Why Characterization Matters in Blurbs

Great info in this post! 😉👍

Andrea Lundgren

I’ve written about the overall formula for blurbs before, but today, I wanted to discuss characterization.

It may seem like blurbs don’t have enough room for characterization–that the back of the book snippet is just too short to do more than say who the main character is, what they’re struggling with, and hint at why this matters–but characterization is what drives readers to open the book inside or pass on by.


Let me show you how it works.

One day, Jane opens her door to find a package with a mysterious, shiny label. It says it’s for her, but she doesn’t know how that could be. 

Still, after she opens the box she finds herself on a journey of discovery and adventure, as the cardboard cubicle becomes a portal to a new world, full of dangers and difficulties. With the help of a wandering minstrel and a unicorn, she has…

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Casualty of Court – CeeCee is in session

L.S. Fellows is doing a great set-up for her upcoming release! Annie Skillset is gone and now we meet CeeCee, the Psychic! Remember to click through and leave the author a like, comment, or both! 😉

Just 4 My Books

After the rather terse interviews conducted by Annie Skillsett, another panelist now takes over.

CeeCee Dedmann is a psychic, clairvoyant and all-round hippy-chick, and she has invited each of the four main characters to either connect with someone from the other side or to look into her Crystal Ball. What will they choose?

As a free spirit, untethered to the physical confines of any building, CeeCee is using Annie’s office. She has adorned the plain desk with swathes of purple silk, pink chiffon drapes cover the window, and snatches of sunlight filter through, dappling the walls. Soft music tinkles, and the heady scent of jasmine wafts throughout from burning incense sticks.

It’s a whole new world! I hope my characters are ready for her.

First up, we have Fern in the hot seat. On arrival, she’s a little wary of the changes made to the office. It’s clear she’s more…

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Tips to Help You Concentrate While Writing

A Writer's Path

by Meg Dowell

Are you an easily distracted writer? I could make this post very short and sweet and tell you to get off the internet and just write already, but that doesn’t always solve your problem. I’ve greatly improved my ability to concentrate over the past few months, which has made me much more productive and satisfied with my work. Here are a few strategies that might help you focus and get more writing done.

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“#Starstruck (#Lovestruck, #1)” by Sariah Wilson #ReleaseBlitz


Title: #Starstruck (#Lovestruck, #1)
Author: Sariah Wilson
Genre: Contemporary Romance/ Romantic comedy
Release Date: January 16, 2018
Cover Designer: Micheal Rehder
Hosted by: Buoni Amici Press, LLC.

With one uncharacteristically sassy tweet to her longtime celebrity crush, Zoe Miller’s life turns upside down. Ultrahot A-lister Chase Covington doesn’t just respond to Zoe’s tweet, he does the unthinkable: he messages Zoe directly. Now she must decide between walking away or meeting her crush in person.

Chase knows better than to trust anyone from the Internet, but Zoe’s saucy challenge has totally caught his interest—and her girl-next-door personality is keeping it. He’s been burned enough to know he needs to keep his heart close. But his feelings for Zoe might be a lot more than just an online flirtation. He just has to convince her…

When the press gets wind of Zoe and Chase’s secret relationship, their romance turns into tabloid headlines. Will they be able to hold on to their Hollywood love story?

“You must be Zoe Miller. I’m Chase. Covington.”
He added on his last name like I wouldn’t know who he was. It was kind of endearing. I stared at his hand until the girl on my right nudged me and I gave him mine. A zap of raw electricity sparked at his touch, his hand warm and strong and big. It shot up my arm and spread all throughout my body making every part of me tingle.
“Hi Chase Covington.” I don’t know how I was able to form words. Or how I hadn’t dissolved into an incoherent, blubbering pile of Zoe goo.
“Hi Zoe Miller.”
We were still shaking hands, which was basically holding hands at this point as it had gone on for so long. He was just grinning at me, like I was some long-lost friend he was excited to catch up with.
I didn’t want to imagine what my slack-jawed, overwhelmed face looked like. He would probably think I was an idiot.
A guy with dark brown hair and wearing a Bluetooth device in one ear came over. “Chase, Marty wants a word.”
Chase finally let go of my hand. “Thanks, One-F. Stick around Zoe Miller. There’s more to say.” He walked backwards a few steps, like he didn’t want to stop looking at me. With a wink he finally turned and headed over to the director.

Bestselling author Sariah Wilson has never jumped out of an airplane, never climbed Mt. Everest, and is not a former CIA operative. She has, however, been madly, passionately in love with her soulmate and is a fervent believer in happily ever afters–which is why she writes romance. She has published many happily ever after stories. She grew up in southern California, graduated from Brigham Young University (go Cougars!) with a semi-useless degree in history, and is the oldest of nine (yes, nine) children. She currently lives with the aforementioned soulmate and their four children in Utah, along with three tiger barb fish, a cat named Tiger, and a recently departed hamster that is buried in the backyard (and has nothing at all to do with tigers).

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“The Rebound” by Winter Renshaw #TeaserTuesday



The last time I saw Nevada Kane, I was seventeen and he was loading his things into the back of his truck, about to embark on a fourteen-hour drive to the only college that offered him a full ride to play basketball.

I told him I’d wait for him. He promised to do the same.

But life happened. I broke my promise long before he ever broke his. And not because I wanted to.

We never saw each other again …

Until ten years later when Nevada unexpectedly returned to our hometown after an abrupt retirement from his professional basketball career.

Suddenly he was everywhere, always staring through me with that brooding gaze, never returning my smiles or “hellos.”

Over the years, I’d heard that he’d changed. And that despite his multi-million dollar contracts and rampant success, life hadn’t been so kind to him.

He was a widower.

And a single father.

And rumor had it, he’d spent his last ten years trying to forget me, refusing to so much as breathe my name … hating me.

But just like a rebound, he’s back.

And I have to believe everything happens for a reason.




Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra portable laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American dream with her husband, three kids, and the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi.

And if you’d like to be the first to know when a new book is coming out, please sign up for her private mailing list here —> http://eepurl.com/bfQU2j


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“The Matter of the Crown” by Linda Ferreri


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The Matter of the Crown

The Crown of the Andes, one of the world’s most precious and beautiful sacred objects, has been stolen right off the stage at Satterling’s Auction House in New York City. Five pounds of magnificent baroque gold that ransomed the Inca Ruler Atahaulpa, and hundreds of perfect Colombian emeralds, all gone without a trace! Will this legendary treasure be destroyed for its gold and emeralds? One woman is dead and another one in hot pursuit.

The Matter of the Crwn cover

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Alfred Granfeld is a studious man.  He has come to the old palace of a Contessa in the small hill town of Belforte to interview her about the Crown of the Andes.  What she could tell him was of exceptional importance to his goal.

Alfred Granfeld, carrying a briefcase, ascended the steps of the home for elderly people, the ospizio, as it was called in Italy.   The woman who had answered his fax instructed him that the Contessa now lived in “a very particular ospizio” that she owned, in Belforte, and that he was welcome to interview her there.  At his hotel in the little town at the foot of the hill, he had learned that the Contessa herself had converted her palace into that home for a few very fortunate old people.   And there, Alfred Granfeld understood, she was enthroned rather than incarcerated.

Just as Alfred Granfeld dressed each day in dignified English clothing each piece of which was well made and carefully selected for its lack of flashiness, he so attired himself on this day.  Grey hairs were making their appearance around his face, giving him the demeanor of sharp wits.   He inspected his visage each morning in the mirror and his fingernails, looking carefully for anything out of order.   He studied his profile sometimes with his tightly cropped hair and its reddish tinge, his sideburns, his close shave.  He assured himself that he looked as he knew that he was, a very serious and focused person, purposeful.  Ageless. Yes, that was the word he preferred.

There were days when Alfred thought he might have looked well with pomade on his hair, but he knew it was far from the modern vogue.  Nonetheless, he wished for it from time to time as a possible vehicle to conceal or at least diminish the levity of the red in his hair.  A wayward hair could thus have been kept under control, as well, giving the pomade a respectable purpose.

Each day, Alfred studied not only his face but his calendar, and considered slowly just exactly what steps would be necessary that day in order to give effect to his plans.   He found his clients and not the reverse.  In fact, one could not call upon Alfred Granfeld.  He would choose his clients, he smiled as he reminded himself.  This was his orderly manner of business and he presided.  He was a professional.

On this particular day, though he was suffering jetlag because of his return from New York, Alfred looked smart carrying his expensive English leather briefcase.  He stood on the steps of the Contessa’s ospizio for elderly people.   The Contessa had in the not-too-distant past decided to install a few of her favorite retired friends and relatives in her palazzo, and therefore named it her ospizio.   It had been the family home of her deceased husband, the Count of Belforte.   Alfred found the gate open at the appointed hour, so he drove his car onto the premises, parked at the foot of the steps, and approached the gigantic door, one well-shod foot at a time.

He thought, as he was contemplating the means by which he should make his presence there known, that the Countess of Belforte deserved to live well in her old age.   She had had money even if now she lived in eroded grandeur.

Alfred was going to collect information from her in his interview.  He had gone to greater lengths than the Contessa could possibly imagine to study her and her mode of living, and now to interview her.   He had negotiated the byzantine ways of Italian titled society, the labyrinth of history and the Macerata province of Le Marche.  The fax he had received had assured him that the Contessa would receive him and answer his questions about the Crown.  He had arrived.  The moment had come.   He straightened his shoulders.

Alfred listened to both his fine Italian shoes and the slippers the maid wore as both of them shuffled along the stone floors. They walked through one grand room in the palazzo after another.  The petite woman wearing a black dress and a starched white apron regarded him carefully, then guided him with scarcely a word.  She would point, then move ahead.   “Prego,” was all that she said.

The maid’s pace was determined by her diminutive size and her silent but noticeable pride in the grandeur of the building around them.  Granfeld was meant to know where he was, as he gradually came to do.  One was not to be rushed through great rooms in great palazzos in Italy.  Generations had presided from this place in the hills of Le Marche and now it was the seat of this Contessa di Belforte.

The petite woman wearing the black dress and the starched white apron stopped suddenly.  She turned to look back at her charge, and when satisfied, waved her hand gracefully across her torso.  She was indicating to Alfred that he should enter the last room of the long corridor.  It was the main room of this wing of the palazzo, the throne room in days gone by.  Upon entering, he beheld its ceiling reaching to heaven, complete with the company of the gods and goddesses of ancient mythology gathered around the apotheosis of the Belforte family.  All of the floating figures, painted in vibrant colors, looked down on Alfred below.

He became aware of a glow at the far end of the room where a fire burned in the wall, in its niche framed by blood red marble.  Between Alfred and that far end of the room, three enormous Venetian chandeliers hung from the apotheosis scene like a cluster of jewels reflecting the light of the flames and heaven’s light from above.  The maid was satisfied to see that Alfred was affected in the manner intended by all who had presided from this palazzo.

Eventually, Alfred’s eyes focused on a slim woman seated alone near the fireplace.  She was in the process of putting a book down on a table beside the tufted divan on which she sat.  She extended her hand while motioning for the younger man to advance and be seated beside her.  She said simply in her deep voice and perfect English, “Welcome Mr. Granfeld.  Please join me here.”


About Linda Ferreri


Linda FerreriLinda Ferreri is a well-known art lawyer and author.  Her books include novels about the Crown of the Anes, a novella entitled The King of UNINI, and whimsical hand-illustrated iBooks.  She is known, also, for her drawings.   She divides her time between Italy and the United States, and lectures widely around the world about art and history.  Her next novel is in progress.







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