Showing posts with label Insecure Writer's Support Group. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Insecure Writer's Support Group. Show all posts
Saturday, March 5, 2016
Shameless Self-Promotion Saturday, Vol. 2
Just wanted to let everyone know about some guest blogging I've done recently.
This past week, I was on Casi McLean's amazing page, Authors Bare All, talking about the power of imagination and writing. The article can be found here:
Authors Bare All: Nancy Reece
Later in March, I am blogging about Waffles and Wagon Trains, at "Between the Pages" with Lynda Coker. Don't think, just wait for it. I promise you, it will be well worth it. If you'd like to read some of her other recipe and writing combinations, check it out here:
Between the Pages
I have one so far set for April, but I haven't decided what that will be about as of yet. I need to mull it over for a while.
So check out these awesome blogs, as well as my own of course (remember - it is Shameless Self-Promotion Saturday!). Meanwhile, I missed this week's Insecure Writer's Support Group hop, and I'm terribly sorry. Life recently has been throwing a lot of things in my direction, and I knew something was going to get dropped.
We are three months into March and life is coming fast and hard, but if I keep my eyes focused on my higher power, who is Christ, then I know everything will be all right.
Labels:
2016,
blogging,
Insecure Writer's Support Group,
Writing
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Life, the Universe, and Everything...
Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!
Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer - aim for a dozen new people each time.
Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer - aim for a dozen new people each time.
I’ve been making up stories inside
my head since I was old enough to know the definition of imagination. As a
child, most of them focuses on me getting a pony (which never came), or
travelling the world (which did). Of course there was still a Prince Charming,
being one of the early crowd to be swayed by Disney princesses and their own
tales of love; sometimes there were nameless terrors chasing me through demon
filled streets into closets where my worst nightmares were waiting to strip the
flesh off my bones and devour my soul. Hey, it was hard growing up in the 60s
and 70s.
Once I began a teenager, making up
stories gave way to a serious reading project. My mother was a librarian, and I
decided to make good use of her job and set up a goal to read every book at
that time to be considered a ‘classic’. From “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” to
“Zorro” I set an ambition program of two books a month. It was, interesting,
and a task I wouldn’t undo for the world. Some books were real stinkers, which
of course just proves how subjective the term ‘classic’ really is. Others I
have re-read over and over throughout the years, until many copies sit on my
shelf dog-eared and worn. Some I never made it past the first chapter.
While my own personal reading
tastes prefer Fantasy and/or Science Fiction, there are books in most genre
which captured my imagination even to this day. True I write Romance and
Fantasy but Mystery, Action, even Westerns influence my character and locations
because I am the sum of every word I’ve read since my mother first handed me
‘Go Dog, Go!” as a child. All writers are amalgams of their readying history.
We have to be. Most novels are fairly simple if reduced down to their simplest
elements: love, greed, money, revenge, power. The five basic food groups for
writers. Your plot will certainly be driven by a least one of these, some books
have more.
Sometimes what we take away isn’t
what we loved but what we hated. What, you may ask, is my own personal pet
peeve garnered from a lifetime of reading? Unnecessary dialog. Dialog removes
you from the scene, substitutes words for your own imagination, and I love my
imagination.
In my most recently book, “The
Price for Redemption”, it is by using her imagination Vivienne discovers not
only the limits of her inner magic (not many!), as well as her betrayer.
Without the ability to think at the outer limits of our minds, think of all the
books that probably wouldn’t have been written, including one of my own
personal favorites: “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” by Douglas Adams!
We are the sum of all our
experiences, so go grab life with both hands and make more!
Check out my newest release:
In order to save the Five Kingdoms,
Vivienne must fight to against her worst enemies, including herself.
Excerpt:
The
pneumonia returned with a vengeance after my trip into the past of the Five
Kingdoms. February faded into March and chills rattled my bones while I
wandered through fever-induced dreams. Some were happy dreams with Devon still
by my side protecting me; others were nightmares where in the darkness enemies
assailed me from all sides, unseen but very dangerous. Eventually I realized
they were only dreams, and tears began leaking through my closed eyelids.
Though I could think of no valid reason to do so, I woke up. It had been three
weeks since the day I stumbled through the snow and internal despair alone back
to Pitaq bearing my grandfather’s murdered corpse and news of my husband and
protector, now captured by our shared enemies.
Someone
undressed me, replaced my frozen, blood soaked garments with soft and silky
pajamas. I struggled to move, and discovered thick blankets piled upon the bed
to keep my icy body warm. The mountain of wool was beginning to cause profuse
sweating. Gone was the complete numbness of body and gone was the knife in my
lungs which stabbed with every breath, but my soul was still crushed under the
weight of a cold heart. I stayed in bed contemplating the bitter truth of my
failure: I hadn’t stopped Sauk. I knew of no good reason why my heart should
still beat.
Frantic
with the constraint of too many layers I threw the heavy blankets aside. I
managed to get one leg free and slid out from under the rest, down the side and
on to the floor. Slumped with my back against the bed, sitting on the woolen
rug, I was again overwhelmed by what had happened in the mists and horrors of
the distant past. I missed Devon so much; the pain inside my chest was fierce,
a heart stopped in mid beat, never to know warmth again. Sobs choked my throat,
but I had no more tears left.
The
death of my grandfather who I had, in truth, only known a very short time, and
the capture of Devon left me alone again with no family. I failed to save the
last two people in my life that loved me and unless I could find the strength
to get off the floor I would also lose the Books, the Five Kingdoms and the
rest of the earth. Leaning my head back, the hard truth smacked me—there was no
one to guide me, no fixed direction to follow and I had no desire for this
fight. All I wanted was Devon back, and I would go to any extreme to accomplish
that end. However, after so much time wasted in illness, I had no idea where to
begin. I needed information.
Wallowing
in my grief-clouded haze I grew aware I was not alone. First there was
breathing, and then I saw Theirran’s boots in the chair by the fireplace. He
did not move. He didn’t fidget. He was just sitting, waiting for me to notice
him. Though every fiber in my body protested the very idea of positive forward
motion, I stood, testing to make sure the feeling had returned to my feet. Once
I was sure they would support my weight, I leaned against the bed staring at
the floor, not at him. My head pounded from fire and stress and loss.
“What
are you doing here Theirran?” My voice was low but sounded loud and unnatural
in my fevered ears.
To Rejoin the Support Group:
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
All my life I wanted to be a writer. Not just a scribbler, or a newspaper reporter but a real novelist along the lines of a Heinlein or Dorothy Parker. But when your own insecurities are the demons that laugh at you in the cold hours of night, sometimes it is best to let the dreams sit for a while; and so I did. I went to college, got a job, got married, had children - all the things society claims will make us happy and fulfilled. But they were wrong.
Sure, you might think everything is alright but deep inside there is a piece of you screaming for recognition. Then one day you decide to give in to the whisper and see what happens. That's what I did when my oldest went to college. With a sudden empty spot in my head, freed up from the constant worry that accompanies a son who seemed at time determined to do the exact opposite of what he was told regardless of the side effects, I decided the time had come to put the stories to paper.
When I completed the first draft of my debut novel, "Catalyst - Guardian Rising", I did what any new author might do - starting looking into getting published. I had two reasons in mind: first of all to become rich and famous (lol) and second, more important to me, to have someone tell me I knew what I was doing. To hear that accolade would mean the world to the deeply insecure person that is me. The first editor I sent a sample for a paid analysis told me yes, I do have a knack for the craft. I will forever be in his debt for all the assistance and suggestions he has given over the past three years.
I stand in awe of published writers. Having completed two full length novels in less than three years while working a full time job, raising a family, and working with rescued horses - has left me a little exhausted. Slowly I feel my creative thoughts starting to fire again, but I don't intend to push it. The story is there, I just have to coax the characters to share it with me.
My newest release, "January Frost", is currently available on Amazon.com. It is completely different from "Catalyst", so be sure to check it out. It's a romance combining two of my favorite things: horses and love.
That's all for this month. See you on the first Wednesday of July for another IWSG meeting. TTFN.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Well, I Missed it Again
Today is the first Wednesday of the month, which means Insecure Writer's Support Group blog hop and once again I was too busy with my day to day job to get anything done. But that's okay. Somehow the pressure to post something is gone and I can write on almost any topic. The one I choose today is being grateful.
If I were to believe in my horoscope, I should be taking chances and leaping full tilt to assault the gates of my personal life and professional ones as well. However my better sense tells me just because someone got a few things right when they did a free reading based on my birthday and place doesn't mean I should base my actions around a piece of paper. While it is all well and good to read about the life you should be living, nowhere is there a forecast of what might really help me, which is to be accepting of my life and who I am.
All my life I have looked at others who griped and moaned about their supposed difficulties and wondered what their problem really was. Those whose lives look best from the outside are more times than not experiencing more catastrophes than we can imagine. Too many times society and the media tell us to strive for more, to want what our neighbors' have and find ways to obtain it at all costs. It only brings more unhappiness and more debt and more worry and why do we get on that hamster wheel when we know what the outcome will be?
I choose to pray every night. It's how I was raised and it's what I believe. Each night I thank God for all that He has blessed me with and I ask for a heart content with my place. Sure, I would love to be a hugely successful writer with a zillion followers, cranking out book after book with apparent ease and talent but that's not who I am. It takes me a while to craft each story, to live with my characters as a part of my being day in and day out until it feels...done.
Someday, if it is my destiny, I may still have the zillion followers (maybe two!). But no matter what happens I am grateful for the gifts I have, and blessed more than I probably deserved. I am not content, but I'm working on it.
After a delay due to the illness of my publisher my new novel, January Frost, will be on Amazon.com soon. Thank goodness she is recovering but a double pulmonary embolism isn't something you just bound right back from. I will do a separate post with a new announcement when I have more details, so keep a weather eye out.
If I were to believe in my horoscope, I should be taking chances and leaping full tilt to assault the gates of my personal life and professional ones as well. However my better sense tells me just because someone got a few things right when they did a free reading based on my birthday and place doesn't mean I should base my actions around a piece of paper. While it is all well and good to read about the life you should be living, nowhere is there a forecast of what might really help me, which is to be accepting of my life and who I am.
All my life I have looked at others who griped and moaned about their supposed difficulties and wondered what their problem really was. Those whose lives look best from the outside are more times than not experiencing more catastrophes than we can imagine. Too many times society and the media tell us to strive for more, to want what our neighbors' have and find ways to obtain it at all costs. It only brings more unhappiness and more debt and more worry and why do we get on that hamster wheel when we know what the outcome will be?
I choose to pray every night. It's how I was raised and it's what I believe. Each night I thank God for all that He has blessed me with and I ask for a heart content with my place. Sure, I would love to be a hugely successful writer with a zillion followers, cranking out book after book with apparent ease and talent but that's not who I am. It takes me a while to craft each story, to live with my characters as a part of my being day in and day out until it feels...done.
Someday, if it is my destiny, I may still have the zillion followers (maybe two!). But no matter what happens I am grateful for the gifts I have, and blessed more than I probably deserved. I am not content, but I'm working on it.
After a delay due to the illness of my publisher my new novel, January Frost, will be on Amazon.com soon. Thank goodness she is recovering but a double pulmonary embolism isn't something you just bound right back from. I will do a separate post with a new announcement when I have more details, so keep a weather eye out.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Have You Ever...?
Today is the first Wednesday in April, which means it's time for Insecure Writer's Support Group. My topic for today is...have you ever?
Have you ever sat down and studied why you write and where you write the best? Do you like music playing or silence? Do you write long hand or type? Do you write sequentially or piece stories together from random chapters?
No matter which way I turn, I hear the small insistent voice of my high school English grammar teacher raising sand because I'm using commas wrong, or writing in sentence fragments. How do you explain to a memory that writers today have more freedom to ignore the rules than they did 30 years ago?
I confess, I do follow the rules more than many. I like the semi-comma. I like using it; it has merit. But I recently had a critique who told me the semi-comma died years ago from lack of understanding. Just use a comma, or a separate sentence. I don't like that. So do I buckle to peer pressure or keep using an archaic punctuation symbol because I know its power?
If someone won't publish a story because of a semi-colon, maybe I am in the wrong profession. That seems trivial; which means it's probably true.
Happy April everyone. I am not participating in the April A to Z Blog Challenge this year - too many personal things going on, but I should have a book coming out this month. Stay tuned for more details!
Have you ever sat down and studied why you write and where you write the best? Do you like music playing or silence? Do you write long hand or type? Do you write sequentially or piece stories together from random chapters?
No matter which way I turn, I hear the small insistent voice of my high school English grammar teacher raising sand because I'm using commas wrong, or writing in sentence fragments. How do you explain to a memory that writers today have more freedom to ignore the rules than they did 30 years ago?
I confess, I do follow the rules more than many. I like the semi-comma. I like using it; it has merit. But I recently had a critique who told me the semi-comma died years ago from lack of understanding. Just use a comma, or a separate sentence. I don't like that. So do I buckle to peer pressure or keep using an archaic punctuation symbol because I know its power?
If someone won't publish a story because of a semi-colon, maybe I am in the wrong profession. That seems trivial; which means it's probably true.
Happy April everyone. I am not participating in the April A to Z Blog Challenge this year - too many personal things going on, but I should have a book coming out this month. Stay tuned for more details!
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
March Madness
Today is the first Wednesday in March, which means Insecure Writer's Support Group blog hop. (Gee, I hope I am still on the list!)
I'm having a hard time getting focused. Currently on my computer there are four WIPs that at any time I could finish up and start editing, but lately all I feel capable of is existing. My energy is at an all time low and creatively my mind is all over the place.
Every story line is different, so you think I would be able to focus on either saving my action hero and his wife from the mad bomber who is chasing them, or help the poor soul I've left floundering in a morass of negative emotions due to personal angst. Perhaps I could work on my werewolves who are being encroached by humans and are looking to move to the wilds of Canada to live free, or send my alter-ego into the fray to fight against darkness and tyranny.
Or perhaps, I'll grab a bowl of cereal and sit in the recliner watching back to back episodes of "Cheaters" and wondering if my helpful hubby needs stalking, I mean watching.
Wow, I need a break.
I need to sit on the beach with my toes in the sand contemplating the tan of Joey the Cabana Boy as he brings me another virgin Strawberry Daiquiri. I need to stare into the horizon and wonder at the magnitude of our world and our place in it. But perhaps, most of all, I need peace in my life.
I have a teenage daughter going through the pains of first love, a grown son with a touch of hypochondria, and a husband so ready to retire he spends as little time in the office as he can get away with. I need something. I'm not sure what it is, but the feeling of being put upon is growing by the day. If things don't reach equilibrium soon, there might be an incident which may or may not land me on the 6:00 news.
Don't get me wrong, I love my family. Maybe this is just a mid-life crisis rearing its ugly head, but my writing is suffering and I'm looking for answers not more questions. Some days my heart feels it will explode from the effort of remaining smiling and pleasant.
But don't forget to keep an eye on the headlines - after all, I am a writer. I kill people in my head everyday. The real trick is to not do it in real life.
I'm having a hard time getting focused. Currently on my computer there are four WIPs that at any time I could finish up and start editing, but lately all I feel capable of is existing. My energy is at an all time low and creatively my mind is all over the place.
Every story line is different, so you think I would be able to focus on either saving my action hero and his wife from the mad bomber who is chasing them, or help the poor soul I've left floundering in a morass of negative emotions due to personal angst. Perhaps I could work on my werewolves who are being encroached by humans and are looking to move to the wilds of Canada to live free, or send my alter-ego into the fray to fight against darkness and tyranny.
Or perhaps, I'll grab a bowl of cereal and sit in the recliner watching back to back episodes of "Cheaters" and wondering if my helpful hubby needs stalking, I mean watching.
Wow, I need a break.
I need to sit on the beach with my toes in the sand contemplating the tan of Joey the Cabana Boy as he brings me another virgin Strawberry Daiquiri. I need to stare into the horizon and wonder at the magnitude of our world and our place in it. But perhaps, most of all, I need peace in my life.
I have a teenage daughter going through the pains of first love, a grown son with a touch of hypochondria, and a husband so ready to retire he spends as little time in the office as he can get away with. I need something. I'm not sure what it is, but the feeling of being put upon is growing by the day. If things don't reach equilibrium soon, there might be an incident which may or may not land me on the 6:00 news.
Don't get me wrong, I love my family. Maybe this is just a mid-life crisis rearing its ugly head, but my writing is suffering and I'm looking for answers not more questions. Some days my heart feels it will explode from the effort of remaining smiling and pleasant.
But don't forget to keep an eye on the headlines - after all, I am a writer. I kill people in my head everyday. The real trick is to not do it in real life.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Boycott November
Today is the first Wednesday of the month, which means it's Insecure Writer's Support Group!
This is November, which for most writers means NaNoWriteMo. Personally I have refused to participate. I have too much going on in my outside life to focus on an additional 50,000 words. January Frost is in copy edits, I have three major projects going on at work, and the days are getting day earlier. Taking on another work in progress doesn't fill me with excitement. On the contrary, I feel dread.
I confess I am not the best at time management.. I have shiny penny syndrome. Everything distracts me when I'm not in the zone. That's why when I write I have to listen to something I know well enough for it to become background noise. Otherwise I don't writer, I day dream.
My lack of attention is the one thing about myself I dislike intently. It affects every area of my life, personal and professional. I won't take the medications. I did that to my son and I wish I hadn't. He told me when the Ritalin wore off it was like a bone snapping in his body. With my low tolerance for pain that's an issue.
So, my insecurity for this month is my lack of time management and attention to task. In the time I have written two books, some of my friends have pushed out four or five. Sure we don't all write in the same genre but it makes me wonder, am I any good at this?
That said, I will plug through my copy edits, and work out a few scenes in a work in progress I already have. If in the process of taking care of these obligations I manage to hit 50,000 words of editing, then I will consider that my NaNo project. And... there's always next year.
Don't forget my new romance, January Frost, will be out this winter from Keith Publishing. Below is a sneak peek:
Unsure if those old demons will help with the
healing her body and soul are going through, it may take some convincing before
Evelyn realizes the only path into her future lies straight though the shadows in
the past.
This is November, which for most writers means NaNoWriteMo. Personally I have refused to participate. I have too much going on in my outside life to focus on an additional 50,000 words. January Frost is in copy edits, I have three major projects going on at work, and the days are getting day earlier. Taking on another work in progress doesn't fill me with excitement. On the contrary, I feel dread.
I confess I am not the best at time management.. I have shiny penny syndrome. Everything distracts me when I'm not in the zone. That's why when I write I have to listen to something I know well enough for it to become background noise. Otherwise I don't writer, I day dream.
My lack of attention is the one thing about myself I dislike intently. It affects every area of my life, personal and professional. I won't take the medications. I did that to my son and I wish I hadn't. He told me when the Ritalin wore off it was like a bone snapping in his body. With my low tolerance for pain that's an issue.
So, my insecurity for this month is my lack of time management and attention to task. In the time I have written two books, some of my friends have pushed out four or five. Sure we don't all write in the same genre but it makes me wonder, am I any good at this?
That said, I will plug through my copy edits, and work out a few scenes in a work in progress I already have. If in the process of taking care of these obligations I manage to hit 50,000 words of editing, then I will consider that my NaNo project. And... there's always next year.
Don't forget my new romance, January Frost, will be out this winter from Keith Publishing. Below is a sneak peek:
Evelyn
Graham-Frost had it all: a job she loved, a daughter she adored, and a life far
away from the pain and bitterness of her childhood. Then in the flash of an
eye, everything disappears when a career-ending fall from her world champion
show horse, Grey Cliffs’ Snowman, lands Evelyn on the ground and jobless.
When
the offer to return to her childhood home as the new trainer at Grey Cliffs
presents itself, she is torn between the life she’s built, and the love of the
man she ran away from ten years previous. Going back means giving her daughter a
chance to connect with the father she’s never met, but it also means facing
again the horror of what happened that long ago evening.
JUNE,
TWO YEARS AGO
My only clear memory of
the accident itself is overwhelming pain.
I remember every detail of my preparations for that ride. It was a brilliant mid-summer day. The sky
was clear, deep blue with high, light clouds, but rain was forecast for later
in the day. The temperature was cool in the morning, but heated up as the sun
climbed higher into the sky. I remember arriving at the complex that morning,
spending extra time getting my massive stallion Grey Cliffs’ Snowman, or ‘Manny’
ready for his divisions, and thinking about the promises I made to my daughter
Davy, and my business partner Sebastian to make this show season our last.
Manny had been ready as a farm stud for a while and it was his commercial
viability that set the tone for the rest of our barn family. As long as I needed to jump and run away, Snowman
would take me.
When
the storm front arrived, the rain was intense, clouds carrying lightning,
accompanied by hail and buckets of water.
By the time Manny and I were on the course, the ground was a combination
of ankle deep mud and shallow rivers. Once we were committed, I spent a great deal
of time encouraging Manny as we worked our way through the sludge with the
constant rain fogging my goggles and making it harder to see. We were
approaching the fifteenth jump, an in-and-out ditch, then out again and through
a corridor lined with hedge and finally over a flat top wooden bench with
flowers and distractions galore.
Underneath my seat, the energy gathered in Manny’s legs as he prepared
himself for the down and away slope of the jump. But right when the massive grey stallion was
ready to leap over the split rail four-foot-high jump, the ground under his
hooves gave way, throwing him off balance.
I lost my seat. My forward momentum
did not change or slow down when he did. I was launched out of the saddle and
over Manny’s head. I had fallen before, many times. But this went wrong. When Manny clipped his
front legs against the rail, he threw up his head. It connected with my left
arm and I could hear the bone snap. The sudden noise, so close to his ears,
startled the big grey stallion, who then flinched. I hit the ground with my
right leg underneath me. Before I reacted, the off-balanced horse landed on my
legs, causing the stress fractures and small breaks from the initial fall to
worsen. Finally my head snapped back,
smacking the ground with enough force to crack my helmet into several pieces.
After that moment, I can’t remember much of the coming weeks.
People
ran around screaming for an emergency stretcher, while I did the only thing my
body would allow given the circumstances: I passed out. Apparently my fall
created a lot of activity with horse and human ambulances having to slog
through waist-deep mud to our position. Manny was physically fine, just a few
small cuts, but emotionally he was a wreck. Those hurts would take a long time
to heal; in the grey baby’s eyes the fall was his fault. I wasn’t as lucky. A
traumatic brain injury would make it three weeks before I woke up, and when I
did it was to discover a lot of things changed while I was away.
My
next conscious memory was wondering if I wanted to wake up or go back to sleep.
Deciding I probably needed to wake up and check on Manny, I began the arduous
task of opening my eyes and using my voice to speak. Slow and cautious, I pried
my lids open. I was in an intensive care unit, tubes and wires connecting me to
a bizarre combination of quietly beeping machines. Under my nose, tubes
carrying oxygen breezed around my nostrils. My left wrist was in a small cast
as well as my right leg all the way up to my mid-thigh. I felt like an abused
rag doll, and my head pounded with every beat of my heart.
Noise
in the corner drew my attention as someone shifted in the hospital chair. Someone
else was in the room. My head was well
bandaged and my senses were overly drugged. The lights in the room were low,
curtains pulled and the blinds closed, but I discerned the shape of a person
sitting in a chair close besides the railing. Before I could adjust to the
shock of waking up, the door opened and a nurse entered.
Right
behind her was my friend and partner, Sebastian Faeroe. Bas was oblivious to my opening eyes. He
concentrated on trying to convince the young nurse to have dinner with him. I
had to chuckle below my breath. Bas was constantly picking up women. It’s easy
when you have billions in the bank. But he always came home alone to me, Davy,
and our third business partner Karl. The women were all part of his public
façade.
“Just
dinner,” he was saying. “I know the best little café, right down the street. We
could chat, get to know each other and then you can be back at work in no time.
Come on, you have to eat, so why not with me?”
The
nurse shook her head but the response was not very convincing to her or to me.
“The hospital has a policy against dating patients or their families or
spouses.”
“Well,
that makes it perfect!” The smile on Bas’ face went from ear to ear. “I’m not
family or spouse.”
“Aren’t
you the father of her daughter?” I heard the waiver in her tone. It was just a
matter of time before she fell for Bas and/or his money. Of course, he was very
good looking in addition to filthy rich.
I
watched the nurse as she took my vital signs and made notations. Every so often
she glanced over the clipboard at Bas. Wavy dark blonde hair with deep green
eyes, Bas worked out every day in addition to eating only organic foods. His
accent hinted of the finest boarding schools in Switzerland and his clothes
were hand tailored by the same store that had outfitted Faeroe men for three
generations. Old money and a casual elegance all rolled into one glamorous
package, it was no wonder so many women fell for his charm. I certainly had.
Bas
chuckled. “I plead the no comment to that accusation. Evie and I are friends,
and business partners. I refuse to assist speculation as to the details of our
relationship.”
“Well,”
the nurse mused. “I suppose one dinner wouldn’t be against regulations.”
“Excellent!”
Bas always got his way.
The
other visitor in my room laughed, with that polished silver voice I recognized so
well. “Bas, do you ever stop playing the horn dog?” Lady Rachel Tattinger
asked.
“Why
would I want to stop?”
Through
half-open eyes I studied my boss . Sebastian Faeroe was a
multi-billionaire from the south of Spain. He preferred to keep most details of
his private life as hidden as possible. I worked for him, riding and training
his horses for almost ten years, and along with our other business partner Karl Bittner no one knew more about
Bas than I did. All three of us had learned to keep each other’s secrets well.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Returning to My Passion While Keeping My Day Job
Like I said, life got in the way. Isn't that what always seems to happen? Five years ago, everything seemed to be going my way. Our family business was running smoothly and my helpful hubby gave me the green light to step back and write. It was what I dreamed of for so long, I should have known something horrible would go wrong.
And it did.
Now, three important people in my life have died, my sales person quit, my husband's health has gone down the drain and I'm back to working full time.
Life is what happens when you tell God your plans. So everyday I pull up my big girl pants, paint a smile on my face and get done what I can. So what if writing happens every night after the late night shows? At least I'm writing. For three months I wrote nothing, not even Facebook posts.
I felt empty. What I really was, was pissed at life. Why do some people get everything their way while the rest of us struggle just to get by? What did I do in a previous life to deserve the crap I've been dealt in this one? Basically, I've been having a major pity party and spreading my 'happiness' every where I went.
As a writer, you want to write all the time. I want the freedom to set my own agenda for how my days are spent. Unfortunately, that's just not going to happen anymore. But I'm getting okay with that. I wrote my first novel working at night, over 100K words in a little over five months for the original draft. So I know I can, but it isn't what I wanted.
So, off I go again on a new dream. Yes I am a writer. Yes I have a full time job. Yes, I want to do both. No, I'm not crazy. I don't make enough money as a writer to quit my day job. Yet.
We have to have our dreams. They power the words and the worlds we create. Without dreams I wouldn't have ever put the first word on paper. Following my dreams has helped my grieve the loss of loved ones and the postponement of my career. I won't stop now. I know if I make it through the valleys, the hills will be so much sweeter.
Be sure to visit other Insecure Writer's on the hop. We love visitors!
Be sure to visit other Insecure Writer's on the hop. We love visitors!
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Insecure Writer's Support Group
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
'C' is for Confidence - Insecure Writer's Support Group
Today is Wednesday, April 3rd and the first Wednesday of every month is Insecure Writer's Support Group Blog day. Hoping to kill two birds with one blog, here is the letter 'C'. In a strange twist, I have chosen Confidence as my topic for IWSG and A to Z Blog Challenge.
Am I a confident writer? Not by any stretch of the imagination. When I put words on paper for the public to examine, it is putting a piece of my inner most soul on display for others to abuse or adore as they see fit. There is no power within me at all to determine which emotion will triumph. The words are an extension of me; if they are rejected how can I not take it as a personal rejection? The words and the woman are intricately woven as one.
I don't think I am alone in this feeling. Any performer who puts a part of themselves out there for the world, be it an actor, musician, or writer. Of course, that doesn't make it any easier. But with each rejection letter another piece of the armor is forged. I will be stronger for the journey than I would be if immediate success came without work.
That is what makes me open the computer night after night, writing the scenes that fill my head night and day. Therein comes the topic of the day - Confidence.
I am confident that no matter how long it takes, how many hills I must struggle to climb, I will keep writing. It is a part of me just as much as breathing. And that is enough for me.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
The Nature of Insecurity
Book Two of the Guardian Stories is submitted, oh happy day! This story has been up and down on my ladder of attention for most of last year. Now all I need is to work my way through my fabulous editor's suggestions and Vivienne will be ready to continue her adventure across the Kingdoms in search of Devon and her enemies.
Becoming a writer has been a dream come true in many ways. Perhaps the most drastic change has been in my relationships with other people. I have never been the most gregarious one in the group. Now as I find myself writing and promoting, I've made friends with other writers around the country. I admire each of them, not just because they are living their dreams and writing, but they all seem so confident about their abilities.
Big confession time here people: I have always been insecure. There are a variety of reasons, some of which are environmental, others are organic. When in college I found out "Speech Class" meant to give one, not just write one, I dropped the class rather than face my fear of public speaking. Even now, giving speeches or being on a question and answer panel requires days of mental preparation.
I used this crippling sense of unworthiness when formulating Vivienne. Born into a man's world, asked to complete a hero's quest, daunting tasks for anyone, much less a woman whose sense of self-worth is crippled and weak. Only as she grows in experience will confidence begin to mature. Much the way I feel as I navigate the oceans of literature.
Identifying with characters is important. If we don't feel their struggles then we cannot adequately tell the story to others. One of the things I insist in all my personal book choices is a good story line. I call it "The Well Told Tale". The characters I spend the most time listening to are the ones with which I feel the most in common. Such as Vivienne.
What other elements are required for a story to grab your attention? I'd love to know what entices other readers. Leave your thoughts and let's start a discussion on elements. Every story needs them, what happens when they don't meet your expectations?
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
So Many Characters, So Little Space in My Head
If it's the first Wednesday in the month, then it is Insecure Writer's Support Group. Over the past few weeks I have been thinking about several different stories at once. The sounds in my head have been deafening. As a result nothing has gotten accomplish of any great magnitude. What do you do when the characters start intermingling and the stories get muddled?
I keep notebooks, I jot story lines, everything I have done for years, but since the New Year my thoughts have been splintered and unorganized. I can see story arcs, characters evolving, all the pieces of the puzzle lay themselves out then I notice - it's the wrong story! Frustration is settling into my brain.
The problem is probably me. With undiagnosed ADD, I am juggling 4 stories in various stages of development. For me, that's a lot! Other people may do more, but I'm not organized enough to entertain that large a cast of characters. I'm trying to wrap one up, but then I need to start writing on Book 3 of the Guardian Stories. Which brings me back around to the overcrowding issue.
For the rest of this week and most of next week I have to attend a convention. I actually hope the diversion and enormous changes of scenery provide a vast fodder of information to jump start the process. If that doesn't work, I might have to resort to alcohol (and I am a cheap drunk!).
Do all writer's overstretch their imagination or am I burning myself out? Does anyone else have suggestions for maintain all the individuals in their separate corrals? I''m tired of the stampede!
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
I Am a Writer?
All my life I wanted to be a writer. Not just a scribbler, or a newspaper reporter but a real novelist along the lines of a Heinlein or Dorothy Parker. But when your own insecurities are the demons that laugh at you in the cold hours of night, sometimes it is best to let the dreams sit for a while; and so I did. I went to college, got a job, got married, had children - all the things society claims will make us happy and fulfilled. But they were wrong.
Sure, you might think everything is alright but deep inside there is a piece of you screaming for recognition. Then one day you decide to give in to the whisper and see what happens. That's what I did when my oldest went to college. With a sudden empty spot in my head, freed up from the constant worry that accompanies a son who seemed at time determined to do the exact opposite of what he was told regardless of the side effects, I decided the time had come to put the stories to paper.
When I completed the first draft of my debut novel, "Catalyst - Guardian Rising", I did what any new author might do - starting looking into getting published. I had two reasons in mind: first of all to become rich and famous (lol) and second, more important to me, to have someone tell me I knew what I was doing. To hear that accolade would mean the world to the deeply insecure person that is me. The first editor I sent a sample for a paid analysis told me yes, I do have a knack for the craft. I will forever be in his debt for all the assistance and suggestions he has given over the past three years.
I stand in awe of published writers. Having completed two full length novels in less than three years while working a full time job, raising a family, and working with rescued horses - has left me a little exhausted. Slowly I feel my creative thoughts starting to fire again, but I don't intend to push it. The story is there, I just have to coax the characters to share it with me.
This is my first post of a monthly Blog Hog, sponsored by The Insecure Writer's Support Group, and I must confess this is a group I am excited to join. My deepest confession of this first month of the New Year is this: Now that I have written the books, where do I go from here? Promotions? Writer Groups? Do I need an agent or keep going it alone? Am I making the best use of my scarce free time? Do I still know what I am doing?
I look forward to this New Year with deep enthusiasm and a renewed commitment to the craft, and I look forward to more Blog Hops with the IWSG.
Now Available From Keith Publishing: Catalyst - Guardian Rising
In a post-apocalyptic future, the fate of the rebuilding world hangs in the balance. An unknown power seeks the forbidden knowledge needed to unleash total devastation once more upon a fragile Earth. It falls to one woman to safeguard the future of the Five Kingdoms.
Princess of the West, Vivienne has been plagued by nightmare visions of past and future since the moment of her birth. Now, to save all she loves from destruction, she must rise above the crippling self-doubts that have assailed her since childhood to become the prophesied Guardian—because the enemy is moving, and the world will soon plunge into a war of sword and sorcery.
But who is the enemy? And who is a friend? Can Vivienne trust anyone apart from her sworn protector, Devon?
The answers lurk in the past—but should the past be destroyed to protect the future?
Princess of the West, Vivienne has been plagued by nightmare visions of past and future since the moment of her birth. Now, to save all she loves from destruction, she must rise above the crippling self-doubts that have assailed her since childhood to become the prophesied Guardian—because the enemy is moving, and the world will soon plunge into a war of sword and sorcery.
But who is the enemy? And who is a friend? Can Vivienne trust anyone apart from her sworn protector, Devon?
The answers lurk in the past—but should the past be destroyed to protect the future?
Excerpt from "Catalyst - Guardian Rising" :
I grew from a lanky, awkward, skinny
girl into a tall, well-muscled, and fit teenager; I was five-seven and no
longer looked like a scarecrow. Soon after I arrived, the rest of my body began
to fill in, and the angles finally rounded out into curves. By the time of my
sixteenth birthday, even Uncle Alastyre had to admit my beauty exceeded the
wildest imagination and hopes.
My hair, of course, was still silver,
with some darker streaks underneath and my eyes were still odd, switching from
purple to gray randomly. The druids were working on a theory as to their
strange origin. The most accepted was, because there are so many members of my
family on both sides with varying strong talents, the eyes were a blending of
the potential powers with which I was born. Once I declared which art I would
dedicate myself to study, the other colors would depart, leaving me with the
one traditional color. They had been working on this theory for four years, and
my eyes were still multicolored. Just another oddity.
Once I began to grow into my body,
my skills as a Warrior began to improve. Theirran kept his promise to work with
me when he was at the Fortress, which became more frequent as I grew older,
stronger, and more competent. Occasionally, he would tell me what was going on
with his family, except for Devon; what he didn’t tell me, I would gather from
his mind without his consent. It was wrong, but I needed the knowledge to keep
some semblance of sanity.
From Theirran’s memories, I discovered after
the three brothers left us that cold winter morning on the road to the
Fortress, they chased down leads and trails for months. Der and Theirran had
broken off the chase and returned to the Northerns before the winter snows
closed off all roads until spring. Devon continued the chase off and on for
three years, stopping at the Citadel or Der’s home when he was in the vicinity.
I never once directly asked about Devon, but I always knew in my head and heart
where he was. Perhaps our detractors were right to keep us so far apart. Though
he was never close enough to test me, I knew inside the marrow of my bones I
would have run away with him. But for whatever reason, Devon never came to the
Fortress or its surrounding areas while I was there, not until the spring after
my sixteenth birthday.
That spring was glorious. My studies
were going so well in Mysticism and Healing I had been given time off to concentrate
on War Craft. While I was beginning to excel in fencing and tactical strategy,
I had proven myself to be horrible at scouting and worse at tracking. A large
bear could walk right in front of me for miles and I would miss the signs. So I
was given extra assignments to learn where the processing errors kept
happening. My fellow students tried to help me, but there was only so much they
or anyone could do. I was, in a word, hopeless.
On this particular day, two of us
had been assigned to check out a small lake, nestled in a valley near the
border between the Western Kingdom and the Fortress territory. Several druid
Warriors had been sent out three days previously and we were supposed to track
them from the Fortress to their final destination, which only the Warriors
knew. A blind hunt, they called it. The ability to track down a person after
accidentally crossing a trail was one of the more advanced skills. So far, I
was no better than average.
Sauk, my partner, was son of the
Torran, ruler of the Southern Territory, and his talent lay in War Craft. The
exercise mainly was for his training; soon he would be leaving the Fortress to
return home, but he volunteered to try as a tutor to improve my tracking
scores. I was grateful for his assistance and attention, because he was one of
the best-looking students at the Fortress, as well as an excellent tracker.
Sauk was tall, taller than me, with
jet-black hair, dark, black-brown eyes and skin the warm tan so prevalent among
those who lived in the Southern Territory. When he smiled, which was often, the
cutest little dimples appeared on his cheeks. Just as any woman who met him, I
had a huge crush and felt
a little nervous knowing we would be out on the trail together for at least
three days. But this was all about learning a difficult skill, not a dating
game, so I was sure he would be a gentleman. Southerners were always gracious.
There was a rumor in the Fortress that
Sauk became the crown prince under a cloud of suspicion. His older brother died
in a hunting accident; some whispered it had been Sauk’s arrow that had slain
him. I remembered from political lessons with my father hearing the Torran
wasn’t happy with Sauk but had no other son to inherit the throne. But when you
were in Sauk’s presence, it was easy to forget any questions once you looked
into those deep black eyes. They were mesmerizing yet vaguely unsettling.
When we reached the lake, things
became interesting from the very beginning. First, we ran across two different
trails. That was a bit of a surprise, marking two trails would not have been
part of the druid’s exercise. After much debate, we decided each of us would
take a trail for a short way, and then meet to decide which was the main trail
and which a decoy. It was a sound plan, using the rules spelled out for novice
trackers. Before we split, Sauk rode up close, facing me. Removing his helmet,
he shook his hair and looked at the sky and the darkening clouds rolling in.
“Listen, Vivienne, if it starts to
rain before we meet, just remember to follow that western mountain ridge back
to this point. The trail you are going to be following lies almost due east, so
heading back toward the ridge should bring you straight back to the lake,
okay?”
I took a deep breath. “Okay.”
He smiled his brilliant smile.
“That’s the spirit. You’ll be fine. If you run into anything you cannot handle,
just scream. I’m sure I can find you.”
“Ha, ha, ha. You think there is
something out here that I can’t handle? I do have some skills in other areas;
you might be wise to remember. Maybe you should scream if you run
into anything.”
Sauk smiled again. “Deal.”
That’s when the other interesting thing
happened. Before I could put my helmet on, Sauk leaned over and grasped my
wrist. I looked at him with one eyebrow raised. He had already turned nineteen.
This made him three years older, a fact which made my heart race more whenever
I thought about him. Several of the other, older female acolytes had been
romantically linked to Sauk, and their stories were pure adolescent raging
hormonal drivel, fascinating and slightly terrifying to those of us who were
considered pious or chaste. But just the look in his eyes was making my heart
pound crazy rhythms all on its own. He had magnetic charisma.
His eyes still locked on mine, he bent
down and kissed me, gently at first, then with more assurance as I began
kissing him back. It was a wonderful sensation, his soft lips against mine, his
hand behind my head, fingers entwined in my hair. Sparked with electricity from
an internal generator, my hormone system went into overdrive. I might be a
princess and a freak, but inside I was a sixteen-year-old girl with screaming
puberty angst. At any moment I could have burst into full flame and charred us
both into dust. I began breathing a little too heavily. Then, as suddenly as it
began, Sauk pulled away, a strange, superior expression in his dark eyes.
“See you later,” he promised, then
replaced his helmet and rode away down the chosen trail, laughter ringing out
behind him. Shaking the cobwebs out of my brain, I headed down the other track.
My body didn’t feel heavy enough to stay in the saddle. While it hadn’t been
the romantic swoon some of the other girls professed to have experienced, it
was still my first kiss and Sauk was extremely handsome. But I needed to get
down to business or I was going to fail this task in magnificent fashion. To
make sure I didn’t miss anything vital here in the open field, I dismounted
Shae and began to walk the trail, watching the bent blades of grass as best I
could. Before I could get too far, I heard a voice very close at hand, a voice
I hadn’t expected or heard from in many a year.
“Well, that was uncalled for, don’t
you think?”
I stood up from my crouched position
so fast the world spun for a moment. Devon leaned against a large oak tree just
ahead at a small bend on the trail. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he
was the one who made the second, yet more defined trail. I was so surprised to
see him I completely forgot the strained circumstances under which we had last
seen each other.
We stood face-to-face without
touching for what seemed an eternity, each one studying the other, noticing the
changes brought about during these long years spent apart. I knew what he saw
when looking at me. No longer was I the shy, under-confident, awkward
twelve-year-old he had left behind in the snow that horrible winter morning. I
was taller, filled out in all the right places. I was strong, lithe, and
poised. I would say I had become a self-assured and beautiful woman.
For his part, nothing much had
changed. Devon was still the best-looking man I had ever laid eyes on — even
including the boy who had just given me my first kiss. Devon’s eyes were that
deep, clear green I remembered so well, with a few more lines at the corners.
There were also more lines between his eyes and around his mouth, as though he
were more accustomed to frowning than smiling. His boots and cloak were
mud-spattered and stained, worn by one who had traveled a long way very
quickly. While I stared in wide-eyed amazement, he graced me with one of those
perfect smiles, the one that reached down into my soul and reminded me of
sunshine. He cocked his head and held his arms open wide, an invitation I never
could resist.
“Oh my God, Devon!” It was difficult
to hear my voice, seeing as how my face was pressed against his chest. Even
though I was taller than the twelve-year-old I used to be, he was taller still.
“Why are you here? Is everything okay?” My happiness suddenly vanished as I
thought of all the reasons, none of them good, why he could be here. I leaned
back in fright. “Is something wrong with my father? With your family?”
“Calm down and don’t worry.
Everything is fine, I promise. I was simply in the area and saw you and your
‘partner’. I decided to hang around and see how you were doing. I heard through
the wind you aren’t having much luck tracking. Then I saw him take advantage of
the remote and secluded location, and I waited around to see if you needed me
to straighten him out. But obviously I was mistaken. You didn’t even notice me
until I spoke.” Devon’s voice cracked ever so slightly. If my senses hadn’t
been on alert from the tracking exercise, I doubt I would have noticed it. “Is
he someone important to you?” The attempted off-hand way he asked let me know
he was concerned.
“No, not really.” I replied with a
full-on blush spreading from the top of my head down to my toes. “Sauk is about
to leave and return to the Torran to assume his duties as the crown prince. He
volunteered to help me with some tracking practice. Because I really do stink
at tracking. This is the first time he has even expressed any interest in me, other than as a tracking partner.
Until today, I wasn’t even sure he knew my name.”
Devon snorted. “Tracking partner.
Right. Trust me, Vivi; his thoughts have been geared toward a different sort of
partnership, I’m sure of it. He wouldn’t be human if he wasn’t.” He rubbed his
hand across his face. I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed at having seen Sauk
kiss me or if he was extremely cross.
“Devon, stop it. It was just a
kiss.” I wasn’t sure what exactly he was so upset about.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Did you?” The look on Devon’s face was
priceless, part innocent but mostly obnoxious.
“Did I what?”
“Enjoy it?”
His attitude was beginning to make
me angry. “I don’t know. I mean, not that this is any of your business, and I
have no idea why I am telling you this, but I have nothing to compare his kiss
against. That was my first kiss. Ever.”
He leaned over closer so he could
look straight into my eyes. “That was your first kiss?” I could feel his soft
breath against my skin, that warm, delicious, musk fragrance that was all him.
I always associated it with safety and love. He was easily overpowering my
already shaky senses. “I guess you kissing me good-bye so long ago didn’t
count?”
“No, I don’t count that as a real kiss; I was only twelve. For all it should concern you, yes, this was my first real kiss.” I knew I was beet red from head to toe, but I refused to look away. I wanted him to see me, not my embarrassment. After all, I wasn’t a child anymore.
“No, I don’t count that as a real kiss; I was only twelve. For all it should concern you, yes, this was my first real kiss.” I knew I was beet red from head to toe, but I refused to look away. I wanted him to see me, not my embarrassment. After all, I wasn’t a child anymore.
We stood there looking at each other
for one long heartbeat. Suddenly, my brain was not controlling my body; my
raging hormones were. Their actions were not those I would have taken if I were
in my right mind. But because I wasn’t, I plowed ahead full steam, looking at
him with a curious expression on my face.
Devon frowned at me. “I know that
look. You want something. Go ahead, spit it out.”
“Do you want to kiss me? Give me
something to compare with? Or is that why you’re so angry? Are you jealous
because someone else got there first?” If he was going to play, then so was I.
His face went blank. “No, I am not
jealous. You see, I know who wins in the end. But right now, I don’t think
kissing you would be a very good idea for either of us.”
“Why not? You know we both want you
to.”
Devon took several slow, deep
breaths before answering me. “Do you remember what Der said on that last day?
About you and me and our inability to separate? I’m really testing the waters
here, hoping that in the morning when you are ready to leave and return to the
Fortress for the remaining three years, I won’t follow you or try to stop you.
I’ve become stronger, more in control over these past years we’ve been apart,
but I still don’t want to push it.”
I thought about that for a minute.
“I can respect that. In the meantime, I’m really sorry. I don’t want to hurt
you more. I won’t push you. But I really would like to kiss you, someday.” I smiled
broadly to let him see the honesty I was trying to convey.
He smiled in return, brushing my
hair back with his right hand. “Don’t worry about it. Our someday will come
along, as we both know. Vivienne, I decided long ago to stop fighting against
fate, to follow the course set out for us, take whatever comes as it comes and
to always remember that I’m sixteen years older than you. Each year the
emotional gap between us gets smaller. I know you aren’t ready for what my
heart desires, but one day you will be. Our time will come; it’s just our
clocks aren’t running together yet.”
“I know.” As soon as I said the
words, I knew this man and I were meant to be together forever. Whether by
magic or fate, we were paired and there could be no other person for either of
us. We had to wait for me to turn nineteen before Devon would touch me in any
way remotely intimate, or at least my brain knew this. At that moment, however,
my body would have gladly sold the rest of me out for just a little more time
alone. “What difference can it make? If we are meant to be, surely there can’t
be any harm …?”
“You say that now, but what about
when I die and leave you alone, young and widowed? Devon said it with a slight
smile on his face, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Or you decide to run
off with some handsome prince closer in age?”
“But the dreams show that we are
fated to marry.”
“Are you having more dreams?” Devon
was instantly on alert to either talk with me or do damage control. With my
temper, you never knew which to prepare to handle.
Frowning, I nodded. I hadn’t meant
to say anything about the dreams and I didn’t want to change the subject.
“What have you seen?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Probably not. On the one hand, I
need to know if we are still having the same dreams. To see if the physical
separation has changed anything or if we are still linked. But at the same
time, there are things I don’t know how to discuss with you.”
“You figure prominently in many of
them, Devon, if that helps. By the way, when did you get that new scar on your
left hip?” I tried to keep a straight face but I think I failed miserably.
Devon winced as though I had hit
him. “That’s what I was afraid of. You’ve had the dream …”
The blush I’d had just moments
before came back with a vengeance. “Yes, I’ve had it. Rather vivid, actually. I
usually have that dream around the full moon every month. I’ve grown to use it
as a predictor for … other reasons.”
Devon rubbed his hands across his
face, walked away, and began to pace, back and forth across the grass between
the lake and the tree. It was to cover his embarrassment; this time I was sure.
It seemed strange to have things we could not talk about openly the way we did
before. The whole dynamic of our relationship had changed, and I knew why. I
was no longer a little girl. I was grown, closer in physical image to the
Vivienne he had been fantasizing about since that bizarre day. I had been using
some of my spare thought to process how this would affect Devon ever since the first
time I experienced the dream in exquisite detail. It had to be hard for him to
stand there and see me but not be with me.
I watched him struggle with the
knowledge I also saw the pictures which disturbed him most, and tears sprang to
my eyes. To keep him from noticing, I turned my back, pretending to study the
trail that had led me to him. But apparently I was not very good at hiding my
emotions. Especially not from Devon, not now that we had finally, to a degree,
both acknowledged what had never been said or thought before: our futures were
braided together, intricately woven in a pattern tighter than fabric.
Everything seemed to be falling into place, but I wanted to pull Devon back to
the present, keep him there with me beside the lake for a while longer. I was
needy, but I didn’t care. He may have gotten stronger, but I hadn’t.
“Devon, stay here tonight? I mean,
Sauk will be here also, so it’s not like we would be alone. And hopefully
having you around will keep his mind and hands where they should be. I don’t
know if I could fight off too persistent a suitor, if you know what I mean.
Right now my mind and body are not on speaking terms.”
He stopped the pacing and looked at
me with a thoughtful expression. It occurred to me reminding him we were not out
here alone might not have been the best idea, given his earlier reaction to
Sauk. Suddenly, he smiled at me with undoubtedly the coldest, most sarcastic
smile he could summon, just as one might see on a cat that has swallowed a
bird. He tilted his head to the west; we could both hear Sauk riding hard in
our direction. Cocking his head toward the sound, I heard Devon whisper under
his breath, “That might not be such a bad idea.” I rolled my eyes. This was
going to be a long night.
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