
Welcome the ever kind and generous Laura Hogg to the blog! She's the author of several published works, including the above pictured Romeo vs Juliet, and has been kind enough to participate (and be the first!) in my Ten Questions segment.
Ten Questions:
What is your favorite beverage to enjoy while you write? Coffee and a glass of water.
What’s your favorite font? Hmm, I don't have one.
What music do you listen to when you write (or do you prefer it quiet)? Well, sometimes quiet, but otherwise rock music; occasionally Celtic music. It depends what I'm working on.
When it comes to those all important jotted notes, which is it - composition pads or sticky notes? Sticky notes.
What’s your favorite snack when pounding away at the keyboard? Something sweet.
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What inspires you to write? The need to express my romantic nature or a longing to discover something new in research and the following creative endeavors.
What do you turn to when you stumble across a road block in the creative process and need to regroup? Meditate, listen to music, or play guitar.
Where do the ideas and concepts for your work come from? Lots of places. Sometimes I dream up a synopsis. Sometimes one sentence has inspired a novel for me. Sometimes it's music.
What do you wish there was more of in the market? Lesser-known authors.
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I called up the tall, gray portal and stepped inside, my hair was blown back by the cold currents of swirling air. Recalling the mission list, I concentrated on the year 1965.
A spot on one of the walls of the tunnel-like time portal across from me stopped. Waves of zooming time circulated around the slowed-down vision. It reminded me of blood cells floating through an artery and bumping around a large foreign object.
I flew forward effortlessly, as if dead and in the next world, and wiggled my feet in the air, enjoying the ability to fly. Too bad it was only in this cave of sorts.
1965 rested before me like a picture on a large television screen, pulsing with the invitation, magnetically, to step forth. A slight pull tugged me forth, but ever so gently, for I could easily escape its clutches.
Suddenly a loud buzzing set the air afire with its obnoxious noise.
"No!"
I crash landed in 1865, Lincoln's second inauguration, my mind screamed. It was raining on this March day in Washington. Shaking, unable to catch my breath at first, I saw from a distance, within the crowd, President Lincoln speaking on a portico, the Capitol dome over his head. I swooned and lay in the mud at the Capitol grounds.








