Journal.
Margo Emerson Whitman Found Murdered.
This was his fault. He’d set the events of Margo's death in motion by discussing the strange e-mail he’d
received a few days ago. About an unidentified woman
floating in the Mississippi river, rumored to have
been a local politician’s mistress.
The sender had insisted he look into
the story—into the private life of a man who’d never
so much as had a parking ticket. Remington Steward
III was a pillar in the community, happily married
with two children, hardly the murderous type.
Langdon hadn’t taken the correspondence seriously,
but Margo had found it intriguing and asked if she
could pursue the story. Now he was certain there was
something to the e-mail, and what his fellow
journalist unearthed had gotten her killed.
Hopefully, he’d be able to sniff out what Chicago’s
notorious society columnist had learned before she died—before he became their next target. After all, he’d been the one to receive the e-mail in the first place.
A new message popped into the corner
of his computer screen, from an address he instantly
recognized.
The same person who’d sent him the e-mail—watchdog15@realm.com.
He clicked on the link, his pulse working its way
off the charts.
When the e-mail opened, his heart sunk.
Do you believe me now?
What
was Langdon going to do? Contact the police? What if
they didn’t believe him? Worse yet, what if they
thought he’d killed Margo? He was the last person to
see her alive.
No. He had to handle this on his own—had to find out who watchdog15 was first. That way the person could verify his story if he needed them to.
Just then, an idea struck him. A few years back, long before he’d taken on the political column at the newspaper, he’d met someone who had the ability to hack into computer systems, including the government’s. Maybe she could find out the e-mailer’s identity, even locate a physical address.
Where had he put that phone number?
Right. He’d tucked
it into a special compartment in his wallet. Langdon dug through the pocket and found the slip of paper, then punched the digits into his cell phone, praying she hadn’t changed numbers on him.
On the fourth ring, a woman picked up with a soft, “Hello.”
“Is this Gail Bradley?” Langdon wasn't sure he recognized her voice.
(Who
is she?) |
|
Fiction: Fear Itself
Saje Williams
December 8, 2010
Saratoga Springs,
NY
Another Earth
The music
died and the lights came on. Maggie took a deep
breath and smiled shyly out at the audience, her
heart thundering in her ears.
“Thank you,” she
murmured, stepping down from the stage and handing
the mic off to the hunky host.
“That was Maggie Hart,
singing her rendition of Bonnie Tyler’s ‘I Need A
Hero’. What a great job, Maggie.”
Feeling herself blush
and despising the reaction, Maggie ducked past and
found her seat, taking a long drink of her rum and
Coke and looking anywhere but at the other patrons.
Maybe karaoke was a
weird hobby for someone with extreme social anxiety,
but it was one of her few pleasures in life these
days. As long as she pretended she was alone and
singing in the shower or in her car, she had no
problems at all with it. The minute she actually
acknowledged the many eyes watching her she risked
losing her concentration and failing miserably. And
nothing frightened her more than the idea of public
failure and humiliation.
(No,
No...not THAT!) |
|
Fiction: Bayou Life
John Karr
Del ambled along the
raised dirt road that cut through the dark still
waters. Used to be she would hum when she walked,
but not anymore. Not since Momma’s murder. Del would
start a tune, but it would wither on her lips after
only a few sad notes.
Now and then she paused to pick up a rock that poked the soles of
her bare feet. When she had a bunch she tossed them
high into the steamy air, way up past the hanging
moss on the branches, like Steffy used to do
whenever he and Uncle Jimbeau and Aunt Faye came to
visit. For a city boy, Steffy sure was a swamp rat.
He always had to see it whenever he came over, and
he would tease her until she finally agreed to go
with him. She hadn’t appreciated it then, but the
Bayou, with all its snakes and gators and
dagger-beaked white herons, was their getaway
together. Del and Steffy were close, like brother
and sister, but for a long time now she’d had to
walk their favorite paths alone.
Steffy said the swamp would whisper its secrets to you if you
listened good enough. Del didn’t know about all
that. Still, there was something that connected her
to this place. A sense of natural peace, maybe.
Or maybe it was just ‘cause she got away from Daddy.
For a little while.
She
watched the rocks rain down upon the glade in little
plopping splashes, scaring the snappers off the
cypress log that still had grey moss clinging
stubbornly to its outstretched branches like torn
sleeves on twisty old arms. One of the rocks struck
the rounded bole of a cypress tree and then bounced
into the water where it disappeared below the
brackish surface. Three fish swirls immediately
followed, as if the critters had been dozing and
suddenly scared off by the interruption. As the
ripples died away she tried to remember the last
time she’d seen Steffy, who hated to be called by
his full name of Stefan almost as much as she hated
to be called Delilah.
Pulling a strand of damp blonde hair from her eyes, Del thought
back to Momma’s funeral, almost a year ago. She’d
seen Steffy then—after all, Auntie Faye and Momma
had been sisters. Del and Steffy didn’t have time to
walk through the swamp that day; what with all the
other friends and relatives coming back to the house
with jambalaya, crawfish etoufee, gumbo ya-ya,
catfish po-boys and bus loads of more food. Plus Del
hadn’t felt much like doing anything except cry. She
had tried to hold it in until most everyone left,
but she couldn’t help herself when Auntie Faye
squeezed her tight and sobbed in Del’s ear.
“S’all right, chile. It’s gonna be all right. Yo’ Momma’s gone, but
we love you, cher. Ain’t no justice in the world
when a fine woman like my sis gets gunned down by
hoodlums in de street! Oh, I wish I’d gone inta
Baton wit’ her—maybe it wouldn’t a happened! The
Lord’ll take care o’dem if your daddy don’t catch
’em first . . .”
Steffy had come up then and handed Del a coke. Good ol’ Steffy. His
eyes were glassy when he looked at her. Del had
tried to smile at him as she accepted the soda, even
though she wasn’t thirsty.
(Don't
stop NOW!) |
|
From Our Editors
From Our Authors
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