Ciar
Cullen
There are times when an interview is
easy, there are times when an interview is hard. There are times when
Randy, one of the Inn's ever-popular bar tenders, takes it upon himself to tie
Mrs. Rambler to the bed posts, promising that he'll set her free just as soon
as he's popped downstairs to see his favourite author, Ciar Cullen.
Thankfully he was well
aware of Mrs. Rambler's exquisite skills in the art of
revenge: He took with him Mrs. Rambler's list of
questions, together with a pen and paper... and left behind a
copy of Ciar's shor story, "Out
of My League" for Mrs. Rambler to enjoy...
Below are the printable
results of his interview - Mrs. Rambler's revenge, as I'm sure
you'll understand, will remain undocumented....
If you have an alias or pen name, what is it?
Ciar Cullen (I prefer not to use Therese MacFarland, although I
may refer to it as I still have a few books out under that name).
Tell us about yourself?
Oh, Crickey! I'm 48 and married with one cat. I live in New
Jersey, work full time, and dabble in writing as much as I can. I
never intended to get involved in romance writing-I'm a bigger fan
of fantasy, but I got lost in the woods so to speak. I have a
degree in archaeology (worked at that for many years) and dabble
in jewelry and martial arts.
Anything special the readers should know about you?
Nah, maybe just that I'm a bit crankier than I appear sometimes, a
bit of a loner, despite a seemingly gregarious personality.
How long have you been writing?
Since the spring of 2004.
Where do you typically find your inspiration?
Guys. Movie stars especially. Characters, actors, etc. I fantasize
about my hero, and poof!-the story starts writing itself!
What genre do you write in? Do you cross over to other
genres? Is it harder or easier to stay in one genre or to move
back and forth?
I have no idea what my genre is, although all fall within romance
certainly. With paranormal elements usually. Some straightforward
contemporary (Three Nights in Greece from Amber Quill), some
contemporary with paranormal bits (Mayan Nights from Samhain),
some fantasy (The Princes of Anfall)…no historicals yet,
although I wrote a book called Unholy Vows that does have a
medieval story within a story!
Who has influenced you in your writing?
The dozens and dozens of writers I've read in my life-from the
classics to pulp romance to science fiction-I'm a Nora Roberts
fan, I'll admit it. But I love all the fantasy giants as well!
What books do you have out? And do you have something new
coming out? Where can they be purchased?
Most of my releases are now with new Samhain Publishing and
everything can be located at
http://www.ciarcullen.com
I also
have begun to write for Loose ID. My next release, March 7 is
Mayan Nights-a steamy tale of archaeology, eroticism, and a
shapeshifting Jaguar King! That's up from Samhain. Next is The
Biggest Kahuna from Loose ID-a shark god in Hawaii LOL. Then I
believe in June Samhain releases my hot fantasy Lords of Ch'i.
Are you doing any signing or appearances soon?
Sadly, no. When Mayan Nights appears in print later this year, I
may have some East Coast visits!
Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?
Oh, don't get me started. Part of me wants to say "don't
worry, be happy, just write and do your thing and the rest will
come." But the realist wants to have a five-day session,
where I cage the poor gal and tell her what I've learned.
A) If a
publishing company treats you like dirt, run, as fast as you can,
to the nearest exit.
B) Don't engage in politics openly or
covertly, because as they say on the X-files, 'trust no one.'
Don't bad mouth a company or a person, because that place could be
your next home!
C) If you really want to get into print, then try
to write for print publishers! I know this sounds somewhat
obvious, but a lot of epubs are dangling print in front of
writers, and it can take a LONG time. If you're happy to just get
published and get going, epubbing is a good place to get feedback,
reviews, and learn your weak points.
D) Watch for
burnout-especially when you have family and work commitments.
Don't bite off more than you can chew.
E) Don't write out of your
comfort zone-until it's time to stretch! Don't get talked into
erotica if it's not your thing, for example. Take baby steps. They
get you there eventually, and you get to pick your route
carefully.
F) Have fun. If you don't have fun, then why are you
writing at all?
Do you have a website or a blog?
I do indeed!
I mentioned http://www.ciarcullen.com
and I also have
a group in which all authors can post excerpts of their works-from
beginners to…well, Nora stops by once in a while ;o)
http://www.groups.yahoo.com/group/CiarCullen
Do you prefers for your fans to mail or email you?
I can be reached through my website and love to chat with readers!
Other than being a writer, did you ever picture yourself
doing anything else?
Never pictured myself writing LOL, always
wanted to teach.
If you had time off to do whatever you like, what would you
do?
I would buy a small island, build a resort, and live there. I'd be
the chef!
Is there a favorite author you haven't met that you'd like
to?
Mark Twain. There's a little problem with that one, of course.
If you have a book coming out soon or just out would you
like to give us an excerpt?
Oh sure! This is from Mayan Nights, available March 7 from
Samhain!
Mayan Nights
(c) 2006 Ciar Cullen
Available from www.samhainpublishing.com
Sweat drenched every inch of her. Her smart linen suit
looked like a crumpled dishrag. Her soaked hair hung limply. Tam
wiped off the last remaining streaks of makeup and smashed a
mosquito on her arm, where it left a drop of her blood. It was the
bus ride from hell.
"Shoo." A chicken pecked at her Prada shoes while its
foul-smelling owner snored across the aisle.
Another pothole the size of a moon crater, another wind in the
road, another lurch to a sudden stop, and Tam thought she would
lose her breakfast. Photos of half-naked women hung next to
rosaries from the driver's rearview mirror. Everything about the
last two hours infuriated her.
Diesel fumes spewed out in huge clouds as the death-trap rolled to
a halt.
"Cozmano," the fat greasy driver growled, gesturing
slightly with his head as he straightened his pornographic photo
collection and rosary beads.
"Sorry? Por favor?" It couldn't be. There was nothing
more than a dirt path and a big rock with an arrow painted on it.
"Cozmano." He gestured emphatically and muttered
something obscene. "Professor Sin." He pointed again.
Professor Sin?
A local helped her drag her suitcase off the bus. "Señorita,
I am Orlando. If you come for Señor Twaine, we will meet again. I
work at his ruins."
"Oh! I'm very pleased to meet you, Orlando! My name is
Tam."
Orlando eyed her quickly from head to toe and tipped his hat.
"Señorita, I mean no offense, but how well do you know the
Professor?"
"I've never met the man."
"He does not take well to females."
"Excuse me?"
"My English, my meaning maybe, is not so clear. There has
never been a female on the site. He prefers the men, you
understand? Not in the kitchen or the bedroom, no! But at the
site, you see? He says they cannot pull the weight. I heard him
talk of the new assistant, but I think he expects someone…else.
Does he know you're a woman?"
Tam's annoyance grew by the second. Ridiculous! More than half the
archaeological community was female. What century spawned this
asshole Twaine? He must have known Princeton was sending a woman.
But they might have only mentioned her last name. How could it
possibly matter to him?
The driver called Orlando back to his seat, and Tam watched the
bus pull away in a cloud of diesel fumes, a sinking feeling in the
pit of her stomach.
"Suck it up, Tam. This is your big break. Doesn't matter what
the great professor thinks, you're going to set the world on
fire."
She took in a deep breath and started up the steep, stony road.
After turning her ankle twice in the deep tire ruts, she pulled
her shoes off and ducked behind a bush to take off her pantyhose.
The searing midday sun scorched her face, leaving her parched and
cursing Twaine for not sending a car to the airport.
Making me hike up this damned road in the heat. At least a hundred
degrees. So the asshole doesn't like women on the site, eh? We'll
see about that. Can't pull their weight! I can read Mayan glyphs
with my eyes closed, buddy, can you?
By the time she reached the top of the road, Tam's mind reeled in
fury, her head pounded, her feet bled from sharp rocks lodged in
the parched soil, and her arms and legs ached and felt heavy as
lead. Immense relief swept through her when she finally caught
sight of the hacienda nestled in the shade of lush greenery. The
stately old building looked like paradise.
Come on, Martin, you can do this. Only a few hundred yards. At
least the Professor was close by now and would help her. Surely
this Orlando fellow was wrong. St. John Twaine would welcome her
graciously, make everything worth it. Offer her iced tea, be very
apologetic about not being able to pick her up himself. SinJin,
she practiced the Brit pronunciation several times, trying to
ensure it would sound natural when she greeted him. No doubt, the
Professor was having a very civilized lunch at this hour, or
perhaps making notes of the morning's excavations. Maybe he grew
tired at the site and was enjoying a siesta.
Tam pulled off her dusty sunglasses to get a better view of a man
who had wandered onto the broad porch of the hacienda. He was
tall, well over six feet. She squinted and covered a few more
yards. One of the workers? Definitely not Mexican, and definitely
not shy. His worn fatigue shorts hung so low that Tam could make
out the cords of muscles hugging his hips, pointing downwards
towards what looked like a promising package beneath the thin
fabric. He certainly wasn't dressed for visitors.
"How about a little help here, Señor?"
He watched her calmly as he sipped an amber-colored liquid from a
smeared glass. Liquor? The thought of drinking hard alcohol in the
scorching midday sun made Tam's stomach roll. She dropped the
suitcase into the dust along with her jacket and hobbled up to the
house. He looked amused at her struggle, and fury overtook her
again.
Didn't it just figure? The asshole had to be drop-dead gorgeous.
He was probably only thirty-four or so, but he looked a bit older,
tanned deeply by the Mexican sun, and a bit tired looking, with a
hint of dark circles under his eyes. A drunk? His dark brown hair
hadn't been cut in months hanging well past his ears in
sun-streaked waves. His eyes were chocolate brown pools that
turned to dark slits as he squinted against the sun to stare her
down.
Maybe he's the professor's errant son. No, too old. Must be his
brother, his drunken brother.
Tam felt his close examination as his gaze swept up her legs to
her chest, where it lingered. She looked down to see her lacy
white camisole, transparent with sweat.
"Never seen breasts before, Señor? Did you get a good
look? Want me to strip down in exchange for some water? How about
a lap dance?"
He laughed lightly and leaned patiently against a porch column.
"I seem to have stumbled onto the set of Survivor. You
want me to get kicked off the island, is that it?"
"Are you always in such a good mood, or is this just my
lucky day?" His mild Aussie accent threw her. Tam cursed to
herself. As if looking like a movie star wasn't enough, he had to
have that sexy accent. Here's trouble, Tam. He's a bad
boy-drinking in the middle of the day, nasty, rude, dark and
brooding, a breast man-everything you love in a guy. Steer clear.
"All right. Since you won't help me, perhaps you can tell
me where I can find Professor Twaine?"
"Gone." He took a sip from his glass as he continued
to stare her down in challenge.
"Gone? What do you mean? Isn't this his house? I'm Doctor
Tamara Martin, his new assistant."
"Gone out into the field, Doctor Martin. Won't be back for
hours."
"Well, can you help me? As I said, I'm his new assistant
from Princeton and I…" Tam thought for a second an
earthquake was hitting the Mayan Riviera, then realized the ground
wasn't moving. Her last thought before passing out was that Twaine
would think she was soft.
***
"Oh, for chrissakes."
SinJin saw her sway and before he could reach her, she
collapsed in a heap on the ground. So much for the white suit.
Then he saw her feet, bleeding from a hundred cuts. How the hell
had she walked up the road like that? Well, he'd get her out of
the sun, give her some water, and give her a lift into town. Then
call Princeton and ball them out for sending a girl to do a man's
job. What kind of babies were they putting through the department
these days? They would fucking hear about this one. He could take
his research to Harvard or Yale, and it was time to let them know
it. Typical. His asshole colleagues knew how to keep alumni
dollars rolling in and how to preach old-school archaeology to
clueless kids, but they couldn't find him a competent assistant.
SinJin glanced down at the flushed cheeks of the young lady he
held in his arms. She seemed bright enough, at least she had a
personality and a flair for language.
But what kind of imbecile wears a suit into the Yucatan jungle
in the middle of August?
SinJin looked around for his housekeeper. "Rosa!"
The matron waddled onto the porch and squealed in horror at the
sight of the unconscious woman. SinJin carried her into his room
and laid her gently on his bed. He felt her head and groaned. This
could actually be serious.
"Rosa, give her water, a little at a time. She's badly
dehydrated. Please wash her down with cool water and see to her
feet. She needs antibacterial cream."
Rosa caught her breath at the sight of the girl's bloodied soles.
"Mother of God, who is she? And what happened to her?"
"Princeton sent her. I'm putting her on the first plane
back to New Jersey tomorrow."
"Professor SinJin, she cannot travel for a few days."
"We'll see."
SinJin spent the evening on the porch, sipping wine and writing
in his notebook, toying with the idea of calling Princeton and
quitting outright. The girl would have to go, of course. She was
probably a hack. Too good looking to be competent on the dig, to
be dedicated enough to tough it out. A shame, really, she would
have been nice eye candy.
He drifted into the twilight between waking and sleep, thinking
of Shield Jaguar's tomb. Deep sleep finally pulled him away from
fretting about the dig.
A lovely blonde came to him in the dark, whispering her desires
as she let her dress fall to the floor. Quick hard desire filled
him at the site of her bare breasts, her legs, a tiny patch of
silk hugging her pussy. He reached to pull her down, dying to rip
off her thong, take her onto his hard cock, find his release. She
smiled slyly, pushed his hands away, and knelt beside him. She
stripped off his pants and whispered into his ear, flicking her
tongue inside to heat up every word.
"SinJin, I'm so wet, so hot. Don't you want to feel how
wet I am? Tell me what you want. What's your fantasy, SinJin? The
one you won't tell anyone."
She fondled his swollen cock and brought her wet lips onto the
head, rubbing it back and forth until he moaned in blissful agony.
He looked down to see her huge blue eyes gleam in pleasure as she
took him deep into her throat. Moaning and fighting his release,
he wondered how he could make her go on forever.
"Who are you? Tell me, please."
She smiled and tore off her thong, revealing the wet folds
ready to engulf his world. Ever so slowly she lowered herself onto
his cock, moaning in pleasure as she moved up and down, clenching
onto his hardness to milk him dry.
"Tell me your name," he begged again, panting in
pleasure. He was ready to explode when he saw a glint of moonlight
against the blade. She moved the knife to his chest. He struggled,
but found that his arms were bound to the bed. When he tried to
scream, no sound would come from his mouth. She slowly pressed the
knife into his chest, whispering her love for him.
SinJin bolted upright, soaked with sweat, heart pounding. Why
the hell was he dreaming about the Princeton girl, Doctor Martin?
Get her out of here, SinJin. You don't need the distraction.
Many
thanks to Ciar Cullen for visiting us at the Inn!
Ciar's
website is here:
http://www.ciarcullen.com
