Elle Campbell – Why Blogging is Important

Why Blogging is Important

by Elle Campbell

Writing is an art, a skill and it is best done by those who have lots of passion for it. As a writer, you want to stand out, get recognized and grow to become a well-known author. However, the biggest challenge lies with getting your work out there. How do you get known? Is it possible for thousands of people to appreciate your work? Well, the answers to these questions lie with the effort and strategies that you use to make your work visible to the right audience. As such, blogging is one strategy that has taken the centre stage in ensuring that writers get the recognition and attention they deserve.

Writers who want to establish a fan base need to use effective strategies to achieve this. Writers who have never tried blogging may wonder how this strategy can help them become well known authors with a long list of fans. True, this is a common concern especially for those who truly do not understand how blogging works or probably have never tried it before. Blogging is natural and it requires some effort. Many kids have been known to scribble something on the back of their books, which has often been dismissed. However, this is actually the beginning of blogging. Good writers can use such writings to calm down troubled thoughts and attain a fan base in the process. The advantages of blogging for writers are in plenty and they will be delved in this article.

Build Trust with Your Audience

Writers who display consistency with their blogs, tend to build a lot of trust and enhance a stronger relationship with their audience. Writers who are inconsistent with their blogging or forget to update the blogs at least twice or thrice a week will definitely lose out to the competition. Keep in mind, that there are thousands of people out there who are actively blogging as they try to build strong online reputations. By being away for just one week, you could end up losing a huge following. Thus, writers who want to establish a fan base should release fresh content often so as to capture the attention of the fan base and keep them alive. By establishing a loyal following, you will be making your way in to becoming a well renowned author. Also, it is worth mentioning that blogging allows you to network with your fans, understand their needs and get fresh ideas.

Blogging is Cost Effective

The costs of constructing and maintaining an effective website can prove to be quite high while the maintenance of a blog is done by one person. The owner customizes the blog and most of the blogging services come at no cost. However, in some cases, the blogger may have to part with a few dollars for customization. Today, the cost of running an effective blog is not above $ 50.00 a year. This means that you can use the blog as a cheap way of marketing your writing. With this approach, you will reach out to your target audience at minimal costs.

More Orders for your Books

Those writers who are looking for additional orders for their books can use blogging to achieve their objectives. The beauty about blogs is that they allow you to work as you advertise the services or products that you are offering. By writing articles that are SEO optimized, you will expose yourself to increased traffic that generates leads, which can easily be converted in to traffic.

Seemingly, blogs have grown to become an integral part of any business and writing is not an exception to this. People blog about all sorts of things such as lifestyle, food, shopping, magazines, pets and so much more. Every subject in the planet is covered in the blogging world. The importance of blogging among writers cannot be underestimated since blogs are kept as a way of maintaining communication with the target audience. The beauty about blogging is that you can receive a healthy and unbiased feedback from your audience and at the same time remain connected with your fan base.

Many writers have used blogging to showcase their work. For example, from my own personal experience blogging for truefashiontrends.com, it opened a whole new gate to readers who are interested in my particular niche. It is a wonderful thing as I find blogging so much fun and it helped me greatly to communicate with better with my readers.

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Genre – NonFiction / Beauty & Fashion

Rating – PG

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Website http://truefashiontrends.com/

Frank Hawthorn Is Blindsided by James M. Copeland

“I remember seeing it once when I went down to the river bar and grill to follow a client. It’s off to the left as you make the turn going to—I believe the name of it is The Landing—just off the highway, isn’t it?”

“You got it right. You can’t miss those twin silos!”

A waiter distributed salads for everyone at the table along with two bowls of dressing. Frank took the one nearest him and dipped what he wanted and sat it down to his left.

After everyone was served and munching on their salad, the young Fisher asked.

“Mr. Hawthorn, I see your name tag states that you are a private investigator. What’s the name of your agency?”

“The Hawthorn Detective Agency.”

“Seems like I’ve seen your place before; is it downtown near the courthouse?”

“I wish! No, I’m off the beaten path in an upstairs office several blocks from downtown. There is an agency down there where you’re talking about, but I think they only deal with cheating husbands or active wives. My work is mostly with crime situations.  Although I’m in between cases at the moment. That’s the reason I was free for the visit here tonight.”

“Maybe we’ll learn something tonight . . . hopefully,” the elder Fisher said.

Frank was beginning to feel the program was a waste of time, however. The speaker was well dressed and proved the point of the advertised statement about the seminars by collecting the twenty-five dollars at the door. He was very plain in his approach. He said, “The first thing you have to do to make money . . . is to have some!”

After a few minutes of the presentation, Frank decided he had made a bad choice unless he could count the dinner, which wasn’t bad. He slipped quietly out the side door. True, he didn’t have a great deal of money at the present moment, but he knew why. When he and Lieutenant Troy Spiegel started out as police officers on their beat, they were dealing with public riff-raff in circumstances that included stealing money. Their superiors felt like they did a good job at the petty stuff and were boosted to detective positions in an unusual amount of time. Frank wouldn’t say that some of the other officers let some things slide—they had just been there and grown up with some of the small-time crooks and didn’t want to start anything that would upset the families who lived there.

He and Troy were both outstanding in their work. It didn’t matter to them if the kid was going to grow up to be a crook; he needed to change right then. Better to nip it in the bud. After Troy and Frank were made detective, they had the opportunity to mentally grow in their pursuit of criminals. They got the big guys, even some white-collar criminals. One such bust included many people involved in a crooked scheme to bilk people out of their money. They actually thought the police chief was a good guy, one of the best in blue! They wondered what made a man do that. Nobody liked the district attorney, not even the guys who were dealing with him in the scam of a lifetime. As far as they were concerned, the judges on the bench were a higher caliber of person and would never lie to anyone, let alone a victim of a crime. But then, the criminal was the victim. It took a long time getting all the dope on the guys. Frank and Troy didn’t dare let the scam out until they had all the “i”-s dotted, and the “t”-s crossed; too much of a chance they would be behind bars unless they had the goods on the schemers. When this happened, they were both brought into the limelight. Troy got promoted to precinct commander, and Frank decided to go into private detective investigation. Now he had to wait on someone who wanted the bad guy caught and would pay him for the job. He still liked the work. He just didn’t enjoy the irregular money as much as he did when the city was paying his salary on a regular basis. Thank goodness, he had taken on some cases that paid extremely well and had money stashed in the bank. He had thought of adding a receptionist, and moving to a better location, maybe even buying a house. He’d get to that later he figured!

~

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Genre - Crime Mystery

Rating – PG

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Website http://jamesmcopelandnoveli.wix.com/

I, Walter by Mike Hartner

Chapter 1

"I, Walter Crofter, being of sound mind. . . ." Bah, this is garbage! I tossed my quill on the parchment sitting in front of me. People may question my sanity, but they should hear the whole story before judging me. I’m sitting here, now, at the age of 67, trying to write this down and figure out how to tell everything. I don’t know if I'll ever get it right, though. Too many secrets to go around. However, this is my last chance to offer the truth before I die. The doctors say it's malaria, yet I'll be fine. Perhaps. But if the malaria doesn't kill me, my guilt indeed will. Maybe if people know the facts surrounding my life, everyone will have a better understanding.

I dipped the tip in the inkwell again, and wrote:

I was born September 2, 1588, and named Walter. I didn’t belong in this Crofter family, who were storekeepers in London and not farmers as our surname might indicate to those who study this sort of thing. My parents were courteous and even obsequious to our patrons. Yet they received little or no respect. The ladies came to us to buy their groceries or the fabric for their dresses, but as seemly as they comported themselves, and some even called my father 'friend,' it was not out of regard for him. I was forced to run. Well, "forced" might put too harsh a point on it, like that of a sword, but others can judge for themselves.

By the time I reached the age of 12, I'd found another family that was more "me". They weren’t rich, but they were comfortable. The parents had several children, including a girl my age who was named Anna. Within two years, we had come to know each other quite well, and were getting to know each other even better. Her father caught us getting too close to knowing each other better yet, and showed up at my parents' house with a musket in his hand, telling them if I ever came near his daughter again, he'd use it on me--and then on them.

I paused to dip the pen and wipe my brow. Even though I was wearing a light cotton shirt, it was bloody hot in early August in Cadaques. My wife, Maria, entered the room and looked at my perspiring face and what I had just written. Between fits of laughter, she smiled at me with wide lips and said, "You can't possibly write this. You're not the only boy a doting father ever had to chase away. Nobody cares about this sort of thing."

"It will at least give a pulse to this writing," I replied. "It's too boring to say I left because I was mismatched with my own family, so much so that I was positive someone had switched me at birth. Or that I thought I was ready for more in life than what I could find at home. Nobody would read that, not even me."

"I agree, so tell the story that really means something. All of it." She sighed softly and placed the parchment she had been reading on the desk in front of me and kissed my cheek. The gleam in her eyes shed 20 years off her age and reminded me of a much gentler time. God, how much I love her.

I said, "Before I met you, I spent my life like a square peg trying to fit in a round hole. I’m just trying to make my story more interesting."

"I’ve heard the accounts of your life before you met me. Or I should say found me. It was anything but boring. So, if you insist on including in the story lines like those you just wrote, make sure they're the only ones. If you don't, I'll consider adding my own material." She winked. "You know I’ve had good sources."

She turned and walked away, laughing loudly as I called after her, "Yes, dear."
I dipped the quill and put it to parchment again.

In my earliest days, I remember my father, Geoff, being a bit forceful with other people. I also recall my brother Gerald, nearly five years my senior, and myself being happy. Or at least as contented as two boys could be who were growing up in the late 1500s in England, and working every day since their seventh birthdays. It was a time when boys were earning coin as soon as they could lift or carry things. The money could never be for themselves, however, but for the parents to help pay the bills.

Father lived as a crofter should. He was an upright man and sold vegetables off a cart like his grandfather did, and he also dabbled in selling fine fabric for the ladies of status.

One afternoon, when I was eight years old, my brother came home and got into a heated debate with my father about something. When I ran to see what was the matter, they hushed around me, so I never got the full gist of the argument. But whatever it was about, it was serious, and the bickering continued behind my back for five straight days. When I awoke on the morning of the sixth day, Gerald was no longer at home. And he never came back.

Soon afterwards, my father lost enthusiasm for his business and became generally passive. I assumed this was because of Gerald's leaving, and only on occasion would I see flashes of my dad's former self.

At the start of my tenth year, our family moved closer to London. We rented the bottom floor of a three-story building in which several families lived in the upper floors. My father said we relocated because he needed to be closer to more business opportunities. But my mom didn't believe he'd made the right decision, since he was now selling food out of a cart and not inside a storefront. One night, she greeted him at the door when he came home. She was wearing a frown and a dress that had seen better days.

"Did you bring in any decent money?" she asked him before he had time to take off his coat.
"I told you, it will take some time. It's not easy to make good money these days."
"Especially when you let the ladies walk all over you."
"I know, I know. But what am I to do when they aren't running up to me to buy what I'm selling?"
"You at least bring home some food for us?" My father had carried in a bag under his arm.
"It's not much, a few carrots and some celery." He handed her the bag.
"What about meat?"
"We're not ready for meat yet."
"That’s true enough," my mother said. "But you should at least try to feed your family. Walter's growing, and so are our other children."
"Leave me be, woman. I'm doing the best I can for now." He sat in his chair, leaned his head against the wall, and fell asleep.

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Genre – Historical Fiction/ Romance

Rating – PG

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Max and the Gatekeeper by James Todd Cochrane

Max and the Gatekeeper – James Todd Cochrane

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre – YA, Fantasy, Science Fiction

Rating – PG13

4.4 (81 reviews)

Free until 7 September 2013

A war has been waging for centuries; a magical and technological battle between good and evil. This conflict will affect life everywhere, but not everyone is aware it exists. When twelve-year old Max Rigdon is sent to stay with his grandfather for the summer, he unwillingly enters the fight.
The day Max steps off the bus he is marked with an evil curse and immediately becomes the target of evil men and creatures with designs on ruling the universe. Not only does this curse cause Max physical pain but it allows his enemies to track and find him. He soon learns that the reason for this unwanted attention is because his grandfather is the keeper of a gateway; a powerful machine that makes travel to hundreds of strange unknown worlds possible. The enemy will do anything to gain possession of this power in their quest to control all worlds.
With the help of his friend Cindy and others, Max must quickly learn the necessary skills to survive if he is to avoid the deadly trap that has been planned for him and his grandfather. A trap that has been decades in the making with Max as the missing piece. If successful it will change life as we know it.

Reaching for the Moon: More Diaries of a Roaring Twenties Teen (1927-1929)

I’m glad I’m alive” Doris Louise Bailey, a teen in the Prohibition era, writes this sentiment over and over in her diaries as she struggles with a life-threatening bout of scarlet fever. But it’s also an apt summation of how she lived in the years following her brush with death. Reaching for the Moon: More Diaries of a Roaring Twenties Teen (1927-1929) contains Doris’s true-life adventures as she flirts with boys, sneaks sips of whiskey and bets on racehorses – breaking rules and hearts along the way.

In Portland, Oregon, she’s the belle of the ball, enjoying the attention of several handsome gents. In Arizona, she rides a wild strawberry roan, winning races and kissing cowboys. From hospital wards and petting parties to rodeos and boarding school, this older, more complex Doris faces the dawning of the Depression and her own emergence as a young adult with even more humor, passion and love of life than she showed in her earlier diaries. Readers of all ages will relate to her pursuit of true love, freedom, and adventure in her own time and on her own terms”

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Genre -Biographies & Memoirs

Rating – PG13

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Blog http://www.thedorisdiaries.com/

Malled: A Tale of Revenge by Lee Tidball

THE DOCTOR

Blood.  Lots of it.  Makes me kind of nauseous.

“Why would it make you nauseous?” you ask.  “You’re a trauma surgeon.  You’ve been on call half your professional life.  You’ve see it all; junkies overdosed, gangsters mutilated, accident victims maimed, abused kids, little old ladies all bloody when their wheelchair got rammed by some jerk that hadn’t seen them in the crosswalk.  What’s the big deal?”

I’ve never seen an angel all bloody.

That’s what gets me about this one.  Of course, she’s not really an angel; certainly no halo or wings or harp among her personal effects.  But there’s a glow coming from this 18-year-old, like she’s just descended from heaven or found true love or something.  Even as Frank puts her under, she wasn’t screaming or crying or carrying on, just smiling serenely, said something like “Don’t worry, I’m not dying tonight.”   I step back for just a second; the contrast between all that blood and that glow is just too stark.  Before I vomit, I assume my professional demeanor.

“What’s the story?”

“Gunshot wounds.  We've found two bullets, looks like more.”  Heather, the head trauma nurse, is already at work.  No one’s better at her job than Heather.  She could be making gazillions at Big City General, but hates the commute and the young buck interns that always hit on her there.

I check out the bullet wounds.  Both are remarkable in that they didn’t hit anything vital.  The first is a shot through the right bicep that missed the radial artery by a couple of millimeters.  Didn’t shatter the humerus either.  The other passed through the right deltoid muscle without touching the scapula.  I think maybe she is an angel, or at least has one watching out for her. 

“I found another one!  Aw, shit,” says Selena, the other trauma nurse on duty.  She’ll be as good as Heather in a few years.  She’s going to have to see a lot more blood before she gets there, though.  She still gets too excited.

I swing around the table and check on this wound.  Again, uncanny luck.  The bullet hit her in the left breast, but it must have been hanging ever so slightly down, because the bullet tore through the tissue in such a way that it hit nothing but the fat!  Just a centimeter or so in, and the thing would have taken out at least three major organs, including the heart.   “It’s just a boob shot.  She’s lucky,” I say without thinking.

Even Heather sneers at me for that one.

Thankfully, the bullet was a fairly small caliber compared to what we usually see in here.  Maybe from a cop’s boot revolver or some other such cheap .22 caliber pistol.

I start work on the right bicep wound.  The closure will be delicate—I’ll have to watch out for that artery.  “How’s she doing, Frank?”

Our anesthesiologist isn’t the best, but is certainly capable.  He checks his readings. “Stable…so far.”

I work on the closure.  If it’s tight enough, the torn muscle fibers should grow back together.  Maybe even as good as new one day.

We continue working.  Filtering through the door we hear Episode Number Uncountable of the continuing drama between our no-nonsense Head Nurse and her all-nonsense assistant, Nurse Jones.  Jones is the only true asshole in the whole trauma team at the Rural Town Hospital.  I suppose I should be thankful that there’s only one, but how can I?  Her grating voice is like skunk stench, permeating every corner of our department, making me suddenly want to regurgitate.  As if the bloody angel weren’t enough.

“We should call.  It's protocol.  You can't just not do it,” says the pudgy little pustule.

“Forget it,” announces the head nurse’s voice of reason.  “Look, the Suburbia cops got enough on their hands with that mall thing.  We'll call them later.”  She’s referring to some disaster at the Suburbia Heartland Mall, a place that’s become known for particularly grisly disasters of late.  Some diabolical killer is on the loose, they say, an invisible avenger feeding select young victims to the dogs, literally, and leaving what’s left of them out in various places to terrorize the throngs of shoppers during the Christmas rush.  Tonight, it seems whoever it is went on some sort of rampage, though details are sketchy.  It’s the reason we were all summoned; in case the hospitals in Big City and Suburbia become overwhelmed.   “He asked for the priest, for God’s sake,” continues the head nurse.  “They’re just a couple of kids.”

There must be a companion, I surmise.  Some brother or boyfriend, probably all freaked out and afraid the girl’s going to die, feeling guilty or maybe panicked at the thought of such an overwhelming loss.

“I’ve found another one—right shoulder!” says Selena.  Snaps me back to reality.

“Fractures?” It comes out of my mouth automatically, but I sense I’ve been distracted.  Such loss of focus can be fatal.

“Let you know in a minute,” she replies.

Suddenly, I notice my closure’s filling with blood.  Damn!  “Shit!  Sponges, ice, quick.”  Heather’s there.  We work together, she with the sponges and ice while I probe for the source.  It can’t be the artery.  It simply can’t be the artery.   I won’t be the first doctor to lose an angel on the table.

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Genre –  NeoGothic Horror / Thriller

Rating – R for violence & language

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She Does Not Fear the Snow

She Does Not Fear the Snow – Bobbie Ann Cole

Amazon Kindle US

Amazon Kindle UK

Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG

4.4 (8 reviews)

Free until 8 September 2013

Bobbie Ann Cole’s inspirational memoir charts her personal journey to faith and redemption.
Broken by cancer and the failure of her marriage, she visits Israel, seeking direction and new meaning for her life. She has a profound spiritual experience in a Jerusalem church, where, as a Jew, she’s not supposed to be.
Her experience there marks the start of a chain of supernatural events, through which God reveals His purposes to her.
This transformational story of love, set on three continents, echoes that of biblical Ruth, who accepts faith in the Land of Israel and receives God’s blessing in the shape of a new husband of faith, a Canadian.