Welcome to Shannon Muir’s Infinite House of Books!
DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to INFINITE HOUSE OF BOOKS by Bewitching Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.
What initially got you interested in writing?
An overactive imagination. I’ve been writing short stories since I was in elementary school, sometimes to the detriment of my grades. I can’t tell you how often my teachers caught me daydreaming. Then I started drafting novels back in law school. It wasn’t until ten years ago when I started taking it seriously. Seventeen novels later and I don’t intend to look back.
Then there’s also the power of the written word. With writing you can convey a message without beating someone over the head with it. There’s a reason why the classics stick out.
How did you decide to make the move into being a published author?
If I’m being honest, I don’t consider myself an author. Am I published? To a point, but I don’t have the “street creds” yet to consider myself an author. My reader base is extremely small, and I only have three full-length novels and a short story out there. I think I’m more like writer, you know?
It has nothing to do with being validated by big publishers. The publishing industry is in such a state of flux with e-books, self-pubbed authors, and the, well, we’ll call it the mentality of the decision makers. You have a flood of liberal arts majors acting as barriers to writers. Most come across as political zealots who can’t see the forest through the trees they want to plant. I’ve read several interviews by agents, etc. The whole “need diverse writers/books” is a joke.
At some point I hope I’m validated as an author, but I don’t know when that is. I would hate for 2 million words to go to waste.
What do you want readers to take away from reading your works?
I’m not that important to think that I can influence a reader into taking away a certain message, but I hope at some point I do. Most of my novels are about self-discovery, the gray areas of human nature, faith, and redemption. I make no bones about my subtle messages in my books.
My Lai is a perfect example of my writing. You have a protagonist who battles his internal guilt while trying to hold a small band of soldiers together. Most of us deal with stressful on a daily basis. We try to hold our families together while dealing with internal strife. It also makes us grow as individuals, at least those of us who don’t take the easy way out.
Unfortunately, modern society says a pill can solve everything. Our culture has climbed mountains of adversity without the help of pills in the past. I also find it quite troubling that media romanticizes terrible outcomes, including suicide. Terrible, just terrible.
What do you find most rewarding about writing?
It certainly isn’t the money.
Readers who ask questions about the characters I write, especially those characters whose fate remain uncertain. It’s pretty cool to see someone really like my books. It really is.
What do you find most challenging about writing?
Loneliness until the characters take over. Sometimes it’s difficult. I’m not going to lie, sometimes the minute details of grammar is a pain.
What advice would you give to people want to enter the field?
Be prepared for rejection. Be prepared for disappointment. Be prepared for questioning whether you’re wasting your time. Be prepared to quit a million times.
Also, don’t get into it for the fame or the money. Go into computer programming for that.
What ways can readers connect with you?
Email me at jc@jcbrasewell. That’s the easiest way. My website is www.jcbraswell.com. All of my other contact information is there.
plan now, LT?” Simmons moved his arms in a repetitive semicircle manner like he
was making a snow angel in the leaves. “We just going to sit here and wait for
the jungle to take us? Or do you think we’ll just die from boredom and
exhaustion?”
Simmons,” Garcia said.
He didn’t want to let them know that they might be stalked by a tiger, which
would only cause more panic in the group.
only one answer right now,” Donovan said, resting back on his elbows.
Harris asked.
Donovan could summon a smile even in the direst of situations, thrusting his
hips in the air. “We’re completely and totally screwed. No chance at all.”
say that,” Harris’s voice cracked.
seriously? Why do you have to go on and say something stupid like that?”
Jackson nudged Donovan’s thigh. “You’re gonna scare the kid.”
true. He’s right.” McEvoy smacked the back of his neck, smashing some insect
guts into his skin. “Look at us. Nobody wants to say it, but we’re lost. No
map. A useless compass. Not much food. Lost. And don’t get me started on these
bugs.” McEvoy slapped the back of his head again, this time catching the bug
and causing it to pop like a balloon. McEvoy gagged as he looked at his palm
before wiping it across his thigh.
to like you,” Simmons said. “Must have some of that sweet boy blood.”
to start when I’m worrying over here? And I don’t have any sweet boy blood.”
talk of death,” Williams said, tossing one of the river pebbles he kept in his
pocket at McEvoy. “No more talk of anything. We take a short sleep and get
going.”
boss.” McEvoy squirmed as the rock plunked him on the shoulder.
give to listen to a little Doors right now. Just fade away with it all.”
Donovan looked up at the stars. “Seems appropriate to die while listening to
some good music
injury?” Garcia dropped to one knee and went to untie Williams’s makeshift
compression bandage. “I’m not sure how many we of these left. Maybe one.”
how your shoulder is doing?”
worry about something small like that,” Garcia responded. “I’m not the one with
a rotting leg.”
it so gently.”
yourself. Might as well be honest. We’re just a sideshow.”
Williams knew there was reason to be concerned. He could smell the infection
from three feet away: rotting eggs. Based on Garcia’s tempered reaction, it
could only be getting worse.
the radio? We’re on higher ground. Might be worth giving it another shot.”
Harris, with his naïve youthfulness, held on to a simple hope.
like it’s going to hurt,” Williams answered, drifting back to the memories in
his mind. Seagulls cawed from around Annapolis harbor, the zip of a fishing
line pulled as a fish splashed on the surface. It was only a pipedream.
turning on,” McEvoy said. He clicked the switch a few times, relying on a
miracle that would not happen.
Harris whined. He slapped the radio a few times—the old magic trick never quite
worked out for anyone with experience in electronics.
That things as useless as both of you.” Donovan said, drumming his fingers
along the ground to the beat of whatever Doors song played in his head.
got something.” McEvoy’s words called their attention. The radio whined as
McEvoy adjusted the knob until a muffled song broke through the static.
Jackson asked, leaning in as if he could listen better.
know.” McEvoy honed in on the signal until a distinct muffled chant emerged.
The small troupe stared at each other, a mixture of confusion and disbelief as
the unknown words captivated them.
Donovan said.
local station?” Harris asked.
grew more distinct with little melody to the deliberate words.
station…out here? No damned way.” Williams said, noticing the VC perking his
head up with a glaze covering his face. It was as if the chanting signaled the
VC to wake.
have some weird tastes,” Jackson said.
gathered closer, exchanging glances between each other and the radio. The
lights flickered with the strength of the foreign words, the dials shifting
back and forth.
any of this?” Williams looked at McEvoy.
old. An older dialect.” McEvoy shrugged.
intensified, the chorus of foreign words almost shouting. The treetops around
them rustled as a stiff breeze suddenly rolled across their makeshift camp.
Williams looked back at their VC prisoner, who remained silent, transfixed by
the radio’s signal.
right. None of this is right.” Harris withdrew from the contraption.
yourself,” Donovan said. “Nothing we can do.”
The radio shuddered with the strength of the signal.
Turn it off,” Garcia demanded.
started to move, almost in unison with the chanting, but he did not make a
sound.
McEvoy twisted the dials, but the radio refused to obey.
crackled then sparked, causing McEvoy’s arm to snap back. The sharp smell of
burnt rubber and metal poured out of the case. Then, with a pop and brilliant
flash, the radio went silent, its light fading to black. The VC then dropped
his head in concert with the chanting as it came to an abrupt halt.
said, blowing on his finger.
Garcia muttered in a voice low enough for only Williams to hear.
