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If you follow me on YouTube (and if you’d like to, my YouTube username is JenniferArmintrout, so it’s not terribly difficult to find me) you know that I often upload videos made with Xtranormal, an internet animation website. Today, I made an executive decision and switched up my style, so from here on out, my vids will look a little different. But the content, you’ll find, is just as bizarre as ever:

As you might remember from my blog posts earlier this summer, I have taken up baking as a hobby. This might seem like the perfect activity for a severely overweight person– or not, now that I think about it– but in reality, this is less about “Ooh, cake!”, because I don’t really care for cake or actually, sweets in general, all that much. For me, it’s about the challenge of making something and forcing other people to feign enjoyment of it, much like when my relatives read my writing.

As promised, here’s the excerpt from BRIDE OF THE WOLF, which comes out tomorrow from Resplendence Publishing!

* * * * * * *

It took Aurelia only seconds to assess that there was something dangerous in the way Jeoffrey approached her. The set of his mouth as he smiled, perhaps, or the slow way he came forward. She stayed very still as he came close to the back of the cart, a hand reaching to the knife at his belt.

“They’ve gone deeper to look for game,” he said in a reassuring tone. His hand fell on her shoulder.

She jerked away. “Don’t.”

His expression darkened. “Don’t? You aren’t the lady of the castle yet, apple. And things work a little differently there, don’t they then?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Aurelia admitted, breathing deep. “But if he is a man, my husband would not like you putting your hands on his property.”

“Ah, but that’s the trick of it, isn’t it?” Jeoffrey seized her by her arms. “He isn’t a man, and neither am I.”

His eyes. Jeoffrey’s eyes flashed warning orange, and Aurelia shook her head, backing slowly away. Of course, she’d known what they were. Her father had spoken of the wolf-men with disgust, but grudging respect for their prowess in battle. Yet something of a blindness, unintentional, perhaps, had come over her when she’d contemplated this journey. While her denial had made her feel safe, she now realized the folly of it. She was alone, in the forest, with wolves.

Jeoffrey’s body, made heavier by the mail he wore, pinned her to the hard ground in half a heartbeat. She gasped for air, then gave up and clawed at him, not breathing but making a hoarse, gulping sound as she pushed and slapped to no avail. His knee pressed between her legs, pinning her skirt to the ground, and as she flailed, she heard the fabric tear. One of the woolen mitts she wore on her hands slipped free, and she sank her fingernails into the skin of his cheek, raking down as hard as she could.

With a roar of pain, he reared back, but only for a moment. As she tried to drag herself backward, he struck her across the face with one metal-plated gauntlet, and blood exploded from her lips, matching the three bright red stripes she’d left on his face. But a second was all she had needed to gain her breath, and with it, her voice. She screamed, shrill terror ringing off every tree in the forest.

The rest of the party returned within seconds, even Raf, crippled as he was. It was he who lifted Jeoffrey from her, flinging him with impossible strength into the side of the cart. The knight crumpled with a sigh of collapsing mail, blood spattered across his tabard.

“Get up!” Raf shouted, dragging her to her feet ungently, by one arm. Aurelia’s head reeled, and she struggled to understand this rough treatment. Did he not see her struggle? She thought to plead with him to see reason, that she had not betrayed his brother, her betrothed, but then she saw the reason for the urgency in his tone. On the far side of the narrow road, Margaret Lackey and Sir Clement stood, brandishing spear and sword, their eyes glowing orange.

“You would harm one of your sworn brothers to protect this mewling cat?” Margaret spat in the dirt. “Your father was right to set you aside. You’re nothing but a coward!”

“She belongs to my brother!” Raf pushed Aurelia farther behind him. “He has bested you both in combat time after time, and you’ve never earned the right to his property.”

“She isn’t a proper woman,” Clement explained patiently, as though Raf were a child to be soothed. “She is a lower being.”

“She belongs to my brother,” Raf repeated. “If either of you wish to challenge him for her, you may do so at the wedding feast. But I am charged with her safety.”

“We could challenge you in your brother’s stead,” Margaret threatened. Aurelia peered past Raf, then regretted it. The fierce woman wore a cruel grin. “Clement, Jeoffrey and I. We could easily cut you down, crippled pup, and all three of us share her.”

Clement growled.

Suddenly, the world was upside down, and moving fast. Hanging as limp as a sack over Raf’s shoulder, Aurelia watched as, in a flurry of movement almost too fast to see, Margaret Lackey and Sir Clement shed their clothing and crouched, lean and terrifying, their naked skin rippling in waves of black. Two huge wolves sprang at her, jaws snapping. Another breath and they would be upon her, and Sir Raf, one-legged, limping Sir Raf, could not protect her.

He jostled her on his shoulder, and wind whipped her face as a thick branch snapped backward, knocking back one of the wolves, Clement, if she’d kept things right when the world turned upside down. The wolf Margaret jumped, and Raf whirled, Aurelia flying up and colliding with his back as the wolf yelped. Then, pulling Aurelia over his shoulder to cradle against his broad chest, Sir Raf dropped to the ground and they were sliding, in a cloud of dust and dead leaves, down a steep slope, the end of which disappeared into nothing. Raf did nothing to slow their descent, but held her to his chest tighter with one arm as they flew over the brink. With an arm above his head, he caught a thin ledge of stone from the face of the cliff.

Aurelia did not wish to look down. Far below, the river roiled, white frothing against the dark depths.

“Hold on to me!” Raf shouted over the rushing of the river.

She flung her arms around his neck, even as she begged him not to do what she was certain would come. That they had outrun the wolves was unbelievable; that they could survive the tossing waters was too much to ask.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but she could not ignore the plummeting feeling. It seemed forever before they touched the water’s surface, and then, as the frigid depths enveloped them, not enough time at all. She tried to keep hold of Raf’s neck, then just his cloak, her fingers fumbling on the wet edges of the fur, but the water drove them apart, tore her away in a rapid current that she struggled to climb above. This river ran past her home as but a trickling stream that she had sailed wooden boats on as a child. Now, it offered her no friendly quarter, sweeping her down the banks, farther and farther away from where Raf surfaced, looking about frantically. She gasped for air before the currents pulled down again. Her last glimpse of the world above the water was of the huge, black wolf standing at the cliff’s edge.

You may have heard me tell of a time, long, long ago, when The Turning was a book called Blood Ties, and was a paranormal romance that ended with Carrie and Nathan (paralyzed and in a wheelchair) driving off to Las Vegas to get married. The second book in the series was to be titled Penance, Ohio, and it would be about what happened when Max was accidentally trapped in a small Ohio town that was under a curse.
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oRp_mVi969I&w=560&h=315]
Yup. Without the careful edits of one Ms. Shannon Godwin, my original editor at Harlequin, I would have missed out on– and you would have missed out on– the entire Blood Ties series and American Vampire. I wouldn’t have written about Bella, or Bill. Or Graf, for that matter.

The same weird turn of events happened when I beganwriting my latest book. This one really is meant to be a historical romance. But when I started it out, Aurelia was in a coach, on her way to meet her new husband Raf, a werewolf and lord of a castle full of his fellow werewolves. For days, I tried to write that book, and every word was a chore. Then, I realized what the problem was. Aurelia wasn’t supposed to meet Raf at the castle and fall in love with him. She was supposed to have an adventure with him, and fall in love with him that way. And Raf wasn’t the lord of the castle, he was a disinherited son of a lord. Oh, and he’s only got one leg.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oRp_mVi969I&w=560&h=315]
So, you see, then, how in the process of writing one book, you end up with a completely different one.

BRIDE OF THE WOLF comes out on Wednesday from Resplendence Publishing. It’s a book I’m really proud of, and I can’t wait to share it with all of you.

Commanded to marry the son of Lord Canis, a powerful ally of her father and King Edward, Aurelia knows she is about to venture into a den of wolves. For the men who live at Blackens Gate are no ordinary men, able to change at will into enormous, bloodthirsty beasts… and as a mere human, Aurelia is a reviled outsider.

When the wolves escorting his brother’s bride to Blackens Gate turn on her, Sir Raf Canis finds himself in the unlikely position of rescuer. After losing his leg– and his place in the pack– Raf refuses to bring himself further shame by failing to deliver the lovely Aureilia. But the innocent maiden proves to be a temptation even he cannot resist.

Within the dark, dangerous forest, a love begins that neither can deny. To protect Aurelia, Raf must betray everything he has come to believe about his life among wolves, and risk death to save the only woman ever to touch his wounded soul.

For a excerpt of this awesome, awesome book, check back here Tuesday. And on Wednesday, you’ll get a chance to win a copy for your very own, from author Bronwyn Green, who is very gallantly hosting a giveaway!

So, I’m trying to get on here to update my blog with news about a kick-ass writing opportunity coming up, and I kept failing and failing and failing on the security question. And as I’m failing, over and over again, I’m like, “Wait a minute? Why is there so much security?” Then, I started feeling kind of paranoid. “Is it because I’m doing something wrong? Like, without realizing it, am I doing something naughty, trying to sneak into my own blog? Oh god, am I doing it on purpose to sabotage myself, and I’m so deeply in denial about it that I don’t realize I’m doing it? WILL THE POLICE BE CALLED IF I FAIL IT ONE MORE TIME?”

I’d forgotten to put the .com on my email address.

I just wanted you to know what i had to go through to tell you about this absolutely amazing conference opportunity. It’s call “I’ve Always Wanted To Write A Book!”, a one-day conference in beautiful downtown Grand Rapids, Michigan.

Here’s what’s going down: The Grand Rapids Region Writer’s Group is a professional organization that I belong to. I’m actually an original member of the group, serving on the first board when it formed as an RWA chapter. Eventually, the group broke away and became a career support group. We have an incredibly high number of published members, including author Bronwyn Green and Sidney Ayers, both who will speak at the conference. One of our goals when we started was to have a conference that would help people who always wanted to write, but never really did for one reason or another.

That’s what you’ll get at “I’ve Always Wanted To Write A Book!” 2011. You’ll attend panels and workshops on specific genres, time and stress management, and industry tips from published authors, editors, and agent Michelle Grajkowski from Three Seas literary agency, who will also be taking a limited number of pitches.

Oh, and Jacqueline Carey. Yeah, she’ll be there, too. She’s the KEYNOTE SPEAKER! The woman who created Terre ‘d Ange and Phedre and Kushiel and if you have not read her books, I’m sorry, FANGURL TANGENT AHEAD: If you have not read her books and are not currently reading them or planning to, I do not know what you are doing with your life. They are amazing fantasy books and she’ll be at this conference, sharing her expertise and experience with you.

And guys. Guys, not to brag, but I’m going to– I, Jennifer Armintrout am going to– give a workshop on how to act professional. You’ll have to see it to believe it.

Please, if you are serious about writing and have the dough to spare, check the link out and come party with us. It’s going to be so much fun. Registration is limited to 100 attendees, so it’s going to be a very intimate, very informative experience. There’s an optional friday night GRRWG wine mixer, with some very friendly local writers who are committed to helping other writers.

I really hope to see you there!

On September 10th, I went to an evening class, Modern Culture and The Arts, at my college. I talked to some people in my class about how awesome the Harry Potter movie, coming out that next summer, looked from the pictures in Vanity Fair, and resolved to read the books- all three of them- before it came out. I went to a friend’s house. We made out while watching Evil Dead 2. I got home at three in the morning on September 11, 2001, and all I could think was “Thank god I don’t have class until noon tomorrow.”

At the time, I lived in my grandparent’s spare bedroom, and they were early risers despite being retired. I made a little note and taped it to my door before I went to sleep. “DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, WAKE ME UP BEFORE 10 OR I WILL TURN INTO A PILLAR OF SALT.” I knew they had to get up even earlier than usual, because they were going to drive to Indiana to visit relatives. But sure enough, my grandfather ignored the sign and called cheerfully up the stairs at 8:45 am (according to my alarm clock, that seemed to hate me), “Jenny, you want some pancakes?”

I yelled back, “No, I don’t want any pancakes. I don’t have to be to class until noon. I want to sleep in.”

I pulled my blankets over my head and tried to will myself back to sleep, but less than five minutes later, I heard my grandfather’s footsteps on the stairs again. “Jenny!”

“I told you I don’t want any pancakes please let me sleep for the love of God!” I begged. They’re used to my drama.

“Someone drove a plane into the World Trade Center!”

The first thing I thought was, “drove a plane? What an odd choice of words.” The second thing I thought was, “I bet this is going to be weeks of congressional hearings about air traffic controller safety.” I thought it would probably be something we’d cover in my American Government class.

There was no going back to sleep, so I got up. And this is the part I remember so vividly. I remember walking down the stairs, because that is the last thing I can remember before, as cliche as it is, everything changed. I went into the kitchen, where my grandmother was sitting at the table, watching on the little tv in there as the newscasters, and my grandparents and I, talked about what a horrible accident it was. And then we saw the second plane, and we tried to keep talking about it like an accident, like the people on television still were. But I think, at that time, we knew.

My grandparents called our relatives in Indiana and said they would be late, they were watching “what’s happening in New York”. We kept watching, and heard the report of the plane hitting the Pentagon. I started thinking of other buildings we would be hearing soon: the capitol, the Sears tower in Chicago, the New York Stock Exchange, the Statue of Liberty. It sounds silly now, knowing how things turned out, but at the time, it seemed like whatever was happening could wipe every city I could think of off the face of the Earth.

On the tv, a reporter stood in front of a fire truck, and behind him, fire fighters jogged together in a big group toward the towers. A few minutes later, the South tower appeared to partially collapse. Then, reports confirmed that it had completely collapsed. I looked at my grandfather and I said, “What happened to all those firemen?”

I watched tv all day that day, from the living room love seat where I would doze off, then wake up, the tv still on. My grandparents, devout Orthodox Christians, cancelled their trip and debated going to church. I don’t remember if they went. I do know that in the evening, a neighbor came down and knocked on the door. He was inviting everyone in the neighborhood to come down to his lawn to pray together.

I didn’t go pray. I stayed on the couch, watching television, for days. Thinking it was the end of the world. Wondering if we should start locking the doors at night, because the terrorists could come in and kill us in our sleep. The kind of thoughts a twenty-one year old shouldn’t have, ones that are more suited for a four year old. I was reduced to a child by my anxiety.

I shook the news paralysis (eventually, I had to go to work). I never shook that fear. No, I’m not still afraid of terrorists coming into my house and killing me in my sleep, but, like many Americans, I don’t feel safe anymore. Ten years later, I struggle to explain to my son that “terrorist” didn’t used to be a word that got used every single day, and that things used to be different. I think of the fact that both of my children will never know what it was like to live in a time where it didn’t seem like anything could touch us.

I don’t engage in 9/11 conspiracy speculation, and I’m not interested in discussing how our foreign policy and lack of awareness about ourselves may have hurt us. I’ve never been interested, because none of it matters. It doesn’t matter why, what matters is that it happened. And it is important, for people who witness the events, even just on television, to remember where they were and what they were doing. Not just on 9/11, but the day before. Everyone needs that snapshot of the last time things were okay, because ten years later, it’s still hard to accept that it will never be that way again.

There has been a lot of negative press for the past, oh, thirty years or so, about how Michigan is a terrible place. The economy is bad. Everyone is on welfare. The winters are cold and the summers are humid. Too much crime and not enough jobs. Most of these things are true. Some of them are half true. But we also have something very special.

I came to this place last week, taken there by a friend who knew the way. I won’t share the directions. There are people who know where to find it, and those people are just the right amount. Twice, I was blessed to enjoy this sacred space alone, and I would selfishly like the place to remain secluded for as long as possible. But if you are determined, you can find someone to drive you out there, on the dirt two-track with holes that will swallow your tires if you’re unwary.

A part of the Pictured Rocks coast of Lake Superior in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, it is a mishmash of sandstone cliffs and enormous boulders. The very glaciers that carved the Rocks now slap at the soft cliff faces in the form of the Great Lake herself, a perpetually frigid, temperamental beast that swallows men whole, never to release them.

The underwater boulders sift the currents in invisible patterns. One diver reported being pinned between two of the behemoths, captive to the pull of the waters. But on our first visit, we found only the gentle motion of a lake rolling over in slumber.

In the sunlight, the lazy currents rolled like gold silk, up from the crystalline blue depths. They split apart into sun-kissed lace gliding into a peaceful lagoon, or lapped half-heartedly at the rough cliffs. Where we stood could not be called a proper beach; all sandstone, with slick black algae making footing beneath the water perilous, the only loose sand one could find was in a single pocket beneath the water’s edge:

…and on drier ground, where it held onto love tokens from other realms of nature.

Caves shelter birds, bats, people, from the sun that can be unrelenting, but chose that day to be merciful. In a place like this, one feels a true sense of the interweaving of the elements. Earth, air, and water tugging and pulling with each other in a beautiful war, creating each other from their own destruction.

I’d like to tell you that the peace of this scene was repeated on the second day of our visit. There are no photographs of that day; rather than try in vain to capture the scene, the second day I became a part of it. Waves taller than our heads battered us again and again. Always respectful of the force and deadliness of the lake herself, we dared to venture out of our golden lagoon, to step off the the underwater cliff where hip deep water gave way to fathomless depths.

When she’d had enough of us, Superior drove us from her shores with warnings only a fool would fail to heed. We stumbled away, intoxicated by the furious, alien beauty of the place.

These photos are a pale imitation of the true beauty of the place. It almost makes my heart hurt to look at them, because I know I can’t share exactly what I felt those two amazing days. With a last look back, I returned to the mortal world, to live to my greatest potential until the time I return.

Warning: Hippie Political Raving Ahead

This is the text of a letter I sent to Bill Schuette’s office today, Friday, August 26, 2011. For those outside the state of Michigan or in the state and not following the developments surrounding the Michigan Medical Marijuana Act, Bill Schuette has made it his single-minded focus to undermine the will of the people of Michigan, who voted to legalize the medical use of marijuana in our state. Most recently, he declared the Michigan Court of Appeals decision to uphold the ruling in Michigan vs. McQueen, “a huge victory for public safety and Michigan communities struggling with an invasion of pot shops near their schools, homes and churches.” The ruling means that medical dispensaries are made illegal, and patients would have to seek their medication from possibly illegal, dangerous sources.

Dear Mr. Schuette,

I just wanted to offer a hearty and sarcastic “job well done” on effectively obliterating legal marijuana dispensaries in Michigan. Now, instead of getting my medicine from a secure, licensed facility, I can go to a drug dealer! And it will be so awesome when he tries to “up sell” me on illegally begotten Oxy, Vicodin, and Adderall! These dealers sometimes carry guns or other weapons (for their own protection only, I’m sure). These are definitely the kind of people I want to be involved with.

This is your “great victory” Mr. Schuette. Sick people, who are looking into alternatives to dangerous, sometimes off-label or untested drugs, will be immersed in drug culture. True drug culture, with all the dangers inherent when dealing in the illegal drug trade. These are operations that are happening near our “schools, homes, and churches.” Just because they don’t have a storefront doesn’t mean the streets are completely absent of drug crime. Instead of a clean, licensed, safe facility, you are asking patients to monetarily support the illegal drug trade in the event that they cannot receive medication from a licensed caregiver. You, by taking such a hard stance against dispensaries and patients, are supporting the illegal drug trade.

I assume that since you stand firmly against dispensaries, you won’t be buying your prescription medications from licensed facilities, either. If you need any kind of drug, from aspirin to Prozac, you’ll be going to your friendly neighborhood drug dealer to obtain it. It’s only fair, after all. I hope that we can soon also celebrate the removal of Walgreens, Rite Aid, and any other dealer of medications that can be abused from our neighborhoods.

Thanks for keeping us “safe”.

Jennifer Armintrout

Registered voter, proud Michigander

Does what it says on the tin.

The crack was already there when I got there. I don’t know who did it, but it wasn’t me.