Aella's Theme

There's a song in my novel-writing playlists that I associate with the love storyline of Book 3. It's about Arobin and his wife Aella. They are desperately in love and a wonderful couple. He's quiet and quick-thinking, she's passionate and trusting. Together, they were one of the most dynamic character relationships I've been able to write.

Here are a few snippets of their story...

            Hearing her rich, sweet voice again, Arobin opened his eyes and lifted his head from her. He looked at her face, forcing himself to pick out each of the lines, freckles, and blemishes that he loved so much about her. She smiled at him, the tears dripping down her cheeks. “I can’t believe this. We all thought you were gone.”

            She shook her head, chuckling. “You know I would never leave without saying goodbye.” Leaning her head in against his forehead, she squeezed him in a hug. “I tried to get word out to you. I tried to get a contact to find you. I did everything I could to let you know I was alive.”

            Arobin wrapped his arm around her shoulders and clasped his hands together, holding her tightly in his grasp. They sat in the silence of the camp. The snowflakes fell outside the tent entrance. The only noise coming from the camp was the sound of the wind howling and the snow steadily falling to the ground. Even the darkness was steady and unmoving. The camp was shrouded in a black blanket with the spots of white tainting its inkiness. Had it not been a prison camp, that night would almost be peaceful.

One chapter closer to the crisis today and as usual I'm panicking. I shouldn't be. I'm confident that the loose ends I still am not sure about will come together nicely in the end. The build is looking fantastic so far. Some of my best writing, especially considering it's in a different style/theme than I'm used to.

I almost want to retreat to my earlier books for shelter. I don't want this story to end. I'm so upset that I can't even liken writing to real life as I usually do.

Time to escape, at least to somewhere that makes sense.

Writer's Angst: The Crisis

There aren't many things that frighten me about a novel. Well, that's not true. There are several. I find plotting before writing comparative to having teeth pulled, the dreaded but always occurring writer's block stops me dead sometimes, and then there's the mantra of show, don't tell that just becomes a despised chide every couple scenes.

The one thing that scares me the most as an author?

The crisis.

Not the beginning, not the middle (which tends to be the hardest for writers), and most certainly not the climax. It's the crisis that terrifies me. Every time I near one I start to panic. The only thought in my head is "Oh, shit, you mean we're almost done with this book? Fuck Fuckity Fuck sake, what are we going to do when it's over?"

No exaggeration. It's probably the closest I get to panic attacks now. I think the reason is that once you near the crisis, you're pretty much forced to continue. You can't sit around writing the wonderful relaxing scenes you enjoy the first half. You have to finish that crisis and once you do you have to write the climax, which means your book is over.

I don't want my book to be over. I remember planning this book for years. I remember thinking about it when I was just a middle school nerd writing away in her classes and study halls. I remember plotting and planning and smiling and seeking shelter in the pages of this story, my hand effortlessly gliding over the page as I put words to paper.

Now my hands move just as quickly over the keyboard but this time I know there is no rewrite to come in the future. When this book is over, it's done. There may be edits and additions but there will be no reliving the excitement of Book 4 and that, my dear readers, is what frightens me so much.

Because we, as writers, hate seeing a good thing come to an end and dread it with all the strength we can muster.

The Hidden Chest

Within here are some of my nearest and dearest personal writings. These books were seen by only a few trusted and will never again be seen by any eyes but my own. The story is enchanting.

Set in a beautiful desert city in a post-apocalyptic world...An employee of the occupying forces contracts a rare and fatal disease and is presumed dead after an escape from the enemy...A gift of brilliant mental processing meant to stop the spread of the crippling disease he's responsible for spreading, all the while dying from its very effects...The hope that a wealthy emperor will give his multi-billion dollar spice and herb venture to the occupation before it strangles civilians...Genetical tests that create a super bug that turns man into beast...

Here's an excerpt from the first book in the chest. It still gives me chills.

"They cried, they screamed, they sacrificed everything for nothing and begged for a second chance after they forgot about the first. They were all around in the darkness, in the eyes of those nearby, in the arms of all that was true and false. They were bred in insolence, born in innocence, raised in disgust, and died in loathing. They stood, they crawled, they walked, and they learned to read all so they could spill their own flesh's blood and experience the thrill of death. They were each other. They were the citizens."

I love this story and only visit it once every few years.

Tonight I have an appointment with nostalgia.

Love Lost

Sometimes I can't fight the feeling that I already met my one and only true love. I'm not much of a romantic person, perhaps I'm too jaded for that, but when I look back on my last serious relationship I realize that he was in every way what people call a soul mate. He was the one I was destined to marry.

But, then again, was he really? If he was, wouldn't I be with him right now?

Ahhhhhh, love is such a pain in the ass.

Tomorrow, Oh, How it Creeps

Think about our dreams, old friend.
The ones we dreamt when we were young and happy.
Those stories we used to tell with excitement and fervor.
We'd battle pirates on the bow of the ship,
Wield daggers against thieves in the night,
And fly on the backs of eagles in the golden sky.


Think about our dreams, old friend.
We left them behind when we grew older and seasoned.
We weren't chasing robbers when we had to wear a suit and tie.
There were briefcases to be sealed in the morning,
Meetings to attend in the cool of the office,
And trash to be taken to the curb in the dusty dusk.


Think about our dreams, old friend.
It's all we have left as we age and wither.
We can't carry briefcases with these frail hands and arms.
There are pills to be taken in the morning,
Programs to watch in the comfort of the couch,
And meals to heat up in the microwave before the sun even sets.


Think about our dreams, old friend.
Because now all we can do is dream while we wait for the sunset.
These are the stories we tell our grandchildren.
Stories about pirates on the high winds,
creepers in the darkness of alleys,
And a wilderness unfolding before our eyes only.


Think about our dreams, old friend.

Mid-Summer Immunity Fail

One minute I'm hot and sweaty.

The next I'm shivering and freezing.

Then hot again.

I can't breathe, my body is sore and shaky, and my eyes watery.

Who the hell gets sick in the middle of July?