Swans of Westermere, a novella

You know, it's funny. But I got to comparing this novella with Mists of Blackfen Bog. Near the same length, they are both ghost stories. The structure of the titles is similar. The biggest differences, I guess, are that Mists takes place in the world of Tanerra, while Swans takes place in our world; Mists focuses on a priestess who has lost her faith, and Swans is told from the PoV of a twelve-year-old girl.  What is it with me and ghosts and novellas? I don't even believe in ghosts, but I love writing ghost stories. They're pure fun, albeit dark fun.

So what are we looking at in this promo image? A swan, a cloudy sky reflected in a still lake, scarred shadowy edges, strange symbols, and angry crows. All but the crows show up in Swans of Westermere, though I suppose I could add some crows.

The scarred edges and antique look of the image are meant to convey the look of a tintype. Tintypes are key to the mystery surrounding the century-old curse that Jocelyn Tanner uncovers as she roams her ancestral home. It was way back in college that I studied the birth of photography, so I must've dragged this element from the dregs of my brain.

But, come to think of it, my brain was more supple eight years ago. Yep, I wrote Swans eight years ago, but it's one story I haven't been able to forget. It has all the cliched elements of a thousand other ghost stories, but there's just something I love about this tale. How can I not adore the idea of the devil being locked in a box on Grandma's mantelpiece? I mean, really. It's just too much fun.

Look for Swans of Westermere

HALLOWEEN, 2014

image credits:

background: Kreatiques-x
tintype texture: AllThingsPrecious
swan: Drezdany
voodoo symbols: RavenGraphics
magic symbols: nomuh

Burnout Blues ... A New Release!

What do you get when you write non-stop for 14 years? A little case of burnout. Yep, after fighting it for about a year now, I'm having to admit it to myself. I have burnout. It got to the point where sitting down to put two words together was comparable to climbing K2. I just wanted to sob every time I thought about writing.

So, I have taken off for two weeks, and I'm one week in and I already feel better. I tried to spend this time "writing something new," but even that proved a frustration. My husband finally said, "Stop! Don't write anything for two weeks." It's the first time I've ever felt a release from guilt during those days when the words won't come. I can breathe.

In addition to not writing, I'm having to make some other changes. Painful changes. Not only am I having to admit to burnout, I'm having to admit that I'm an addict. When burnout started taking over, gaming started compensating as an escape, until the point where it became a full-blown addiction. So during these two weeks, I've pretty much hospitalized myself in my house, and I warned my husband, "Prepare for withdrawal. It won't be pretty." It wasn't. The first two days I was a wreck. Yet I prayed fiercely through those times when I felt restless, agitated, when all I wanted to do was log in. "No," I told myself, "you desire words. You have a passion for words." I have been reading and reading and reading, even when the idea of consuming more words feels like eating another bite I can't stomach.

Strangely--and very quickly--the creative urge resurfaced. I dragged out an old story that's been haunting me lately (pun intended), one my husband keeps mentioning, even though he read it six or eight years ago. Rereading it, I decided it would be fun to have it in print, so I've been editing it and building a book cover for it. I hope to publish it sometime around Halloween--which is only fitting for a ghost story.

Here's a little promo image for it:

image credits:

background: Kreatiques-x
tintype texture: AllThingsPrecious
swan: Drezdany
voodoo symbols: RavenGraphics
magic symbols: nomuh

"Twice Upon A Time," a fairytale anthology, coming soon!

I am so excited about the upcoming release of Twice Upon a Time, the first release for The Bearded Scribe Press. The collection of stories, from what I can tell, promises to be quite dark and strange.

Joshua was gracious enough to accept my story, "The Bone Harp," for the collection, and I'm flattered. This little bit of macabre fiction first appeared in Realms, a now defunct publication by Black Matrix, in 2010. And it remains one of my favorites. I simply loved writing this story. I hope you'll enjoy reading it -- when it comes out. So close now. If I had specific dates for the release, I would pass them on, but for now, we're hoping for November.

As for the promo image, I'm not sure it conveys the sinister aspect of the tale. That's one vengeful swan, though it might just be swooping in for a hug. Anyway ...



Credits for the artwork:

girl by faestock
swan by LubelleCreativeSpark
background by kreatiques-x
pixie dust by rL-Brushes
fog by BBs-Brushes

Road Trip: Mt. Elbert, Colorado

Two years in a row, my husband and I have driven to Leadville, Colorado, to be part of the race crew for a friend who was riding in the Leadville 100 Mountain Bike Race. We rented the same cabin above Twin Lakes again this year, because the view is unbeatable. Surreal, really. 

Sunrise view from cabin, Twin Lakes.

Sunset view from cabin, Twin Lakes.

This year, we chose to undergo the arduous hike up Mount Elbert, Colorado's highest peak. I just thought I had been exercising enough. But the trail is so steep that by the time we had reached the 12,600 mark--well above treeline, thank you--my legs finally rebelled and stopped pulling me up another step. I sat among some rocks, sheltered from the wind, while the rest of my party climbed on. A chipmunk kept me company. I fed him some bread off my peanut butter sandwich, but I didn't like the way he was having to smack on the bread, so I switched to almonds. I hate almonds, and my trail mix was full of them, so I stacked some on the rocks, and this greedy, grateful little guy stuffed as many as he could into his cheeks, then dashed off to stash them in his hidey-holes. 

Now, I'm kicking myself for not getting pics of the little guy. All I took was video of him snatching the bread. Ah, well. He kept me entertained while I waited for word from my party. A long while later, my husband sent me a text saying they had reached the summit. It took them another 45 minutes to hike back down to me. By then I was well rested, but they were in pain. We all wanted off that mountain, so we started down immediately. It took us (them) four hours to reach the top and two more to hike back down. I have never been so sore in all my life. Every muscle from my hips to my ankles is letting me know that they didn't appreciate the abuse. 

But we've made it home again, and my work-out regimen is about to kick up a few notches. The mountain defeated me ... this time.

Mt. Elbert. Above the clouds by 8 a.m.

Small Distractions: Introducing Leonidas

So I've complained all year that there seems to be less and less time to write. But this week, if all goes well, will be the first week in months that I will actually have 4 days out of 7 that I can devote to writing. Amazing! Since when did I go and get myself a social life? I mean, really!

Today, however, it isn't my social life that has me distracted from writing. It's a little guy named Leonidas who doesn't have nearly as many muscles as this Leonidas:

My Leonidas showed up in the neighborhood a couple weeks ago, nearly dead from starvation and dehydration, not because he'd been attacked by Persians -- or Persian cats, for that matter. And who's the biggest sucker in the neighborhood? Yep, me. Just as we were getting him fattened up again, he developed a terrible infection and I was sure he would have to be put down. But the vets were determined to save him, and save him they did. Now, Leonidas is running wild all over my house, and my other cats still aren't sure what to make of him.

This is Leonidas telling me that the old draft of Fury of the Falcon really stinks. But, he says, the paper tastes great.

This is Leonidas being caught in the act of trying to tell this story his way.

He wanted me to post that he was fighting off a thousand Persian cats in the alleyway and is the lone survivor who must tell the tale. And he says the white stripe over his right eye is really hiding the scar he earned from battling the ferocious wolf-chihuahua of Suburbia Pass. ... Why am I not sure I believe him?

So I blame my being distracted from writing this morning on Leo's escapades and using me for a jungle gym. And since it's been a while since I've updated my blog, I thought it appropriate to gave a hint about why I've been, well, distracted.

As soon as he falls asleep, I will sneak in a few paragraphs of a new chapter.

(Side note: the page of text in that middle picture is crap. Don't read it, at all cost. Your eyeballs might melt. Not one word is being kept and used in the new draft.)

(Side side note: I am not a kitty rescue service. Please don't send me any more cats. I have all I can handle.)

National Poetry Month: The Everyday

Only a few days left to celebrate. On the 24th, our poetry moderator provided us with the following prompt:

* Write a poem about a mundane, everyday activity.

Well, I've been watching the history series Nazi Hunters recently, and so my psyche is filled with accounts of human carnage. Let that preface my little poem about gardening:

"Pulling Weeds"

Is it worth raw fingers,
bleeding scrapes,
mud caked under fingernails
to pluck up roots, overturn 
cities of underground highways, 
to iron out the ugliness, trim and mold and 
beautify to my liking,
to change the world one blade at a time?

It takes a certain sense of false
supremacy to say 
this beetle’s abode
is worthless.

Road Trips: Mountain Corridors

My husband had training this week in Denver, and it's times like this that it pays to be a writer. I get to pack up my laptop and my notes and travel with him. Writing in hotels, where there are no distractions, is one of my chief pleasures. Hiking in the mountains with friends is another. Once training was over, we kidnapped our friends and they took us to the South Platte Corridor. It's a gorgeous hike up a pine-clad mountain that overlooks the tumbling river. The voices of rushing water below and wind in the pines above sound almost identical.

We came up over a ridge and were faced with the devastating results of a forest fire. The sight of the barren landscape took my breath away. This particular fire had happened a decade or more ago, but the land still had not recovered. My inquisitive mind, however, was fascinated by the lay of the land, as it looks underneath all the trees. It felt like getting to glimpse a secret.

This rocky peek that jutted up from the burned slopes inspired all kinds of fantastical stories in my head.

And bleached tangles of old roots always provide lovely specimens to admire.

We snacked and refueled at an abandoned mine, then hiked back down the mountain. On the 11-hour drive home, we raced a snowstorm. Made it just in time. 

Looks like our next trip will be in August, when we'll head back up the mountain for the Leadville mountain bike race. Until then, I have ogres to slay.