Monday, February 27, 2012

The Boo Hag front cover it is. The front cover of The Boo Hag. Lovely, isn't it?

How I feel about the impending publication of my book…

How I feel about the impending publication of my book…

This is something that I’ve been thinking about posting for the last few days. I’m at a critical point in my writing…dare I say, career? My first ever completed book is just about to hit the virtual shelves. I’m one proof copy and a bit of e-formatting away from having my work actually up for sale. I really want to be able to come back in 6 months…1 year…10 years, just to remember what it felt like. Whether I make it big, small, or not at all, I think I’ll appreciate getting back into my mind right now.

It feels like I’m standing in front of a big curtain. It’s just me. It’s dark. And there’s this curtain, but I’m not sure exactly what’s behind it. Sometimes, I get word that my proof copy is coming or a reviewer is going to have my book on their blog, and I feel like behind the curtain is a gigantic mountain. A hard one to climb, but with a glorious peak that ends with me sitting at a desk as a writer. A real writer. One who made it. And here in the real world, I smile. And excitement is all over my face.

But sometimes I’m just scared. I’ve never wanted anything so bad, professionally speaking. And I fear that the curtain will be ripped open, and someone will run up from behind and throw me over the edge of an endless pit. A never-ending pit. A reminder everyday, as I fall farther and farther from what I wanted life to be, that I never got “there.”

And sometimes, when I somehow get to place where I can be reasonable, and it isn’t often enough, but sometimes I get there and I realize what’s really behind the curtain. It’s just life. It’s waking up. It’s being with my family. It’s making a living. If it’s in books then great. If not, I’ll survive, but my whole happiness can’t rest on my writing success. It doesn’t mean I don’t believe in myself. It just means that I can be at peace with the outcome as long as I don’t sit around and say, “Man, I wish I were a writer,” when I am unwilling to do the work. I’m doing the work…now let’s see what happens.

Monday, February 20, 2012

The Boo Hag...what it's all about

Somehow I've never put on here or facebook or anything what my book is about. Well, here it is...

Lenny Petrakas is worried about her skin. Not the way you're thinking. Not like that at all. While most people spend time concerned about dirt and elasticity, temperature and moisture, Lenny has a more pressing problem. Something is after her. Something evil that won't stop until it has peeled every last inch of skin from the teen's body. And then, it may end her misery quickly, or it may dump her body in the woods. Let infection and dehydration run its course.

Lenny is just your normal sixteen-year-old girl. Was. Was just your normal sixteen-year-old girl. Quiet and polite. Petite. Introspective, but not to the point of isolation. Loyal? Fiercely so. Outstanding? Noteworthy? Different? No, no, and no. Or so she thought. What started as an eerie feeling, a certainty that someone had been in her room while she slept, has spiraled into something far worse. Something was in her room. Something that finds her highly different, extremely noteworthy, and intensely outstanding.

Game over? Wrong. Lenny's a fighter, and she isn't about to lie down and take what's coming to her. Enlisting the help of her best friend, a not-so-secret admirer, the hottest guy in school, one odious cheerleader, and a paranormalist teacher, Lenny is facing her fears head on, in a battle she knows can only end in death.

I hope you are feeling intrigued :)

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

My author bio

David Morgan is more an idea than an actual person. Created in a sterilized 1980s laboratory with gleaming white walls, he was marked for greatness, bound to be a beacon in the sea of humanity, leading the masses to an everlasting epoch of unequaled love and prosperity. Under the flickering glow of a long fluorescent tube, he was taken pain-staking care of by a classified team of anonymous doctors, who watched, if not lovingly, at very least proudly, as he grew from idea, to germ, to bouncing baby boy. Nourished on the best things money can’t buy and taught at the feet of the greatest philosophers yet to be born, David Morgan grew into a man. And became a writer. And the doctors were all canned.

Or David Morgan was born in California, but only lived there for a short time before being whisked away to spend his formative years in Virginia Beach, Virginia. He played a lot of soccer, but only when he wasn’t parading around the neighborhood with his brother. He excelled in school right up to the point when he realized that the world would, in fact, not end if he didn’t complete his homework, and then he did okay. Above all he was nice. Or so he would have you believe. But what he won’t tell you, is that he once sent a friend hurtling down a dirt path on a bike, instructing him that on this part of the trail you have to go as fast as you can, and then David watched in delight as said friend jumped the edge of a small cliff and ended up hanging inches above a dirty creek, only separated from the stinking water by a dense patch of foliage. He won’t tell you about that.

David lives with his wife and daughters in a house. He is severely outnumbered at home in the gender department, but he thinks that’s pretty cool. David writes from the warm tropical beaches of his mind, but looks forward to a day when he can write from the warm tropical beaches of Hawaii’s reality.

If you can’t get enough of David—and who can?—there’s more available here:
You can also contact him at