Monthly Archives: November 2019

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Diana’s Nov. Writing Challenge: Dinner

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I dragged the child through the forest by his grubby ankle. He howled and grasped at passing tree roots, but I gave him a sharp-hooved kick. I’d not tolerate his misbehaving ways. No, not I.

“Let me go,” he begged.

I flattened my ears and bared my teeth, newly sharpened for the occasion. I hung him upside down, my tail wrapped around one bare foot like a python. Quick as spit, I used my claws to peel off his clothes, and I tossed the rags into the fire. He wouldn’t be wearing those again. They were as grimy as he, so rank that a skunk would pinch its nose and flee.

Tired of his pleading and threats, I stuffed the flailing child into my pot and slammed down the lid. The worst of the ordeal was over but for the boulder to keep the youngster inside. That I’d planned in advance, and I used my knees when hefting it onto the lid. Earlier that afternoon, I’d prepared the kettle with an aromatic blend of woodland herbs mixed with salts and plenty of water for a long stew. Nothing less would do in this particular case. The parents insisted the lad was “tough.”

“Let me out, please,” the child cried and blubbered, but I didn’t care. His parents had given up and offered him to me, wanting no details regarding what I’d do to him. I sorted out the fire, pushing the embers closer to the pot. Not boiling, but hot enough to have him done by dinnertime. I placed a delectable casserole near the heat and satisfied, squatted on a rock. There was nothing left to do but wait.

“It’s dark in here,” the lad griped. “And it’s getting hot.”

I ignored the complaints until they fell silent, frittering my afternoon away with grooming while anticipating my supper. I combed my long beard and polished my horns, taking utmost pride in my appearance. Unlike one germ-ridden, flea-bitten child. Every now and then, I tossed a stick on the fire.

When the sun slid behind the autumn leaves, I knocked the boulder from the lid and peeked inside. The aroma was delicious, and the child perfectly done, his skin rosy and wrinkled. I wrapped my tail around his skinny body, lifted him from my pot, and set him on a level stone.

He glowered at me. “You’re mean.”

“And you’re clean.” I shooed his little naked self away. “Off with you. Scamper home to your parents. My casserole is done and so is your bath.”

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I hope you enjoyed the story.

For those who celebrate the holiday, have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

See you in December!

❤

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Writing “The End”

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I imagine all artists – writers, painters, composers – come to a place in their work when they (in one form or another) jot down those two words: “The End.”

Naturally, the end of a first draft isn’t the END. There are months of rewrites and edits ahead. The collection of words I’ve tallied up on my laptop is still a work-in-progress.

But the story is done. The plot has wrapped up. The characters have completed their arcs and in some cases have died. Even my happy endings don’t come without pain, suffering, and loss. They are always bittersweet.

When I write “The End,” it’s emotional. As I scribble this post, days after penning that last line, my eyes gloss with feeling. And there’s no single reason.

“The End” comes with a sigh of relief and a wish to tell someone the powerful news. It’s a milestone. More than a year’s creative work coming to its conclusion.

But, for me, there’s also an odd sense of grief. I don’t know what to do with myself.  I’m restless. My sense of time shifts; my focus suddenly flutters away. I can’t sit, can’t move on. The story that consumed my thoughts and hours is over. The pressure to write, to capture my characters’ thoughts and hearts and sacrifices before they slip away, dissipates. I know the story now from the beginning to the end. The characters I have lived with and come to love have nothing more to say to me. They journey into their futures without me. Inside my head, I’m… alone.

Writing is, for many, an emotional undertaking. I’ve felt this way with every first draft.

I finished my first draft on November 18th with an additional 26,722 words. My NaNoWriMo challenge is done. I’m grieving.

And prepping for the less intense application of my craft.

Do you have any emotional reaction to writing “The End?” I’d love to hear your thoughts.

 

 

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A visit from the bossy muse, a free book, and a couple of awards

The muse’s latest look (pixabay compilation)

Way too early in the morning, my muse drops down beside me on my couch and tosses her hat onto the coffee table. The howler monkey that’s been riding her shoulder for a year leaps onto my kitchen counter, curls back its rubbery lips, and flashes a yellow-toothed grin. The muse hands me a latte. “Nice progress on the draft… finally.”

“Thanks.” I’m still leering at the monkey but manage to sip my latte. Yum. “So, why the visit?  You know I’m under NaNo pressure.” I somehow forget to mention that yesterday I logged zero words.

She arches an eyebrow but for once shrugs off her annoyance. “I’m running a promotion for a couple of days. Catling’s Bane is free today and Wednesday. Your sales blah blah blah…” I’m not listening. The howler’s opened my refrigerator and taken a bite from a head of lettuce. He’s going for the orange juice.

I bolt up. “Hey! Out of there!” The beast roars at me, a sound capable of bursting eardrums. He grabs a tuna sandwich I made for my husband’s lunch, darts across the cabin’s single room, and climbs halfway up the stairs. Suspended from the banister, he gobbles and spills bits of sandwich on the furniture below. UGH. I sink back onto the couch and glower, afraid any further intervention will make it worse.

“What else,” I ask, wanting to get this over with as quickly as I can.

She smiles at me. My muse never smiles. “Two of your books were semi-finalists in the 2019 Kindle Book Awards.”

“What?” I’ve now forgotten all about the howler and the globs of tuna sprinkling my floor. I’d also forgotten that I submitted books. “Both of them?”

“Sunweilder and Soul Swallowers.” She tips back her latte, stands, and snaps her fingers at the monkey. Not two seconds later, the creature swings from the banister onto her shoulder. My muse heads for the door, her familiar bossy ill-humor sliding onto her face. “Get to work.”

“I plan on it. After I clean up this mess.” As she walks out the door and into the forest, I call after her, “Hey, if I finish my first draft, can we lose the monkey?”

She glances back and slips me an evil smile.

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I guess the muse’s visit could have gone a lot worse.

Click on the cover if you’re interested in a free kindle of Catling’s Bane:

 

And here are those semi-finalists:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Writing!

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3 More Book Reviews

I’m deep into NaNoWriMo, writing furiously between ongoing parental health stuff. I had to abandon my first draft of a trilogy over a year ago, and can’t even remember some of the characters’ names!  Ugh and Lol. I’m not stopping to look them up. They’re just getting new names that I’ll have to reconcile later. What a mess. But so fun to be writing.

I’ve also been gobbling down books, and it’s about time to share three more reviews!  Here goes:

The Prince’s Man

by Deborah Jay

I thoroughly enjoyed this entertaining and skillfully-written fantasy novel. I was particularly taken with the tight narrative, not a wasted scene or conversation, every word counting as the story unfolded. This contributed to a quick pace and complimented the well-considered plot that comes together with a satisfying ending. Though the first in a series, The Prince’s Man can also be read as a stand-alone.

All that good stuff, and then there’s more… the characters are fabulous, deeply flawed and sympathetic at the same time. The relationship between Rustam and Risada takes center stage. There are hints of a romantic attraction but the reader is saved from moon eyes and heaving chests by a very real tension based on past experiences, current loyalties, and objectives. Despite being allies, there’s a lot of loathing going on here. I love that.

Elves, trolls, and were-cats throw the story into the classic fantasy genre and are integral to the plot and underlying theme of the book. The political machinations are realistic enough to be recognizable today. Prejudices, bigotry, genocide, and beliefs in cultural superiority are alive and well in Jay’s world-building. The characters are forced to revisit their worldviews, but just like in real life, they will only open their eyes so wide. And Jay doesn’t hold back on the brutality.

I’m looking forward to reading the next in the series and seeing what happens to the two main characters as well as a host of others who intrigued me no end. Recommended for anyone who loves a good fantasy.

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My Maine

by Bette Stevens

This collection of haiku takes about an hour to read, but I recommend a slower savoring of this literary treat. Arranged by season, each poem is an exquisite snapshot of life in Maine — its landscapes, wildlife, people, pastimes, heritage, and communities. They stand alone, but the book’s real beauty is how, when strung together, they create a poetic photo album that captures the heart of the state. A lovely read that I highly recommend.

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Skating on Thin Ice

by Jacquie Biggar

Injured hockey star Mac Wanowski and his physiotherapist Samantha Walters are stuck together in a secluded mountain cabin. Persistent storms keep them snowbound, but that’s a problem because someone is trying to kill Mac. With the thriller plot as a backdrop, Mac and Sam navigate their attraction to each other, swinging back and forth between escalating passion and fury. The end is full of action and some surprises. Pacing is excellent and the characters are well-defined. Skating on Thin Ice is classic romance with the addition of an exciting subplot. Highly recommended for romance readers.

Happy Reading!