I am on a roller coaster of a journey in this world of indie publishing. We all have lofty dreams but the road to getting where we truly want to be can become overwhelming. Even fighting tooth and nail doesn’t necessarily mean our efforts will pay off. It’s a sad reality of life. But, as long as there is a chance, most of us are willing to live in the battle.
I draw courage from heroes like Malala Yousafzai when the urge to throw in the towel crosses my mind. The solid real-life achievers show me what might be possible with hard work. In my struggle to become a widely-read novelist it sure helps to have that kind of inspiration.
Even the protagonists I’ve created, with their never-give-up-the-fight heroic side, remind me to dig extra deep in myself for the strength necessary to climb to greater heights. There is definitely a reason we adore strong characters—both in life and in fiction.
It’s impossible for me not to be in love with my characters when so much time has been spent observing them, living their strange post-apocalyptic existence and feeling their telepathic pings. I would so much rather devote all of my time to creating more of that realm than almost anything else—though a nice rewarding cruise could possibly take me away for a while.
I am still growing as a writer and hope to continue to do so for the rest of my days. After I finished Ping Two – Across the Valley, and before I launched it, I immediately went back and rewrote Ping. I want the reader to have a wonderful experience from the beginning of the series onward. The revised edition is called Ping – From the Apocalypse. Ping was my first published novel, and while I was happy with it at the time it was first launched in 2011, I later realized that it needed improving.
Having learned so much since then, from reader reviews, feedback, and from continually writing, I am so thankful for this opportunity to have my work published. It takes many words to develop the craft of creating a professional novel. But I assure you, I’ve been working harder at it than anything I’ve done before. In every fibre of my being I hope I’ve turned a good story into something special and memorable. I hope my characters will touch your heart and make you shed a tear or two. I look forward to the awesome journey ahead hoping my readers will travel with me into the ongoing world of Ping!
P.S.:
If you have already read the original novel Ping, you can get the updated version Ping – From the Apocalypse for free at Amazon—if that is where you purchased it—by sending them a request to have the 2013 revised edition manually pushed through to your device. I think you will enjoy the several new chapters I’ve added that fill in some of that gaps. If you bought it elsewhere please email me at: ping@susan-lowry.com and I will let you know how to get it.
P.P.S.:
I would be so thankful for your feedback and if you have the time to leave a review it would mean the world to me!!!
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I thought I would post a sneak preview of my soon to be released sequel to Ping. Hope you enjoy!
In the dimming light of his room the child watched through his window, contemplating the clouds morphing outwards the way the universe expands.
It would not be long, now that the trees were silvery wisps, translucent ghosts against the deep-navy sky.
Twilight faded quietly beyond the windowpane, swallowed up by the vast sweep of orange that descended from his view.
Finally, a long melodious cry echoed across the distant valley, the soulful song of a wolf or perhaps a dog delivering it’s loneliness to Travis. He could handle that now – Lucy had arrived. She was safe in the cottage beside him.
The rain droned softly and gradually a dream enfolded around his thoughts, lifting him briefly into an expanding bubble of contented sleep.
But as he slumbered the sky grew black. Steamy vapours had gathered east of the lake and shifted toward the rocky hills of Moonstone. They ascended above the treetops climbing to the cooler heights where the gases condensed into saucer-sized balls of liquid, finally surging boisterously in a wide shaft from a massive cumulonimbus cloud.
With the sudden dump of precipitation the boy awoke, wide-eyed and vigilant. He was watchful as pulsating flashes of electricity burst through the trees. Advancing from the shadows was lightening-bleached entity, its dreadfulness heightened by the stark throbbing light.
Travis shot up in his bed while a cannonball boom coursed through him and shuddered beneath his ribs. The forest ignited once more, but the entity was gone and the thunder rumbled cantankerously away.
“Rose!” he shouted, much too frightened to leave his bed.
“It’s okay honey, just a storm!” Her rushed steps swished across the creaky floor and the gas lantern swung hissing onto the table. The woman perched on the bed beside him, leaning close. Her strong arms squeezed him against her. “Hush love, it’s just a bad dream.”
He eyed the spot through the window fearfully. “It was a monster!” He could feel the tears spilling down his cheeks.
“Travis darling, sometimes dreams seem real. It wasn’t really a monster was it? Come on and ping me hon. Show me.”
Travis lowered his head. “I can’t… ”
“Look! The storm’s already gone. Shall we read another chapter?”
“No.”
Travis searched her warm eyes and soft features as she wrapped her coffee-brown fingers around his wrist. Rose was calm. She was like a mother.
But pinging about the thing he saw would not be good. He couldn’t bear to frighten her too. Her grief and worries were already enough for anyone to endure.
To order the debut novel “Ping” http://www.amazon.com/Ping-ebook/dp/B0058UW9H4/
To read chapter one of the first book please visit my website. http://www.susan-lowry.com/
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I do have an uncanny ability to predict. I seem to possess an internal relationship-barometer, a gauge that sends a twinge to my gut when I encounter that special person. Take heed, it says, this is the real thing. Not that I shun meaningful relationships — I desire and need them like everyone else. But since I hold the kind of imagination that zooms anxiously into a future apt for catastrophe, I am wary, and I approach such things with caution.
These feelings of unease are not a reflection of the kind of company I keep. For the most part I have been fortunate. And besides, experiencing the full spectrum of emotion, from joy to heartbreak, is a necessary symptom of being alive, for which I am grateful.
But still, I have an inclination to anticipate disaster in the most innocuous of events. With a mind like this, no wonder I’ve begun to spin post-apocalyptic fiction. What else could fuel such writing?
What I am struggling with right now is not this negative aspect of the way I think, but the creepy realization that I can spot a major relationship coming — bang on. I’m referring to the uncommon connections that transpire only a few times in a lifespan; the profoundly altering ones whose impact is rarely forgotten.
But how do my instincts distinguish between the strangers I meet, between those who will touch my life deeply and those I will soon forget? How do I know?
One fateful morning early in the commencement of grade seven, I found myself bristling at such a stranger. She was a chubby eleven-year-old, taller than me, pitifully uniformed in unattractive navy bloomers with elasticized legs. I perched similarly clad, similarly round, with my butt on her running-shoes as instructed, pinning her feet to the floor while she performed sit-ups. For a moment my stomach churned. Amber lights flashed in my mind — warning!
She was the first of my predictions. The beginning of a handful of strangers who have altered my path significantly. I didn’t know at the time what my relationship-barometer was trying to tell me, of course. Together, we blossomed into adventuresome young women, sharing the secrets and life-changing escapades of our youth. Only years later did I recall that first foreshadowing moment — I had learned from experience to make the association.
By the time I met the man who would become my husband I understood my inner gauge well. He appeared at the front of the bus on a ski trip. Tall and broad-shouldered with jet-black hair, he stood confident in his ski-apparel. My innards tossed. I knew he was my destiny before we spoke.
It happened once online. Oh how time flies. Was it really that long ago I was reading the colourful opinion of an aspiring author when my gut wrenched? Flash forward to now. She’s a major success and I’m proud to say a friend. Her remarkable achievements gave me the inspiration I needed to finish my first novel. What could be more life-changing than that? My instincts had been right again.
I know I’m not telepathic but I wish I were. What I do believe is that we all possess the ability to go deeper into ourselves and dig up truths that we can only know by pure instinct. And what is instinct anyway? It is feeling — a complex and miraculous thing that happens in our brain. Animals achieve amazing feats by using their instincts. If we could ask them what it is, I bet they would say it is feeling. Instinct is natural even in humans. A talented musician taps into the feeling of the music and that’s when the magic transpires. We have to feel it, not think it.
My instincts were right back in grade school when writing assignments caused me to feel excited. When I first put pen to paper I wrote mostly poems, drawing out my feelings as a way to understand myself. Later when I decided to write a novel I did not know what genre suited me. But having spent my life daydreaming about worst-case scenarios it wasn’t long before I knew. What if I woke up one day alone? What if everyone in the world died except me? What would it feel like?
It was my mysterious ability to predict relationships that made me think about telepathy… to wonder how far we could push our instincts if our survival depended upon it. That combined with my obsession with disaster is how the idea of Ping was born.
A few times I paid good money to have my fortune read. I was young then. But my gullible side still wants to believe it could be possible. After all, some of those predictions came true. A total stranger couldn’t possibly have guessed and yet they did.
My new favourite show is The Mentalist. Mr. Jane is a consultant who uses his astute mental powers to get to the truth and solve crimes. He is a genius at picking up on subtle clues which makes him appear psychic. Perhaps that’s how that palm reader did it.
There will always be an audience for the supernatural and the catastrophic. We can dive head-on into the delicious darkness. We can dwell on the edge of a shadow, stepping curiously towards shiny light-reflecting puddles, peeking into truths while we reside there. If we are completely immersed we will barely remember that we are safe in our ho-hum lives. As I continue spinning the sequel to Ping I strive to do this, to plunge inside my words with abandonment and feeling, keeping this need for escape at the forefront of my mind. It is my greatest pleasure to know that something I write has the power to take the reader away.
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