Author Archives: Michael Ray King

About Michael Ray King

A five-time Royal Palm Literary Award-winning author of nine books, I also am a contributing author to four Rogues Gallery Writers books including - "Writing is Easy, More Writing is Easy, Fictitious Fiction," and the recently released, "The Method Writers." I'm the owner of MRK Publishing, a small press book publisher. I also teach seminars and webinars on how to write books and how to blog as well as consulting one-on-one with aspiring writers.

Book Excerpt – The Method Writers

One of the great experiences of writing a novel with three other talented writers comes in reading back over what we created. We built this microcosm of life out of our imaginations. We directed (as often as they would allow) the characters. We lived in a writing cocoon for a year.

What spawned from our collective creative muses feels fun. Energetic. Fresh. Even half a year later. I enjoy reading back over the letters and words and paragraphs that stack up to form our story. Case in point, in Chapter 30 when Georgie Mae is on a date with detective Joe, the interplay between the characters feels quirky yet warm and exciting. I love Bridget’s writing style. This tiny excerpt finds Joe probing Georgie Mae with a few questions:

“What do you like outside of working at the track?”

“I, uh, I devote a lot of time to the writing group.” And I rob banks here and there.

“That’s right, Dorian told me about the writing group.”

“Yeah, we’re helping each other out with…projects.”

“What are you writing about?” Joe is staring deep into my eyes, into my soul. As if in a trance, I respond to his question with a light voice. My gaze is fixed on his.

“I’m working on a play…a musical.” Where the hell did that come from? Secretly I’ve dreamt of writing and directing a musical. I’ve never told anyone, not even Dorian, David, or Marty. Why that came out is a mystery.

“I love musicals,” he states.

Bullshit.” I can’t believe I swore. That’s classy Georgie, why don’t you hock a wad of spit on the ground while you’re at it.

Bridget runs with dialogue, personal narrative since the book is written first-person in each main characters’ voice, as well is internal dialogue. This excerpt shows some pretty cool interplay between two characters. I still think it’s fun reading.

This post comes as a tip-of-the-hat to Bridget, who I regard as a wonderfully talented writer, and for you, the reader, as an enticement to check out The Method Writers. Yes, all writers must promote their books. When you have a gem like The Method Writers, simply picking a section from the book as a teaser, I feel, lends itself well to promotion. It works on me! 🙂

Get your copy today at; The Method Writers


Back in the Saddle Again…

The creative mind. What a wonderful beast. Unfortunately, this same mind can perform quite similar to a regular mind. Take situps for example. I determined I would do 50 situps and 25 pushups each day. Time requirement? 5 to 10 minutes. Consistency of performance? Sporadic.

As writers, we fall into this often. In some respects, failing to write causes more problems than skirting the exercise regimen. (Yes, it can be called a regimen even if the numbers are as tiny as mentioned above…)

The Rogues worked hard on pulling off a large book launch. Good things came of the effort. We did get some unexpected exposure, we learned some lessons, and we sold some books. Then we stumbled a bit on our writing exercise. I for one fell into a pattern of not writing my blog posts.

Did you realize the Rogues Gallery Writers have produced four Kindles and two books? Fictitious Fiction, More Writing is Easy, Writing is Easy, andThe Method Writers. When I look at those numbers on the screen, I marvel at our productivity. We all write. We all are involved with other projects. Yet we still produce. To see a slight lull in our productivity does not seem to set well with us though.

Our meeting tonight addressed the fact that we (I am royally one of the “we’s”) allowed our blog posts to slip like my situps and pushups. The great thing about being a member of a focus writers group is accountability. When we meet and talk and discuss and plan, we inspire each other to pick ourselves up, brush ourselves off, and get back to it again.

We are proud of our book, The Method Writers. We feel if people would pick it up, they’d find themselves a good read. The only way anyone will know for sure is to get a copy. So I’ll make it easy for you. Here’s the link to the Kindle version of The Method Writers, and here’s the link to our fully autographed hardcover copies of The Method Writers.

Pick one up. Give us a shot. We’re betting you will be glad you did! We’re also bringing our blogging back to full capacity. Read on!


A New Life (Detour!)

Typically this is my day to post my serial fiction story. Like my partner in writing Jeff, I want to take this time to encourage everyone to attend our book launch parties, not this weekend, but next. We are planning to make this a fun, enjoyable event in nice friendly settings.

One of the questions we get asked quite a bit is how do four writers write one novel – and how do we still find the ability to speak to one another? The Rogues Gallery Writers is a special writers group. We will answer these and any other questions folk may have in addition to having some giveaways, contests, and whatever other fun we can come up with.

Please RSVP to me at mrking@clearviewpressinc.com if you plan to make it to any of our events. This will help us plan on how many people will be there as well as plan out any food or drink items we may need. We look forward to meeting and speaking with as many readers out there as possible!

We do plan on making this loads of fun. So come on out and check out The Method Writers! Here’s a link to our event calendar: Upcoming Events!


A New Life (Part six)

Time. Surreal when I think about what just transpired a couple hours ago. I lie here, the rise and fall of my chest lending her lovely head the appearance of a yacht lazily floating a calm, rolling sea. How did I end up in the company president’s bed?

That’s the surreal part. One minute I’m a nobody who sits in on her board meetings, the next we make love and crash in her plush penthouse apartment. She probably has more cash in her dainty purse than I have in all both my bank accounts –  savings and checking.

We have connection, though. There’s a “rightness” to her that compels me to dream of more nights like this. Even more so, even as I lay here dreaming, I’m thinking of all the incredible things the two of us can accomplish.

I have some pretty cool theories on a major project that could use the power of Marci’s research savvy and, of course, her financial backing. I feel conflicted now, because I don’t want to ask for these things having just romped her around in the sack for a couple hours. That feels crass.

I can surely dream, though. I can dream at least until the softness of her body  overtakes my ability to resist the temptation to wake her up. As soon as the thought hits my brain, I’m off on the various, incredible ways to bring her back to life. But what about my research project?

I’m a mess. There’s not many men who would be too concerned about offending the beautiful, naked woman sleeping with her arm draped over me like this. Hell, I’m wondering why I don’t just get back to heating up the bed again. Tomorrow will take care of itself…right?


A New Life (part five)

I feel a few hundred eyes escort us out the door. Some of them feel curious. Others feel like they stalk me. The door can’t close soon enough. The cold night air stings my lungs.

“Are we headed to the office?” I ask.

“I have a private penthouse apartment. I need to get to my files before the vultures arrive tomorrow.”

We stroll in silence, her right arm locked around my left, both our hands in our respective pockets. She sure seems to trust me. Derrick, the security guard lets us in the front doors and locks them after us.

“Ms. Rader, good to see you, but I gotta say, I figured you’d be at the party all night.”

“Derrick, those parties are so boring, watching ice melt is a thrill in comparison.”

Derrick chuckles as we head into the elevator. “Watching ice melt. You sure know how to put things in perspective, ma’am.”

The elevator doors close. Marci’s face, cold and pink from the walk over, flood my vision. Her lips press warmth throughout my body and her tongue dances with mine. My senses push past their limit and I jerk my head to the side and sneeze. Now heat bubbles up my cheeks behind the chill from the outdoors.

“I…I’m so sorry Marci. I sneeze whenever I get overloaded emotionally like that…”

I don’t want to look her in the eye but I do. She lets out a laugh and winks at me. “I’d be disappointed if your reaction was anything less Marty.”

The elevator doors open. Marci retracts the key she used when we first entered and pulls off each glove. one finger at a time until she pulls it off her hand. She tosses the first glove in the air as we walk into a sumptuous living room. White pile carpet adorned with a white couch with white throw pillows. White end tables with blood red lamps bookend the couch.

The other glove floats through the air onto one of the lamps. I get the feeling I’m in for more than I bargained for. As much as the party and walk over felt chilly, my reception here in her suite conjure up the tropics, Marci in the sand, and me…


A New Life (part four)

Board members swim around us, hungry sharks sniffing for blood. Marci’s red dress doesn’t help erase my dark thoughts. I never noticed before. The member of IntegraLink’s board don’t much care for her. The feeling falls completely mutual from what I gather.

Marci and I went our separate ways shortly after our arrival. I relegated myself to the peons on the outer periphery of importance. Nevertheless, notable people sought me out, like Penelope, one of the VP’s of something or another.

“So. Marty. You escorted Ms. Rader to the ball. Did the two of you suddenly become an item?”

The eyebrows of my fellow bottom feeders told me I now consisted of four parts radioactivity and one part plague. The all scattered as my response stumbled from my lips. “Um, well, no, we just walked in together that’s all.” I hate it when I can’t think of anything clever to say.

“Looked like more than just a chance meeting at the door to me.” She paused, then added, “It appears I underestimated you.”

“Wow, I was never aware you’d even noticed me.” I turn and show her my back, nearly knocking over a young lady sporting a tray of hors d’oeuvres. While Penelope may hold a ton of clout, the conversation appeared headed for no good place. I caught back up with my kind, but they stood wary of every higher-up that strolled by.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Marty. You don’t understand the politics of this place yet. Ms. Rader is not someone to ally yourself with just yet. Since her old man died, she’s taken a lot of heat for changes she’s implemented.” John Merriweather from accounting. For some reason, he appears to want my friendship.

“Hey, John. I’m the least political person in this room. I don’t give a crap about all that stuff. I let everyone else play the games.”

John looked unconvinced. “You better brush up on your tact. Here comes Bathesda. You won’t blow him off as easy as Penelope.”

“I didn’t blow her off. I simply didn’t care for the conversation.”

“If you want to keep your job, you better give this conversation a better shot.”

John walked away just as Mr. Bathesda stepped into my field of vision. Hell, he took up my field of vision. He had to be six-eight and all muscle. His forty-ish look told me he most likely nestled into fifty a couple years ago. He works hard at appearing virile.

“Good evening Mr…ah, my apologies, I didn’t quite get your name.”

“Funny, you had it the other day in the board meeting when you shot down my idea.” Off to my right, John shook his head and frowned at me.

“Yes, that’s right. Pitchford. Let’s walk.”

“No thanks.” I didn’t care for his tone. John’s now red-faced and storms off into the crowd.

“You don’t care for me much, do you Pitchford.” Bathesda’s steel gray eyes attempt to bore through me.

“Why should I Bathesda? You’re pushing some political power play on me like an actor from some bad B-movie. If you don’t have the balls to say what’s on your mind, then let’s go enjoy this soiree.”

The slight tinge of color to Bathesda’s face rewards me for my efforts, although I’m sure I’m in deep shit now. I suppose I drifted a bit too far from my old ass-kissing persona. “Pitchford, whatever you’re up to, you better hope you have someone covering your back.”

“And why would that be, Dan?” Marci slipped in beside me. “Go plot your little power games elsewhere. Father told me you’d be a pain in the ass.”

Bathesda turned on his heel, his face now a bit brighter.

“Marci. I, uh, I apologize for stirring him up…”

“Have you had enough of this party yet?”

The question didn’t sound like a question, and by the tug on my elbow, I didn’t need a map to figure out what she meant.


A New Life (part three)

“Well now, Marty Pitchford. May we step down from the formalities and get back to a first name basis?” She shoots me a playful glance. “Or will you doom me to the shackles of everything that’s horrid about the corporate mentality and kiss my ass like everyone else?”

I hesitate. What the hell do you do in a case like this. I know in the past I would kiss her ass. I left that life behind. Now, I work off the premise that if my past life sucked, I must work to change my thinking. That means go for broke, which precisely describes my possible future. “Ok Marci. May I escort you and your exquisite ankles to the party? We’ll just throw out that ass kissing part.”

“Wow. My first name. I didn’t know how much it meant to me until now.” Her eyes lit up in a smile that matched the one on her lips. “By all means, let’s walk in arm in arm with heads held high and jolt the gossip mills into maximum production.”

As she locked her arm in mine, we both stepped forward, we both slipped, and nearly fell. We grabbed onto each other for support and exploded with laughter. After we stabilized, we proceeded to walk, gingerly, to the party. “As long as we keep our feet under us, we’ll make it without any broken bones.”

“Hell, I’d welcome a broken bone right now. It’d get me out of this damned party.” Marci’s attitude settled into a quiet resignation as we approached the door to the party banquet hall.

“I thought you made this party mandatory,” I state, confused by her reluctance.

“I did – for morale purposes only. There’s nothing here for me but to fend off the advances of overpaid executives and to suffer the jealous looks of the women.” I help Marci out of her cloak.

She’s decked out in a bright red, curve accentuating dress, the aforementioned heels, and earrings color coordinated with her lipstick and dress. “Heck, I don’t see why all the executives don’t hit on you.”

“Most of them do, in one way or another, even some of the women.” She winks at me and I note the glint of that playful smile I witnessed outside. “Most think they want me, but it’s the power that draws them.” She hesitates for a moment, then adds, “and the money.”

I shrug off my coat and flip my hat to the man collecting everyone’s outer apparel. This evening will prove to be far more interesting than I’d imagined as Marci retakes my arm…

Get your copy of The Method Writers today on Kindle!

The Method Writers US          The Method Writers UK


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