Making Progress

Well, so far so good. There hasn't been a single day during my longish commute to work where I haven't been able to write. And although I did not quite hit my goal of completing a third of the latest volume in the Stewards of Reed series by the end of November -- it really was an unreasonable goal to set for myself -- I am pleased with the progress.

As I have probably mentioned before, one of the things I enjoy most about writing is discovering the unexpected turns the story takes. For example, I have introduced many things into the narrative of the previous volumes of the Stewards of Reed without fully understanding their ultimate roles in the arc of the story (e.g. the starcrest stone, the Chindi, the silver-eyed folk that keep meddling in the lives of others, etc).  I am not one who particularly cares for loose ends, so these things are always in the back of my mind, with their respective stories being vetted and rejected until something finally clicks. I am happy to report that many things have "clicked" as of late.

I am fairly certain The Order of the Ancients will be the last volume in this series. I have created a vast fantasy world (in both present and past times), and I fear that by dragging the story out it will all become too much. More than a few of my family members and friends have not been able to finish the story because they could not keep track of all the characters. I can only imagine how difficult it would all become if I continued on for another few books :)

Side Project Complete

Yesterday, I published my little side project.  Confessions of a False Stoic is a collection of short stories and poems, one for each letter of the alphabet. Some were written years ago and have been collecting dust (so to speak) on my computer. Others were penned this year during my break from the fantasy world of the Stewards of Reed.  All were works that flowed easily from my mind to my hand, which I have come to appreciate as being somewhat rare.

Many thanks to Lindsey Alexander for her diligent review, and to Didier Baertschiger for taking the beautiful photo that adorns the cover (and for making said photo free via the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 license).

photo link: http://goo.gl/mKH4xP  

license link: http://goo.gl/yfbwji 

This was quite a departure from the fantasy writing that has occupied much of my time these past few years, but it was a much needed break. I don't have any expectations that it will do well ... it's just something I wanted to put out there. 

For those more interested in the Stewards series, you'll be happy to know that I've made a bit of progress (though, as per usual, not as much as I would have liked).  My hope is that I'll be at least a third of the way through by the end of the month ... we'll see how it goes with my return to full-time employment next week. 

Bittersweet Beginnings

Since 2012, I have been working part-time (from my home) supporting engineering projects back in California.  The flexible arrangement was awesome -- I had time to be with my kids and deal with all the school/extracurricular activities; I had time to focus on getting healthy at the gym; I had time to keep ahead of all the household chores that would otherwise have eaten into our precious weekends; I had time to work on various writing projects; and I was still able to contribute to our household income. Unfortunately, it was not enough income.

As my writing talents have proved not to be of the I-can-make-a-living-off-of-this caliber, I was forced to accept the fact it was time for me to re-focus on my engineering career. Today, I accepted an offer to return to work full-time for a NYC engineering firm.  I really liked the people I met, and I am excited about all the new opportunities I will have to add value to the firm -- but it is still bittersweet.

I know plenty of people who have been able to work full-time and still publish. I hope to be one of those people. The bright side of a long ferry commute to the City is that I'll have at least an hour and a half of time to focus on writing each day.  This is how I plan to complete the third volume of The Stewards of Reed series.  It will be published in 2015...I just can't say when exactly.

Exercise in Procrastination

That's what I've been up to lately -- procrastination. But it has been fruitful procrastination. I just finished my side project.  It's a collection of short stories and poems that I have written throughout the years, and it is currently in the hands of a new editor (although she can't work on it for another month).  I figure that's all right, given that this was all just a big exercise in procrastination anyway.

Tomorrow my attention returns to Volume 3 of the Stewards of Reed.  I no longer have any side projects or dying dogs to distract me. I am hoping that I make some decent progress; I know I've had lots of ideas come and go in my head -- it will be interesting to see which ones survive.

The clock is ticking. My life is going to change (and not necessarily for the better) within a month's time. I need to make progress now, while I can. I have never been one to miss a deadline (even self-imposed ones), and I don't plan on starting now.

Tucker Jackson Beagle

My heart is broken.

A month ago, I started noticing that my dog, Tucker, was losing interest in his food. This is particularly problematic because my other dog, Madison, has an appetite that knows no bounds...so I was constantly having to play referee to make sure she didn't eat two meals at each feeding.

At first I could coax Tucker to eat by adding a few treats to the meal. When that stopped working, I added sprinkle cheese. When that stopped working, I brought him to the vet. He suggested we try some medicines that coat the stomach in the event it was an ulcer or something.  I tried that for a week, but eventually he stopped accepting the cheese and peanut butter I tried to hide the pills in.

I had some success for awhile by heating up chicken broth and pouring it over his food, but eventually that stopped working too. So we went back to the vet.  X-rays showed a sizable mass in his abdomen.  An ultrasound taken a few days later confirmed the mass was a cavitated tumor on his spleen, as well as lesions on his liver.

Tucker was diagnosed with hemangiosarcoma, a highly malignant cancer with a very poor prognosis. Given his age (Tucker was 12.5), and given that the cancer had already spread, surgery was not an option. The other horrible thing about this cancer is there is a risk of the tumor rupturing, leading to sudden and severe hemorrhaging, and rapid death. My dog was a ticking time bomb.

Unwilling to let him suffer any longer, and unwilling to risk the tumor rupturing, we had Tucker euthanized last night.  It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. My husband and I both cried like babies as we watched him take his final breath.

My facebook tribute to the best dog I've ever known:

Today, with heavy hearts and eyes full of tears, we said good-bye to an amazing dog. Born January 11, 2002, Tucker Jackson Beagle proved right from the start that he was something special. 

At 3 months old, Tucker impressed us all by doing his business in a hole by a fence so as to avoid the unpleasantness of anybody stepping in it. He continued to show that same courtesy throughout his life, and when the cancer began to take hold at the very end, Tucker would still manage to seek out the most remote corners of the house whenever he got sick. 

Tucker proved time and again that he was no ordinary beagle. We were told to never let a beagle off leash during walks -- that he might catch scent of something and take off -- that we might never find him. Well, Tucker was let off leash often, and he never once strayed far from my side. 

We were told that beagles were small dogs (it was one of the selling points for JP when we finally decided to get a dog). Well, Tucker stood over 17 inches tall at the shoulders, and weighed 54 lbs at one point (he was put on a diet shortly thereafter). 

One day, his doggy day care provider sent home this simple note: "Today, Tucker reminded me just how smart a dog could be." I never did find out what it was he did, but it makes me chuckle to this day.  
 
Tucker was my constant companion on countless walks through the foggy hills of San Francisco, and along the quiet seaside streets of New Jersey. He followed me everywhere -- EVERYWHERE -- years went by before I finally had some privacy in the bathroom. 

It was hard to be mad at Tucker, though. He had a knack for knowing when you needed extra love.  Following my two miscarriages, he made a point to snuggle in extra close, refusing to leave my side. One of the best things about Tucker is that he did this for everyone, not just me. If anyone sat down on our couch, he would crawl into their lap, whether they wanted him to or not. 

Tucker never took "no" for an answer when it came to his job as a lap dog, and in the process, he managed to wiggle his way into everyone's hearts.  Paraphrasing the words of a Frenchman who used to take care of him when we were away: "Tucker is not beagle. Tucker is people."  RIP Tucker. You are missed. Terribly, and forever. 

How I lucked out to have such an amazing dog in my life I'll never know. Thank you for all the great memories, all the snuggles, and all the laughs. Until we meet again, my friend. Until we meet again. RIP Tucker.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

My engineering project wrapped up last month, and I've been able to re-focus on my writing again. I've been working primarily on my collection of short stories and poems, but I did finally reengage with Volume 3 of the Stewards of Reed as well.

Everything came to a screeching halt yesterday, when I learned of the death of Robin Williams.  I would not classify myself as a huge Robin Williams fan, though I did find him to be quite funny at times and really enjoyed some of his movies (namely Dead Poets Society and Good Will Hunting). It was the manner of his death that shook me so.

As someone who has struggled with depression, I know what it is like to contemplate taking your life. I know what a dark place you must be in for those thoughts to even cross your mind. It is heartbreaking to think that Robin Williams -- who devoted so much of his time and energy towards making the rest of us laugh -- was so tortured within.

I know there is a lot of ignorance surrounding depression and bi-polar disorder. I know it is difficult to understand why some people just don't "snap out of it" -- I know it is easy to think that such people are feeble-minded.  Perhaps I am feeble-minded. Somehow I managed to teach myself piano, graduate as Valedictorian of my high school, become an engineer...and yet, I could not teach myself how to be happy. It seemed like such an effortless thing for others, but no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I could not get rid of the intense melancholy that weighed upon me.


My closest high school girlfriends were aware of my true thoughts, but my depression remained hidden from others. At one point, my friends made me sign a contract that I would not attempt to kill myself. It wasn't as though that was the magic trick that suddenly made my depression go away, but in those dark times, when I would start to entertain the thought of suicide, I remembered that I had signed a contract...and that was enough to stop me.

Fortunately, in my case, I found that my sadness lessened, ever so slowly, as I made my way through college.  I suspect it was the result of a combination of a change in brain chemistry and a change in environment.  Given my family history of bi-polar/depression...I know genetics played a big role. In any case, I eventually found the light at the end of the tunnel.  And while I am not a bubbly, happy soul, I am no longer burdened by sadness...and that is a beautiful thing.

I am just sorry that Robin Williams never had a chance to find his own light at the end of the tunnel :(

A Childhood Lost

When I was about four, I decided to go for a walk.  We lived on a dead-end street. At the end, down an embankment, was a canal that would occasionally fill with fast-flowing flood waters, but usually only conveyed a small stream.  On this particular day, I decided to follow the trail that ran adjacent to the canal farther than I had ever taken it before. It brought me to a fairly busy road, with four lanes of traffic. I was pretty sure it was the same road that my mother would drive on to take me to daycare. I figured I could probably find the daycare if I followed the sidewalk long enough, but that didn't really appeal to me. So instead, I sat on the sidewalk, content to watch the cars go by.

I am not sure how long I sat there -- perhaps five minutes, perhaps fifteen.  It was long enough for a police car passing by to notice me and stop.  The nice policemen asked me several questions, and then asked me to get in the back of their car so they could take me home. I remember being annoyed at how they stopped at every single house in my neighborhood, asking if that was where I lived. I had given them explicit directions to my house and told them my full address multiple times -- it was clear to me that the policemen were clearly not very smart.

I am sure my parents were quite shocked to find policemen knocking at the front door, with me in tow. They knew I was playing somewhere outside, but they had no idea I had wandered so far. The policemen had a few words with my parents, and then they left.  Afterwards, I am pretty sure my parents told me not to take the trail to the busy road anymore, but I don't recall. I do know that I continued to explore my neighborhood without my parents constantly hovering around, watching my every movement. And I know that my parents were not arrested for neglect.

But this was in the day-and-age before 24-hour news filled our insatiable appetites for all things scandalous and sensational. This was before we were constantly reminded, over and over, of all the terrible things that sometimes happen to people. This was before we, as a society, became convinced that predators were hiding behind every tree, just waiting to abduct/abuse a child. This was before we lost perspective on risk, and decided that any risk to a child, no matter how remote, was an unacceptable risk.  But this is not a blanket approach to risk -- somehow allowing your child to ride in a car and play sports is still acceptable, even though these activities are far more likely (by orders of magnitude) to result in injury or death than walking to school alone, playing in a park by yourself, or exploring your neighborhood.

As I read the news about yet another parent being arrested for allowing their child (aged 7-9) to play in a nearby park unattended (though equipped with a cell phone), I cannot help but shake my head.  I cannot help but wonder about the consequences of our overprotective tendencies.  There are benefits to letting your child explore the world alone.  It forces them to think for themselves. It teaches them how to be self-sufficient. It teaches them the importance of evaluating risk, of setting boundaries.  Plus, it's fun.

We constantly bemoan the fact that today's youth are addicted to electronics, content to sit inside and play video games all day. But can we really blame them? They are not allowed to play in the front yard anymore unless mommy and daddy can watch (and often times mommy and daddy are too busy to watch). They are most certainly not allowed to roam the neighborhood, and even if they did, they would be hard-pressed to find any friends to play with...because nobody lets their kids play outside unattended anymore.  The concept of knocking on the door of your friend down the street and seeing if they'd like to play has been replaced with the concept of a play date. Because these days, mommy and daddy must schedule all of their child's activities, and even if the parents did allow their child to walk down the street by themselves in search of a friend, they just might find a policeman knocking on the front door. And these days, that policeman might just arrest them.

Absense DOES Make the Heart Grow Fonder

...or so I've proved in my very unscientific study.

I am three months removed from the publication of The Dungeons of Cetahl, and I find myself thinking of the story more and more each day. I'm actually a little excited to get started working on it again, which is a very good thing considering my state of mind not too long ago. I can't wait to see where the story takes me. I have some thoughts in mind, and I have drafted an ending already...but nothing is set in stone.  Now I just need to find the time to write.

It looks like I am going to be busy on an engineering project for the next 6 weeks.  I am grateful for the work, but the timing is somewhat unfortunate as (1) I have just gotten out of my Stewards funk; and (2) I wasn't expecting the work so I don't have full-time care arranged for my kids this summer.

The next 6 weeks will be a very interesting experiment of testing my work/life balance skills. Needless to say, I see a lot of late nights spent huddled over my computer in my near future.  The good news is that there is a hard deadline (July 21), so any miserable work/life balance issues will come to an end that day.

Anyway, if I fail to update the blog for the next few, you'll know why :)

I Hate Mommy

Last night, after the fifth time of trying to put them to bed, both of my kids snuck (sneaked?) downstairs. I had had enough. My kids are very familiar with my "I'm getting very angry voice" and were quick to scurry up the stairs.

"But I want my stuffed animals!" my daughter protested all the while.

I went in search of the said stuffed animals and carried them up to her room. I found her sitting in bed, real tears pouring from her eyes. "I hate Mommy," she sobbed, unaware that I had entered her room.

She's only four, and she doesn't like to be yelled at for anything, so I know I shouldn't take her words personally ... but I do. She has always been a Daddy's girl. He's the "good cop." He rarely yells. He lets them have fun. He breaks all of Mommy's rules. I'm the "bad cop." I yell all the time. I give them chores  (pick up your toys, make your bed, clear the table). I make the rules.

Sigh. I know I yell too much. When I was diagnosed with LERD (the silent acid reflux disease) earlier this year, my ENT told me I had singer's nodules on my vocal cords. He said he only ever sees them on (1) people who sing a lot; (2) cheerleaders; and (3) mothers of young children.


I have tried to be better about raising my voice. Obviously, I am failing. Otherwise, I wouldn't have a four-year-old who hates me. Sigh.

Spring Break Easter Jinx

Well, I definitely jinxed myself with the last post about writer's block. I haven't written a thing since that post. But to be fair, it wasn't because I couldn't think of something to write -- it was because I forgot that Spring Break and Easter were upon us.

With my children off from school last week, and my husband taking the week off work for a "stay-cation" -- I didn't really find myself with any free time that I could dedicate to writing. It was an exhausting week, complete with trips to museums, Broadway shows, playgrounds, Chuck-E-Cheese, karate belt testing, tee-ball games, my daughter's birthday, Easter, etc etc. I spent most of this week so far catching up on everything that didn't get done because of all our Spring Break fun.  Truth is, I'm still tired. Sigh. Yep, I'm getting old.

I have always thought that Halloween was my least favorite holiday. Even as a kid, I never really enjoyed it (yes, I like candy, but I'm just not one for dressing up in costumes and knocking on the doors of strangers). I think I stopped trick-or-treating when I was 9.  Anyway, this past weekend has me reconsidering whether Easter is not, in fact, my least favorite holiday.

My kids are still fairly young (5 and 4), so the tradition of the Easter bunny, egg hunt and coloring of eggs is alive and well in our house.  Every year we manage to make the same mistake when it comes to coloring eggs. We (1) start the process way too late (as in 10 minutes before bed time); (2) forget how to hard-boil an egg (so they end up cracked); and (3) waste time trying various techniques to cool the eggs quickly.  Our kids inevitably drop most of the eggs anyway...and the whole thing seems pointless.

Nearly three decades have passed since I was a child celebrating Easter, and it seems to me that much has changed in that time (or perhaps my family just celebrated it differently).  Back when I was little, we colored eggs the night before, woke up to an Easter basket filled with chocolate, and went on an egg hunt. [Side note: my father LOVED to hide eggs in the most unusual places. I think I found an egg in a filled mayonnaise jar once.]  These days, I've noticed it has become a gift-giving holiday.  

"What did you get for Easter, Timmy?" 

"A new bike!"

"Cool! I got a new PlayStation!"

Um, I must have missed the memo that made Easter a "Christmas Junior" holiday.  As it turns out, my son does need a new bike, and it would have been very easy to have given him one for Easter, but I didn't want to set a new precedent of expecting gifts on that day.  The feast of chocolate is enough of a gift.

Speaking of chocolate, that seems to be another thing that has changed since I was a kid. I noticed a few of my FB friends noting (proudly) that their kids' baskets were filled with DVDs, games, other small toys and healthy snacks...not a chocolate egg to be found.  I know that we get hit over the head every day about how Americans in general are overweight and that our children are overweight too -- so I definitely understand the desire to curb the unhealthiness of the holiday -- but I still subscribe to the "everything in moderation" theory. 

My kids get chocolate/candy 3 times a year: Halloween, Christmas, and Easter.  I make sure it doesn't get eaten all at once by dolling it out slowly in the weeks following the holiday.  Hopefully, by doing this, my kids are learning that candy/chocolate is something to be enjoyed a little at a time, and that it is not some forbidden fruit to be coveted and gorged upon when they are old enough to make choices on their own.  Alas, if they have a sweet tooth like their mommy...this lesson may be lost on them.  I can only hope that if they inherited my sweet tooth, they also inherited my willingness to be active and exercise.

Anyway, now that I have found the time to update my blog, I no longer have any excuse not to start working on my other creative projects.  I will get started right after I pick up my son from school, and take my daughter to dance class, and fix dinner, etc etc :)

Writer's Block

So, apparently there is some debate as to whether "writer's block" is a real thing or not. There are some who insist it is just an excuse for lazy writers. Those individuals argue that you should be able to write every day, even if it is just a sentence.

I would argue, however, that even if I did write a sentence each day, it is still possible to suffer from writer's block. 

Having spent the better part of my (paying) career learning to write to a deadline, I discovered that the best way for me to meet a deadline was to just start writing, even if I wasn't sure what I wanted to write yet. There were times I had to scrap much of what I wrote, but most of the time I was able to salvage a good bit of it. HOWEVER, I was writing marketing materials and technical reports...things that did not have a plot. Trying to write a novel is a completely different beast.

I sailed through writing my first novel (The Rise of Fallon). I woke up one day with an idea and just ran with it. But it wasn't as though I had the entire concept plotted out in my head ... the novel soon took on a life of its own, relegating me to the role of a puppet scribe. I had no idea when I began that Gentry would turn into a major character. I had no idea that Lady Dinah would go on a quest in search of her mother's journals. But that was the story that wanted to be written, and so it was.

I had assumed I would sail through writing my second novel (The Dungeons of Cetahl) as well.  I sat down at my computer, expecting my fingers to begin typing at the command of the same unseen forces that dictated my first novel.  Much to my frustration, my fingers remained still more often than not. The words would not come. I tried to force myself to write, giving myself a goal of writing a scene a day, but it was a waste of time. Those forced scenes were not where the story wanted to go -- they were dead ends -- and they always ended up in the digital trash bin.

It took some time to admit it to myself, but I had writer's block.  The creative juices weren't flowing, and there was nothing I could do to force the situation. I could only wait, and hope, that the story would finally come. It finally did -- in fits and bursts with long periods of silence in between. I must confess, it was a painful story to write.

It is the fear that my third novel (The Order of the Ancients) will be just as painful to write that has kept me from working on it in earnest. I am reluctant to go down that road again, so soon, with the wounds of the second novel so fresh. I have sketched out a few scenes, but I haven't really tried to sit down and write the story.

Instead, I have started working on a collection of poems and short stories -- some of which were written long ago, some of which were ideas that I never fully fleshed out. But this is not necessarily meant to be a distraction. It is my hope that the act of creative writing will be the inspiration/motivation I need to get over my fear and finally begin working on The Order of the Ancients.  And it WILL get written.  I am one of those unfortunate souls who feels compelled to finish what she starts...

What's in a name?

For the past two years, I have participated in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award (ABNA) contest. It is a free contest open to fiction writers of multiple genres -- General, YA, SF/F/H, Romance, Mystery/Thriller -- with the grand prize being cash and a publishing contract.  I have never progressed very far in the contest (and honestly, I don't expect that I ever will ... at least not with The Stewards of Reed), but I have discovered something arguably better than the grand prize -- I have discovered a community of fellow authors all struggling to get their books out into the world.

Several interesting discussions are raised in the ABNA forums.  When the lists of those contestants moving forward in the contest were posted a few weeks ago, it did not take long for folks to start commenting on the titles -- which ones they liked, which ones they didn't.  I suspect if my name/title had been on those lists (it wasn't, I was cut at the "pitch" stage ... again <sigh>) folks would not be particularly keen on my title. Truth is, I'm not either. 

When I originally devised the title, I was reacting to the frustration of not being able to easily tell the order of books in a series (e.g., Game of Thrones). I figured if I specifically included the series name and volume number in the title, I would save people that frustration. I see now that this was probably unnecessary, and that I am left with a rather long, cumbersome title. If I could go back, I'd probably rename the books as follows: The Steward's Sign; The Dungeons of Cetahl; and The Order of the Ancients. Oh well. Lesson learned.

As I mentioned in a previous post, the drama surrounding the publication of The Dungons of Cetahl drained me -- so much so that I have not written anything in over a month. But the time has come for me to start working in earnest on the third (last?) awkwardly-titled book: The Stewards of Reed, Volume 3: The Order of the Ancients. 

Thick Skin

There was a time when I would fret over a slowdown in sales, over a returned book, over a not-so-great review. And while I cannot deny these things still sting, I no longer torture myself with them.

I suppose I could argue that my skin has become thicker in the last year, but I think the reality of it is that I've been able to better distance myself emotionally from my books.  Looking back, I think I so wanted my first book to be a rousing success to prove to myself (and others) that I am still worthy. Being laid off from a company in which I had invested more than a decade of my life hurt me more than I had been willing to admit.  Having my book "fail" meant that I was truly a failure. 

Time has given me a new perspective, however. The rational side of me has finally wrestled the emotional side into submission. The truth is, it is all subjective. Anyone who has created anything -- whether it be a book, a piece of art, a song/album, a building design, a recipe, etc -- opens themselves up for critique by others. Some people will love your creation, some people will hate it. Even people considered "masters" in their field have their detractors.

I have only just embarked upon this world of published writing, and I have a long way to go. The only thing I can do is write more, publish, learn, and write some more.  And so I shall.

At Last

It is finally done. Two months later than I had wanted it to be, mind you, but at least it is done.  I am proud (relieved) to present to you The Stewards of Reed, Volume 2: The Dungeons of Cetahl, now available for purchase at Amazon:
www.amazon.com/dp/B00IS45QB8

When I published the first book in the series, I remember how excited I was to finally get it out there.  I was amazed at how many people -- people I didn't know -- purchased it before I even announced that it was for sale.

This time around, I am not so excited. With all the drama surrounding its publication, I feel more drained than anything. I am proud of the book, but I also know that I took certain liberties that may not be well received.  Yes, I am speaking of the dual timelines. I tried -- I really did -- I tried to find a different font or some other way to subtly remind the reader that the events in certain scenes are taking place in the past ... but nothing worked to my satisfaction.

In the end, I opted to add an introductory scene where Lady Dinah reflects upon her dead mother (and the secrets that she learned from her mother's journals) to set the stage, and I removed one scene where one of the characters from the historic timeline was alive in present-day.  Only time will tell if it is enough ...

Almost Done

I finished incorporating my editor's comments. Now I just need to address the dual timeline issue. I can't recall if I mentioned before that one of the plot lines in the sequel takes place in the past.  Often times, authors using dual timelines will employ some simple techniques to help the reader understand that what they are reading is taking place in a different time than the rest of the story. For example, they might place time stamps on each scene/chapter, or segregate the alternate timeline scenes by chapter.

Unfortunately, these techniques will not work for me. Since I haven't place any time stamps on any of the story to date (other than to say 20th Year of Fallon)...this would be difficult for me to do (and possibly annoying to the reader given that I'd have to do it for each scene...thereby interrupting the flow of the text).  Segregating the different timelines into separate chapters would be inconsistent with the way I've written the books thus far, with multiple plot lines interwoven in each chapter.

That said, I don't want the reader to become confused...so I feel I must do something. I came across an interesting blog post the other day that mentioned using different fonts for different timelines. I think I am going to try that. I know it would translate well in print...my primary concern remains the electronic book.  I know from my first book that many of the special fonts I used did not translate on the Kindle. It is something I need to look into.  Hopefully, I can resolve it within the next week.

Sneak Peak #5

The final edits are in!  I am going to get started on them now. Things are looking good for The Dungeons of Cetahl to be published by the end of the month. With that in mind, this will be the final sneak peak of the not-yet-edited sequel. Enjoy!

Once again Gentry and Casper found themselves crossing the barren expanse of land north of Bartow, forever in the shadow of the Atlian Mountains. There was no escape from the wind. It attacked them from all sides with a bitter chill that still carried traces of winter even though spring had come long ago.

As the sun began its slow retreat, Gentry found an outcropping of rocks and proceeded to set up camp. He was delighted to see that his fire took hold despite the pervasive wind.

We might actually stay warm tonight.

He had been staring at the flames – lost in thoughts of Daria and Luca – when the sound of hoofbeats echoed in the distance. Many hoofbeats. The unexpected sound filled him with dread.

In all the years Gentry had spent traveling the desolate road north from Bartow, he had never encountered another soul this late in the day. There were still traces of sunlight remaining, so Gentry scrambled up the nearby boulders in hopes of seeing what was coming his way. The boulders were no more than twenty feet high at the most, but they were high enough to give Gentry a better vantage point of the lands south.

His eyes narrowed as he searched the horizon. It did not take long to spot the cloud of dust in the distance. The riders were too far away for Gentry to make out how many were traveling in the party, but he guessed there were at least a half-dozen horsemen based on the size of the dust cloud and the sound of the hoofbeats. He could not fathom why so many riders would be on this particular road this late in the day. He only knew it likely meant trouble.

Fortunately, they were farther away than he would have guessed by the sound of the hoofbeats. Perhaps they have not seen my campfire yet. It was a hopeful thought – but he knew better. He had been burning the fire for over an hour. They most certainly saw something. He knew there was no time to lose. He must tear down the camp and hide – or run – fast!

He slid part of the way down the boulders before deciding to jump in order to save some time. He immediately regretted that decision. In his haste, Gentry failed to notice the pile of loose rocks that littered the ground at the base of the boulders. His ankle rolled awkwardly in the landing and he cried out in pain.

Cursing himself, Gentry hobbled along towards the fire. He grabbed one of the blankets that he had used to keep Casper warm at night and began swatting furiously at the flames. The horse let out a nervous neigh as Gentry desperately tried to put out the fire.

“Quiet, Casper!” Gentry barked.

For once, Casper listened.

With the fire finally out, Gentry focused his efforts on the rest of the campsite. The tent came down quicker than expected, and he began dragging the tarp and his remaining baggage behind the outcropping of rocks. He led Casper behind the boulders and sank down low – gingerly extending the leg with the throbbing ankle out before him as he slid to the ground.

Ironically, Gentry now found himself grateful for the wind. Its erratic gusts would make pinpointing the source of the fire that much harder. He just hoped the faint remnants of his campsite were far enough away from the road to escape the attention of the riders.

 Please do not let them see it, he begged to the heavens. It is too late to run.

Gentry closed his eyes. At first, it was hard to discern the sound of the approaching hoofbeats over his own beating heart – but the stampede of rhythmic clopping eventually grew louder and louder, overtaking all other sounds. He held his breath and waited. It would not be long now.

Sneak Peak #4

So my new editor is working diligently on the sequel..and she LIKES it!  She's the first person to read it (aside from myself) so that feedback meant a lot to me.  That's not to say that she didn't have any suggestions for improvement, but I am definitely breathing easier these days.

There is a chance I may be re-hired by my former employer. On one hand, I am excited at the prospect of having a second paycheck (our bank accounts have taken quite a beating this year). On the other hand, I worry how it may impact my writing. There are only so many hours in a day...and I am only willing to sacrifice so much sleep (said the girl who refused to nap as a toddler).  Sigh. Nothing is set yet, however, So we'll see.

Here is sneak peak #4 of my not-yet-edited sequel:

You are a fool, Gentry, he thought to himself. You should be home with your wife and child – not on this wild goose chase. Gentry took another swallow of dark brown ale and set down his pint glass.

Fallon had been so enamored with Bartow and the life he might have had if not for the Steward’s sign, that Gentry was almost certain he would find his missing friend enrolled in the university. He lifted his head and scanned the pub. If Fallon is a student, he does not frequent the Toasty Scholar.

Gentry let out a sigh. He had spent the better part of two weeks searching for his friend. There was no sign of Fallon at the university, and the innkeeper at the Cornerstone Inn and Tavern had not seen him in quite some time. Gentry sighed again. He knew it was possible that he might never find Fallon – even if he wandered the alleyways of Bartow for the next ten years. One man can easily hide amongst twenty-five thousand.

The bartender set another pint in front of Gentry without having to be asked. Gentry raised the new glass and smiled in thanks. The smile quickly faded once the bartender walked away and Gentry’s thoughts turned back to Fallon.

Bartow was an expensive town, and Gentry knew it would not be prudent to stay much longer. But he could not give up his search so quickly. His only hope was that Fallon was somewhere else.

If not Bartow, then where?

Gentry thought back though all of their conversations over the years, trying hard to recall if there had been any hint as to where Fallon might have gone, or why he might have left.

“Fallon always did have a soft spot for Jessum,” he mumbled aloud. Gentry had not been back to the mining town since he purchased his wedding rings of gold from Saul. That was nearly two years ago.

Perhaps the jeweler has seen Fallon recently. It was the only hope he had.

It would take several days to reach Jessum. The road north was cold and desolate and would bring him close to Colton and the ghosts of his past. He would also have to pass through Koman and risk being caught by the Komanites. But the road west led back to Reed – back to Daria and Luca – and he could not risk their temptation.

I cannot give up on Fallon just yet. He is my best friend. He saved my life. I owe him that much.

Gentry swallowed down the last of the ale and headed out into the evening air. He knew this would be the last night of sleeping in a comfortable bed for some time, and he was eager to return to the Cornerstone Inn and Tavern.

Sneak Peak #3

The following is probably one of the shorter scenes in my novel. It was originally placed at the end of the previous scene (see Sneak Peak #2)...but then I learned the rule about avoiding "head hopping" (i.e., switching from one character's thoughts to another's) within the same scene. I violated that rule quite frequently in The Rise of Fallon, but I haven't received any negative feedback regarding that (at least not yet)...so I like to tell myself it must not have been that bad.

Since my novels intertwine so many different subplots/characters, I must admit I found it difficult at times to adhere to the rule against head hopping in my sequel...but I think I managed (for the most part).

Here goes the latest in my not-yet-edited sequel:

Selma awoke the next morning to find her pillow soaked with a mixture of tears and honey wine, her head pounding. She stared blankly at the empty wine bottle, trying to recall the events of the previous night, but she could only recall the words of Lord Cephas.

New tears erupted from her bloodshot eyes as her thoughts drifted to Wendell. Her brother – her forever protector, her last living relative – was dead. And now she was alone in this world. And what a cruel world it was.

Sneak Peak #2

Happy to report that I have secured the services of another editor. She has been incredibly responsive and has already started her review of The Dungeons of Cetahl.  If all goes well, the book should be published by the end of this month!

In the meantime, here is another sneak peak of the not-yet-edited book. I must confess I struggled greatly with this particular scene. It has morphed so many times I have lost count...and yet, it is still not quite right. But, then again, I don't think I'll ever be completely satisfied :/

CHAPTER ONE

Ill Tidings

Though the throne room was quite large, it was a cold and barren chamber with few decorations save some red and black tapestries that hung from the walls. Loud voices tended to echo through the emptiness, compelling its occupants to use quieter tongues. This was just as well, as soft words do not lend themselves so readily to eavesdropping.

The Emperor sat upon his chair of stone, staring intently at the young man speaking before him – his son, Lord Cephas.

“It was a starcrest stone – in a wind chime, no less – tucked away in the corner of an obscure alleyway in Bartow. I had been admiring it when I felt his presence behind me.” A broad smile appeared on the young man’s face. “The old wizard was dust before he could utter a word.”

The arrogant boasts of his son were met with a scowl. “We did not send you on your quest so that you might start a war,” Lord Etan replied, his voice strained. Not yet, anyway. “You did not just kill any old wizard. You killed Lord Milton.”

It was clear from his son’s expression that Lord Cephas had not expected the rebuke. “I would have thought such news would have pleased you, Father,” he replied in a cool, measured tone. “The hero of the First War felled by your only son.”

Lord Etan said nothing.

“Would you rather I had been the one to die?” Lord Cephas pressed. “Do you not think Lord Milton would have done the same once he realized who stood before him?”

He has no idea how much I have suffered, Lord Etan thought bitterly. Eight years had passed since he initially sent Lord Cephas off on his quest. And while eight years is not necessarily a long time to a wizard – it is to a father who had expected his son to return within a year of his departure.

The Emperor had sent countless search parties into the West in an effort to find his son, but they always returned empty-handed. It was just in the past week that a messenger arrived with news that Lord Cephas had finally returned to the East. And now – at long last – his son stood before him. But his son came bearing ill tidings, and the Emperor remained troubled.

An awkward silence ensued until the young man took a deep breath and began speaking once more. “Lord Milton had a proper burial, and I took care to make certain no trace of him remained,” Lord Cephas explained. “Besides, the wizard was quite old. Sometimes old wizards just die.”

Sometimes old wizards just die. It was the way his son said it that unnerved the Emperor. He was of similar age to Lord Milton, perhaps even older.

“Regardless, I do not believe they shall suspect an Easterner was behind his disappearance.”

“Only a fool would be so naïve!” the Emperor growled, pounding his fist into the arm of the stone chair. “Wizards do not just disappear without a trace, my son.” Except perhaps you. The Emperor quickly dismissed the unexpected thought. “The Western Wizards most certainly shall suspect an Easterner is responsible. It is only a matter of time before we shall suffer the consequences of your stupidity.”

“If the West wages war upon us it shall be of your doing, not mine,” snapped Lord Cephas. “You have lost control of your domain, Emperor. Your people are fleeing over the mountains in droves. I have seen as much with my own eyes.”

The room fell silent, but the icy stares between father and son spoke volumes.

Eventually the Emperor let out a sigh and rubbed his aching head. “Did any good come of your journey? What of the other wizard? What of your servant?”

Selma had been standing quietly in the far corner of the throne room – staring at the floor – but she raised her head at the mention of her brother.

Lord Cephas frowned. “I am afraid Lady Blythe proved stronger than we had been led to believe. There was…an incident.”

“An incident?”

“Aye. I cannot say for certain if the wizard still lives, but alas, my servant is dead.”

Selma’s gasp was audible, as were the mumbled apologies that quickly followed. Unless specifically called upon, a servant must never utter a sound within the Emperor’s throne room. Never.

“Selma, leave us,” The Emperor commanded.

“As you wish, Emperor.”

Sneak Peak #1

February 1 came and went without any word from my editor. Sigh.  Tomorrow I shall begin the search for a new editor (I've already identified a few options).  Unfortunately, this means it will likely be closer until the end of February before The Dungeons of Cetahl is finally published. This is particularly frustrating because I was done with the story in early December...and had I chosen a different editor I might actually have published before the end of the year as I had originally hoped.

Anyway, I think most (if not all) of the visitors to this website are spambots...but on the off chance that a legitimate fan of THE STEWARDS OF REED series does check this blog from time to time, I've decided to post some sneak-peaks of The Dungeons of Cetahl until the book is finally published. It goes without saying that these pages have not yet been edited...

Prologue

The man sat quietly in the corner of his cell. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness long ago – so much so that he felt the need to shield them from the brightness of the guard’s torch whenever his daily ration of food was delivered. But it was his hands that he still relied upon most of all. His hands could see and hear what his other senses could not. His hands knew the stories of the walls, and the walls knew the stories of those sequestered in the cell before him.

The stone walls were cold and damp, and many parts were coated with a thin layer of moss that somehow managed to persist without the benefit of sunlight. He traced his fingers along the etchings in the stone. Several prisoners of old had attempted to track their days spent in solitude within the Dungeons of Cetahl – the thief for certain, the merchant, the blacksmith. But not the wizard. No, she did not mark her time in stone.

But it was not the wizard who concerned him, nor any of the others for that matter. I am here for a reason, he reminded himself. Eventually, sleep overcame him and he drifted off into the land of dreams – the only land beyond his cell that he had seen in over two decades.

The Third Bad Thing?

Continuing on the "Bad things come in 3's" from the previous post, I'm not sure if the 3rd bad thing has come or not.

Is the 3rd bad thing the fact that my editor (who promised her edits on The Dungeons of Cetahl "no later than January 20") has gone MIA? She has not responded to any email or phone call. It is totally out of character and I'm not sure what is going on. I feel bad for whatever she must be going through, but I'm also stuck in an awkward holding pattern not knowing when - or if - I will ever hear from her again. I finally had to email her saying that I will consider our agreement null and void if I don't hear from her by February 1.  Sigh.

Or is the 3rd bad thing the fact that my youngest dog - within the span of days - was (1) diagnosed with extremely dilute urine, with the most likely culprit being diabetes insipidus (the kind you can't treat); and (2) got into the garbage and ate an entire cooked chicken carcass, and proceeded to vomit and have diarrhea all over our house while my husband and I were out at an eye doctor's appointment? She was taken to the vet and is now on medicine and seems to be fine...time will tell.

As annoying as these things are...they seem trivial compared to the death of my grandfather and my high school friend. Still, this year has not gotten off to a very good start. Double sigh. :(

Not the Best Start to the New Year

After a long battle with congestive heart failure and kidney disease, my beloved grandfather passed away on January 5 with my grandmother by his side.  At 6'2" and over 200 lbs, my grandfather was - literally and figuratively - a large presence in my life. His passing has left a large hole.  RIP Grandaddy! We miss you!

My grandfather's death, while painful, was expected. The death of a friend from middle/high school was not. Her death was a senseless act of violence that left five children without a mother, three of whom are still in elementary school. It is beyond heartbreaking. RIP Casey :(
http://www.gainesville.com/article/20140113/ARTICLES/140119899#gsc.tab=0

I'm not very superstitious, but I would be lying if I did not admit I am a little unsettled by age-old saying that "bad things come in 3's."  Sigh.