Interview with Frances Pauli

What genre do you write and why?

I write Speculative Romance and Urban Fantasy. I've always read both
Science Fiction and Romance, and today with the blending of Romance
into a slew of sub-genres, I've found a pretty happy home writing in
multiple universes.

Tell us a bit about your latest book?

My latest release, Roarke, is available in ebook from Devine Destinies
and on Amazon.com. The story is a Science Fiction Romance about a
mercenary who "wakes from the dead" with no memory of who she is.
While she tries to sort out her identity, she finds that her past
isn't exactly what she'd hoped, and is forced to make some choices
about who she wants to be in the future. And, since it's a Romance,
who she wants to be with as well.

You have a young daughter. Any tips for other writer mums?

Try to squeeze the writing in wherever you can. I actually have two
children, both under five years old. Being Mom will always come first,
so I steal the little breaks here and there to put words down, and I
had to learn to write in short bursts.

How do you promote your writing?

I have a fan page on facebook where I post my releases and interviews.
I hang out a bit on Goodreads, Twitter, MySpace. Primarily, I blog. I
guest blog whenever I can, belong to a few writer's groups and I offer
a free online serial at: http://spaceslugserial.blogspot.com which I
have to admit, is more fun than promo most of the time.

You also write a blog. What kind of things do you post about there and
how much of a 'tool' is it for marketing your books?

I post a great deal about writing and trying to break into publishing
on my main blog at: http://francespauli.blogspot.com. I try to post
warnings about scams, tips from other authors and people in the
industy, stories about my own journey and guest author interviews. I
suppose the blog is an indirect marketing tool. I do put my release
and tour dates up, but mainly I want to talk about the business and
share. If that gets my name out to a few people, though, I'm not going
to complain.

Where can people find out more about you and your work?

My webpage is at: http://francespauli.com
I have my bio and works posted, as well as links to all of the social
media, facebook, and both blogs. There is a free short story as well
as links to the Space Slugs serial.

Anything else you'd like to add?

Thank you for having me on the blog. I've found a lot of useful posts
here along the way. This is a long, slow journey, and we need to help
each other out as much as possible, support other authors, share
warnings and information. You guys do a great job of that.


Roarke Blurb:

They have to be lying when they tell her she was dead. With no memory
of her past, and no idea who she actually is, Nora has little options.
Alone, and at the mercy of the Mercenary Defense Conglomerate, she
searches for clues into her past, and the truth about her supposed
demise.
If she is a prisoner, robbed of memory and held against her will, then
she must trust no one. If she has, in fact, returned from the dead,
then who could possibly help her? Armed with only her wits and her
inexplicably sharpened senses, she is forced to play along, to search
for the holes in their story and to piece together the flashes of
memory that serve only to taunt her.
But the visions seem to confirm the impossible. The man who is
supposed to be her fiancé seems bent on confusing her, and the one
person she is desperate to be near may very well be responsible for
her death. If the silent Roarke is her enemy, why do her visions draw
her closer to him? And why, when nothing else seems remotely familiar,
does Nora find herself remembering, or wanting to remember only him?


Roarke: buy link:http://www.devinedestinies.com/shopdevine/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=ebook_flypage.tpl&product_id=860&category_id=40&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=69


Excerpt:

“I’m afraid we’ll have to brave a small crowd on the way out. News of
your…return has been hard to keep quiet.”
  “I should imagine.” I smile congenially at him and allow myself to
be led from the room. The crowd doesn’t surprise me, though small is
an understatement. I’ve sensed them building outside all along. I
brace myself, grateful for the doctor’s arm, and we emerge onto a long
walkway. The floor drops away on both sides, and the spaces are filled
with craning faces. I’m torn between scanning the assembly for some
shred of recognition and shying from any contact with the eager
expressions.
  In the end, I dart sparing glances at random people. Nothing stirs any memory.
Halfway across the space I give up and choose to focus on the long
strips of blue-tinted lights that line the walls. I think that nothing
seems familiar here because this isn’t where I belong. Perhaps, I
think, this is a prison after all.
  I hate to consider the doctor as a participant in my capture,
perhaps even directly responsible for removing my memory, but the
possibility can’t be ignored. It is, given the unbelievable
alternative that is their story, quite likely closer to the truth. Yet
I allow myself to be led toward another curving doorway. I have few
options, few options for now.
  I concentrate, instead, on how playfully the blue light interacts
with the metal of my dress. The fabric flashes and shoots refracted
fire as I move in it. I let myself be mesmerized by the effect. The
door is near, and Doctor Williams slows as we approach it. My
irritation surges again. Another foreign hallway beyond this one?
Another unfamiliar room? Suddenly, I have no wish to continue
peaceably. I have no interest in allowing myself to be led to any
destination they’ve selected. I scan sideways from the door, searching
for a pathway of my own choosing, wherever it may lead.
  I’m struck dumb by a familiar face. He stands back from the others,
aside from them, but near the door. Where I’m most likely to see him,
I decide. He leans against the gray wall and looks at the ceiling. The
strong muscle of his jaw tenses. Lines etch across his rugged face. My
chest lurches at the sight of him. I search for a name to assign to
the single familiar person in this crowded hall. The set shoulders and
staggered legs ring through my mind looking for something to cling to.
Exact memories, like the name I want to put to him, shy from my grip.
The feeling sweeps through me of something just on the tip of my
tongue, too elusive to pin down. I’m frantic to snare it, but it
dances out of reach. I realize that I’ve stopped walking.
  His red hair crowns a complexion nowhere near pale. He shifts his
gaze downward slowly, with great intention, and meets my gaze. The
intensity in his eyes belies his casual pose. He knows me.
  In an instant, I’m lifted from the room, my mind trapped in darkness
without a body to attach to. I drift without direction or purpose in a
sea of warmth. Softly, the singing whispers, return, return to me. The
persistent voice hovers near desperate, saturated with emotion. The
words pull me down.
  I come back to myself. The doctor tugs gently at my arm. Concern
scrawls across his face. I see the question there. “I’m fine,” I say,
stepping in line with him once more. “Get me out of here, okay?” And
we pass through the second doorway together.