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Of Blood and Fire

It’s done. I’ve not only finished an epic 5,000 word story, but I’ve submitted it too. It’s currently winging its way into the hands of the Dragon Soul Press editors as I type.

I just hope they like it.

I’ve spent the last forty-five minutes winding down since I did a mad dash to write what I thought was 400 words but was really 600 words in as little time as possible tonight so I could get the story finished.

It took two hours.

Sadly, it’s not much of an update but I had to share nonetheless, now that the excitement coupled with nerves has died down.

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WIP Wednesday

Dandelions CoverIt’s time to SHARE what you’re working on!

Alright, so in the interest of doing something different and keep my blog from getting stale, I thought it couldn’t hurt to throw a 500 word excerpt from my latest Work-in-Progress or WIP.

The rules are pretty simple, if you want to play along.

Just share up to 500 words in the comments from something you’ve been working on.

This particular scene came about while I was writing a short story for submission to an anthology. I actually mentioned it on my Facebook page. I hate killing off characters, I really do. So much so, I either put it off, or wind up being upset for days afterwards. I don’t think there’s ever been a time where I haven’t cried when killing of a character. Funeral’s suck, by the way. In almost thirty six years on this earth, I’ve been to far too many of them. I can count thirteen off the top of my head.

In this scene which will probably feature somewhere in my Eldritch, Scarlett has just found out that her older brother, Atticus has died in a car accident and she’s chosen, to everybody’s shock, to carry on with the trip to Cornwall. Instead of staying behind and dealing with her grief. (Zooey is fey and telepathic)

Scarlett sat outside on the stairs of the deck, listening to the same song over and over on her phone. It was off, what would now become, her brother’s last ever album.

As she listened, tears glistened, but she refused to let them fall.

“You’d think she would have broken by now,” Zooey said.

“And why’s that?” Ash mused. “Red’s stronger than she looks.”

“Strong on the outside maybe,” Zooey agreed. “But I don’t know about on the inside. She’s sitting out there listening to the same song on repeat.”

“And you know that how?” Ash asked before it dawned on him. “Never mind. I forgot who I was speaking too.”

And with that he stood up and headed outside to join Scarlett. When he sat down next to her on the steps, she turned and looked at him, taking one of the earbuds out.

“Are you okay?”

Scarlett lent her head on his shoulder and Ash wrapped and arm around her.

“I am now,” she said. “You can tell Zooey; she doesn’t have to worry. I’m fine… really.”

“She said that you were listening to the same song on repeat,” he said. “Scarlett, that’s not… fine.”

“It’s a bonus track,” Scarlett said. “Acoustic. I just wanted to hear his voice without all the backing vocals distorting it.”

A lone tear zig zagged down her cheek to her chin. “I’m not going to break, Ash.” She shook her head. “I can’t afford to.”

“You don’t have to be here. It’s not as if we can’t handle the dragons without you.”

“No,” Scarlett said softly. “I’m not going home so that I can sit around and do nothing. I’ll go crazy.”

“Scarlett,” Ash chided as Scarlett stood up.

“I’m staying. End of story,” she said. “Tell Zooey she can keep her nose out of my business from now on. I don’t need a baby sitter, Ash. I’m fine. In the event that that changes, you’ll be the first to know, but until then…”

Ash sighed. “Until then, you’re just going to continue to do exactly what you’re doing and ignore your pain.”

“I’m not in pain.”

“No?” Ash asked standing up. “There’s a room full of people in there who say otherwise. They’re not stupid or blind. They see you. And he was your brother, for crying out loud. Regardless of your relationship with him, he was your brother and you loved him. You can’t just shut yourself off to everything you’re feeling and pretend it’s all okay, when it’s not.”

“Yeah, well…” Scarlett paused. “Atticus is dead. And if pretending that he’s not is going to get me through the next six days until the funeral, then so be it. I don’t want to break Ash, I really don’t.” She smiled through her tears. “But by all means, bring me back to reality, because God knows the real world hasn’t dumped on me enough already.”

 So, what are you waiting for? Bring out your WIP for WIP Wednesday!

 

Write What You Know

If you’ve been writing for a while, you’ve no doubt heard the phrase write what you know and if you’re new to writing, then this post just might save your sanity.

Write what you know.

It’s one of the most misunderstood pieces of writing advice I’ve ever come across, so what do you do about it?

Do you listen and hang on every word. Every snippet of so-called writing advice that the World Wide Web is inundated with… not to mention every book dedicated to writing. Or do you pick and choose? Using only the advice you think it’s relevant and useful.

Write what you know. Really? But do I have to?

I know, I know. I can hear you thinking: I hardly know anything, or: my experience is limited, or even: I haven’t been anywhere exciting yet.

None of that matters, and you know why? Because I can guarantee you that your life experience is entirely different from any other writer out there. It’s as unique as you are, and that’s what will shine through no matter what you write.

Funny story actually, but a couple of years ago, I was told by an author that I respect, to stick to writing what I know. It was after a conversation led me to share the setting of the book that I was working on at the time. I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t set in Australia… and it definitely wasn’t set in Perth.

I found myself sitting there, coffee in hand, mulling over what she said and panicking and I thought to myself: I’ll never get to go anywhere as charming as Ireland in my lifetime.

And then it dawned on me… it’s not the setting of the story I should be focusing on, but the experiences my characters go through. It’s the emotions that course through them whenever they feel something so intensely… whether it be joy or sadness. If you as a writer know those emotions inside out, if you experience it as if it were you who was going through it, and not some character you made up, then there’s no doubt in my mind the reader will feel it too.

Confessions From an Indie Author Trying to Make it as a Blogger

44148_20150318_232444_FIGHTAlright, I confess. I tried something new today with my blog. I posted two blogs when I normally only post one.

Surprisingly, it got results. Bigger and better than I ever would have hoped for. So, THANK YOU!

The blog itself was inspired in part by all the poetry blogs I have subscribed to, and… the fact (which I didn’t know until today) that’s it’s National Poetry Month! Finally, it was written because I didn’t want to just write another post about the Arthurian Myths (which I adore) lest I bore you all to death. So, I shared Tennyson’s rather epic poem instead.

The second was my obligatory weekly recap for the 365 Writing Challenge post. Long overdue, as I try to write them weekly, but last week was met with a flurry of blogging updates, and little room or time to actually write that second post last Monday.

I can’t promise to write every day. That’s just… impossible for me between trying to split myself between family and writing. I’m not quite organized enough to successfully schedule my time the way I know I should. I try but I inevitably wind up dropping balls or something unexpected happens that wipes out everything I had planned for that day, and attempting to catch up the next day never works the way you think it will.

But, I do promise I’ll try. Assuming you’re all willing to stick with me as I navigate the blogosphere.

So, on that final note, I’d like to say a huge THANK YOU again to all of you who’ve stopped by recently and liked or followed my blog, I really do appreciate it from the bottom of my heart and I hope you’ll keep coming by so that you can stay up to date with my writing progress. Whatever the achievement.

Until next time,

Stacey

Week Thirteen and Fourteen

Today is the end of the fourteenth week of the 365 Writing Challenge and I’ve managed to write 5008 words across fourteen days. Hard to believe, I know. This of course, doesn’t count the words that go into my blog posts, if it did, I can guarantee you the word count would be higher.

So, what have I accomplished in the past two weeks?

Let’s list it shall we and find out!

  • Started work on Of Blood and Fire – I’m 4,408 words into the short story which is centred around King Arthur and Camelot. Complete with dragons and… vampires. Yep! You heard correctly. Vampires!
  • Submitted a poem, Raven Queen to Dragon Soul Press.
  • Edited two short stories.
  • Edited 9,000 words worth of articles for a client.
  • Submitted my short story, The Drowning Pool to Pixie Forest Publishing’s anthology At Death’s Door.
  • Wrote a 600 word scene that will eventually be included in the WIP Eldritch.
  • Wrote two more poems
  • Wrote two drabbles

Of course, that list doesn’t include my work with The Horror Tree which can often be overwhelming or my work with Iron Faerie Publishing.

All up it’s lead to a very busy, but productive two weeks.

Until next week (or the week after that). Happy writing.

It’s National Poetry Month!

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Yep, it’s true! I didn’t know until recently either.

So, in honour of coming out from under my rock and learning new things… as well as the fact that over the past few days, I’ve been busy writing up a storm on various projects that center around King Arthur and Camelot. I thought I’d share a poem on that very subject, which I’ve not actually read a lot of. As I do prefer books to poetry.

However, I am finding poetry a lot of fun to write of late, so I thought I’d share something Arthurian in nature to commemorate National Poetry Month and have decided to start with the one by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, which having combed through Mallory’s, Le Morte d’Arthur recently is actually a retelling of some of the earlier chapters in the book and if you haven’t read Le Morte d’Arthur, I recommend you do so, although, fair warning, it is a hard slog. I’m finding the language quite interesting though.

Fun fact: Not only was Tennyson the longest serving Poet Laureate but he was the first to be raised to a British Peerage for his contribution to the poetry world. Something which he hated and only took to ensure the financial security of his son, Hallam. 

Just a little something, I find fascinating given my love of British (particularly royal) History.

It’s such an epic poem. I think I’d get through Mallory’s Le Morte d’Arthur a lot quicker if it was all written as a poem. I’ll let you make up your own mind. While I continue to wade through the tome that is Mallory’s version of the tales.

Morte d’Arthur (1912)

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

So all day long the noise of battle roll’d
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
“The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,—
Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more—but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword—and how I row’d across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word.”

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
“It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro’ the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.”

So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind,
In act to throw: but at the last it seem’d
Better to leave Excalibur conceal’d
There in the many-knotted water-flags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
“Hast thou perform’d my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard?”

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
“I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
And the wild water lapping on the crag.”

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
“Thou hast betray’d thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem’d
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had follow’d, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.”

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud,

“And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost forever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, ‘King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake;
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.’
So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour and much fame were lost.”

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
“What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard?”

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
“I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds.”

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
“Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow’d of the power in his eye
That bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands.”

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch’d the sword,
And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the northern sea.
So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
“Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?”

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
“Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look’d again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.”

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
“My end draws nigh; ‘t is time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.”

So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro’ his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words,
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro’ the place of tombs.

But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, “Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die.”
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk’d
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
Dry clash’d his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels—
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold—and from them rose
A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

Then murmur’d Arthur, “Place me in the barge,”
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter’d casque, and chafed his hands,
And call’d him by his name, complaining loud
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither’d moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash’d with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the daïs-throne—were parch’d with dust;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter’d column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
“Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”

And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge:
“The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst—if indeed I go—
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

Discovered a poem you didn’t know existed? Or have you written some of your own? Let me know in the comments below.

10 Songs That Are On My Writing Playlist

As my last post along this same vein, I thought I’d share something most writers have at least one of.

A writing playlist.

It’s no secret that writers often find music to be inspirational to the creative process of writing, and I’m surprisingly no different.

It’s a shock, I know.

Mine is however very eclectic.

So, before I get caught rambling on any further, I’ll see to the list.

(In no particular order)

1. Speeding Cars by Walking Cars

2. Roses by Against the Current

3. Red by Taylor Swift

4. Hold Back the River by Nicole Cross

5. Need You Now by Lady Antebellum

6. Tear in Your Hand by Tori Amos

7. Head Above Water by Avril Lavigne

8. Way Down We Go by Kaleo

9. Saturn by Sleeping at Last

10. September by Daughtry

That’s a small portion of my playlist. I’d love to hear what some of the songs are that feature on your playlist. Unless of course you prefer to write in complete silence.

Bye March

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Another month has come to a close. I spent most of it waiting on things that didn’t arrive and trying to write amongst the anxiety that came with waiting on those things that didn’t arrive. Suffice to say, March has been utterly exhausting.

Rewarding, but exhausting.

I was looking over my submissions for the quarter and I’ve subbed twelve stories and two poems. With five stories still pending completion. Not to mention I’ve written a whopping thirty-two blog posts. While I’ve had two rejections this year, on stories I felt had promise, I’m trying to not let that get me down.

And right now, I’m battling the clock on two projects. Le Fay is probably the most pressing, but another… so far untitled, is proving a mite more interesting. It’s what I like to call Arthurian Legends meets The Vampire Diaries. I couldn’t resist throwing vampires at fire breathing dragons and seeing what came about. Turns out even with Le Fay not quite finished, Morgan’s not letting go. Not that she ever has and I doubt if she ever will.

It’s early days but I’m hopeful I’ll be able to finish the third instalment, Pendragon, ready for a late May release.

So, that’s what I achieved. What’s something you achieved?

 

 

Epeolatry Book Review #13: The Auguries

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I’m a little late off the starting block with this one, but the thirteenth book review for The Horror Tree has finally dropped!

It is an occult horror novel by F.G. Cottam and it was reviewed by Alyson Faye, who gave it three out of five stars.

You can read it for yourself here.

Week Twelve

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It’s goodbye to yet another week of the 365 Writing Challenge and I’ve written a grand total of 2,200 words… which is slightly up from last week.

So much has happened this week, most of which I have already blogged about. So, I won’t go into it again. Suffice to say, I’m looking forward to getting my hands on the poetry anthology from Dragon Soul Press that has my two little poems in it, when it releases in June.

I also received my copy of Spring’s Blessing in the mail, which featured my short story, The Dawning of Spring. If you haven’t gotten your hands on a copy you can do so here.

Well that’s about it for this week.

Happy Writing.

 

WORLD WAR FOUR: A Sci Fi Anthology

world war four

WORLD WAR FOUR: A Science Fiction Anthology is available now from Zombie Pirate Publishing.

Einstein said: “I do not know with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”

Turns out he was wrong…

WORLD WAR FOUR features twenty explosive short stories from authors all around the galaxy.

Plus a brand new, exclusive novelette from internationally acclaimed sci fi author NEAL ASHER!

Earth law has come to Godrun, a backwater planet on the edge of hostile alien space where slavery and corruption are rife. It’s up to Polity monitor Logan to clean up this den of thieves, no matter how many massive explosions it takes. Can the hired killers stop him? Or will a military drone named Sting be enough to swing the tide?

It’s an amazing tale, and just one of many in this 450 page, action packed anthology featuring space battles, high-tech jet dogfights, strange aliens and artificial intelligences, awesome weapons, and lots, lots more!

Get your copy today!
Available worldwide from AMAZON: http://a-fwd.to/5Sh6Yn6

To find out more about Zombie Pirate Publishing and available titles visit www.zombiepiratepublishing.com

 

 

200 Followers

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Thank you all so much. You guys are beyond awesome! It’s been an incredible nine months since I hit my last milestone and so humbling to find myself at 200 followers. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for sticking with me.

I vowed back in June 2018 that I’d share more about my writing journey and my kids. I think I’ve succeeded in sharing more about my writing but not so much about my kids.

So, I thought I’d use this post to share a bit about the other side of my life, as a mum to four kids. Yep, four… crazy, right? It comes as a shock to some, actually. In fact, I’m asked a lot how I keep my sanity. Sometimes, I don’t. But sleep helps, that and copious amounts of coffee.

I love my kids to pieces, but they do at times drive me up the wall. My husband too, at times, but I guess that comes with the territory.

My eldest son is thirteen… a teenager, and it hasn’t sunk in yet. He’s outgrown me. (That hasn’t quite sunk in, either) I still find myself thinking of him as the same kid who surprised us all by reading at three and a half. He received Harry Potter at seven and devoured the books in quick succession. He’ll still pick them up and reread them to this day. He hates having to clean his room.

My daughter is quite a bit like me. She came into the world incredibly early, at not even a kilo and has left her mark every day since. At eleven she’s an absolute riot. Loves cats, horses and origami and hates the colour pink. Which according to her brother is the weirdest thing ever.

My next eldest son is ten and insanely smart and sometimes frustrating bundle of energy. I think he learnt to run before he learnt to walk, because he never stops. He loves Lego and minecraft and anything and everything space related and is slowly getting into fantasy books. He hates stir-fry and homework.

My youngest son is eight and has never quit trying to keep up with his older siblings. He loves trains, Peter Rabbit and Groot from the Marvel universe. His favourite colour is green. He’s broken bones and had stitches but I can’t think of a single thing he hates right now, when I do, I’ll be sure to share.

And that’s pretty much the snapshot into my kids and each of their very different personalities.

 

Le Fay is Coming!

For all those who may be wondering, the second installment of my novelette series, Le Fay is in the works. I’m about two thirds of the way into it and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that it’ll be ready for release mid April.

It is the prequel to Morrighan and tells the story of Morgan and how she met Prince Arthur and the domino effect that befalls her which follows in the wake of her father’s death and propels her mother, Igraine, into the arms of Uther Pendragon.

For those that are familiar with the Arthurian Legends of old, my version is a little different in that there is a paranormal undertone to this story, but to tell you more would be giving too much away. I do however hope you’ll enjoy it.

For now though, I’ll leave you with a teensy excerpt and a look into Le Fay.

Enjoy!

He was standing right in front of her; Morgan couldn’t move. She licked her lips that had all of a sudden gone dry and remembered to breathe, and blink, least she be accused of staring at his all too beautiful face.

“Hello Morgan.”

Morgan shook her head, momentarily breaking the daze. He was too pretty to be real. Too pretty by far to be a boy. None of the boys Morgan knew had hair down to their shoulders.

“H-how do you know my name?” Morgan stammered, taking one step backwards. She shouldn’t have been out on the sidewalk. She should have been inside, but the apartment was dark and cramped.

“I know a great deal about you, Morgan,” he said.

Morgan swallowed hard, as fear bubbled up inside. She felt as if she’d throw up any second.

“Who are you?” Morgan sucked air into her half-starved lungs.

It tasted like roses. The garden behind him was full of them. All white to match the fence that ran all the way along the street.

Morgan shouldn’t have been talking to him, she should have turned away and walked inside, but hopscotch was way more fun than playing inside by herself.

“Now, now Morgan, there’s no need to be hostile,” he said. “I thought you could do with somebody to keep you company. It must get awfully lonely playing by yourself all the time.”

“Who are you?” she shrieked, so loud, that he reached out to put a hand over her mouth to shush her.

“If you promise to be quiet, I will tell you,” he said. “Do you promise, Morgan?”

Morgan nodded, and he took his hand away from her mouth. “Yes… I promise. Now tell me who you are!” her voice, while practically inaudible, was pitched.

“I’m Arthur. Arthur Pendragon,” he said, his blue eyes shining like sapphires.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Morgan repeated.

Despite the presence of a lisp when she said his name, Arthur forced a smile. “Yes.”

“Are you real?” she asked.

“Of course, I am!” he said with an air of indignation. “Aren’t all faeries real?”