What motivates us

Ever known you have a bunch to do, but just can’t seem to start the tasks? That happens to me about every day. I have this simple “To Do List” and yet never seem to get the tasks done. Even as I’m distracted with other things, the litany of what I need to finish scrolls through my head; and yet, I just can’t get motivated to start. There are always so many distractions: books to read on my phone apps or from my bookshelf, endless scrolling through shows on tv, games to play on my phone or laptop. It never fails. I remind myself of what I need to get done and then quickly become distracted by things I don’t need to do.

I recently made the joke that I would like to be a Lady of Leisure after getting seven snow days within two weeks. While you might think that is a great idea or an awesome opportunity to get things done, I found myself having a hard time concentrating on the tasks at hand. Even now while on Spring Break, there is a litany of things that need my attention; and while I have gotten to a few, I really should have handled most of them by now. Today, I sat down with my coffee and laptop with the intent of checking emails, sending a few, working on this blog, and then getting my workout in. Well, two hours later and I’m just now working on my blog because there are fun games on this computer and Netflix and my mom called and basically, I did everything but what I actually needed to do.

So, how do I motivate myself? Not well, if you want the truthful answer. I’m not lazy. I mean, I have action packed days: teaching, grading, family, riding, writing, cooking, cleaning, laundry, crocheting baby blankets for two of my colleagues who are pregnant. But when it comes to completing my to do lists, sometimes I just cannot get motivated. I see this with my students as well; even when I give them tons of class time to prepare and create, they get distracted by the games on their chromebooks or phones (if they can sneak them without my seeing), which also leads to texting, Snapchat, instant messaging, all the fun tech distractions. Why work on school when you can watch an otter video or stupid prank video? Why get your tasks competed when there are much more inane things to occupy your brain? I get it and often fall into that trap as well.

Very often I have to force myself to start the list, and then, once started, I usually keep going. Sometimes, I get distracted mid-task or find my mind drifting to something else; and if I’m not careful, I’m distracted again. I should have had this written, emails answered, and already finished by workout by now. Instead, here I sit trying to finish my great treatise to the world, no workout done, no emails checked, and several hours behind schedule. I really don’t think being a Lady of Leisure is right for me because I would simply vegetate, which would eventually drive me nuts. I need to work on structuring my days better and not allowing so many distractions. Any suggestions?

To trust or not to trust

I was speaking with a friend who told me about their most recent pitfall with the publishing world. He had thought he was going to be the next Grisham or Crichton. At least, that’s what the publishing company he found online told him. They promised him the bestseller list, massive sales and profits, a professional marketing plan, including ads on the Times Square Billboard. Absolutely everything he’d ever dreamed about. It sounded awesome and I have to admit I was a tad jealous of him when he first told me about his deal. Then he received the final contract with the itemized invoice and realized that there were a lot of extras in his contract—extra costs, that is. When he started adding up everything, my friend realized he’d have to take out a massive loan and/or cash out much of his retirement to foot the bill for his author dreams. The company tried to convince him it would be worth it—that he’d make that back and more as soon as the books started selling; but my friend did the math. At the price the books would be selling, his portion of the profits would help him break even in 43 years. As he is currently in his 50s, my friend chose to decline the offer. He dodged a bullet, but how many of us havven’t?

We’ve all seen a posts questioning whether or not a publishing site, a marketing package, author event, book award, etc., are for real or a scam. There are a lot of scams out there and their orchestrators have gotten exceptionally good at hiding that fact. Just changing one letter in the web address or .com versus .net can mean the difference between a legitimate business and a fraud. It’s frighteningly hard to tell. I’ve also seen the horror story posts about being ghosted as soon as their manuscript and payment have been sent or something similar; and I’ve spoken with authors who fell for the marketing hype and, unlike my friend, doled out a huge sum of money for the dream of making it on the NYTimes bestseller list only to have nothing to show for it, except a depleted bank and/or retirement account. It makes me wonder how I avoided the pitfalls.

I mean, let’s be honest. I’m immensely gullible. As my husband has told me, I’m very trusting and never smell a rat even when people point out the problems before me. I just live with the idea that people are as honest with me as I am with them. So, how did I find such an amazing publisher? How did I find such a talented artist to create art for me to use on social media and in promotions? How did I not fall for so many of the scams, especially marketing scams out there? Easy. Not because I was too sharp to see through their lies, of course; but because I’m cheap. I sweat about my grocery costs and how much gas to put in my car. I shop thrift and TJ Maxx because I refuse to pay retail and my husband and always run major expenditures by each other. He can definitely smell a rat and do the math to prove his point. So, i won’t be spending thousands of dollars to try and get my name in lights or on the Times Square billboard.

Don’t get me wrong. I would love to see my book on top of that NYTimes list, and I’ve heard that to get there takes truly deep marketing pockets. I’m happy with the success my books have had so far. Some of my students have enjoyed them as has my dad. Friends have enjoyed them as have total strangers. It’s not on the level of NYTimes but I’m published. That’s amazing and so cool. As far as marketing and publishing scams go, if it sounds too good to be true, it just might be. Do your research—google them and don’t just take their word for it. Use a magnifying glass on the fine print and really see what you’re expected to pay. Do all of this BEFORE you send any money their way. Don’t be blinded by the promise of a bestseller. Nine and a half times out of ten, no matter what you do or how you market, the NYT isn’t coming calling.

Progress…

I started working on something really exciting—the edited copy of The Dead, which is book three of my trilogy. I’m not sure if I’ve explained the writing of my trilogy, but I didn’t write it as three books but as one. I had no idea about word count versus page count in publishing and wasn’t really thinking about the amount I was writing. I just wrote. So, you can imagine my surprise when the publisher emailed me that my manuscript was too long to be one book and that I had actually written a trilogy, which meant we split the first manuscript into three parts.

For each book, I have updated, critiqued, changed, enhanced, and just reworked the content before sending the publisher an updated copy. Book three wasn’t any different. I changed two scenes completely as well as added some additional information to a few others. Now, I’m reading through the publisher’s edited, or clean, copy. Once I finish, I will email it back to my publisher. It’s like Christmas when I get the email with my edited manuscript. That feeling of pride in myself is pretty intoxicating, I admit.

While getting the confirmation that my publisher wanted to publish my books was exhilarating and getting these “clean” copies to look over is incredible, I think I get the most excited by the emails from the graphic artist with my book cover proof. My graphic artist is a fantastic artist who has created two drop dead gorgeous covers for me; and I can’t wait to see what she creates for The Dead. I’m impatiently waiting for that email. I know her work will be spectacular.

You know, there’s a lot to this publishing/writing process I never imagined. Some of it is really fun—like what I’m doing now—while some is truly terrifying. (The interviews and book signings come to mind.) Tedious or uncomfortable would be the social media, but seeing my stories fueled by my imagination in print and in the hands of others like my students and my parents is stupefyingly wondrous. How did I do this? The fact that I am a published author and have a third book coming out this year still mind-blowing to me. Some how I did it and that accomplishment is something no one can ever take away from me. But if I want to get this third book out this fall, I should probably return to the “clean” copy and finish my edit. Back to the world of MithTerra one more time.

The power of being seen

Today, two students stopped by my classroom after school. One was there to ask about missing work—which was quickly found…in her notebook—while the other was simply accompanying his friend. Both stayed to chat with me for awhile. I love that—the fact that past and current students actually like to talk to me outside of the class, and after last week’s trauma and sadness, their happy chatter and jokes was exactly what I needed.

It often makes me laugh when people find out I’m a teacher and gasp. Usually the gasp is followed by something along the lines of “I could never do that.” Or, especially after they hear I teach high school, “Are you serious? How do you stand it?” Well, let me tell you. I love my job. Working with teenagers is fun, fulfilling, and challenging. I think those are the best qualities for any job. Plus, who wants to go through life without ever being challenged? How boring. My students make every single day I am in that school, or out of it, interesting. (Their excuses for missing work, especially in email form, are some of my favorites!!) But honestly what gets my happy tears going and feeds my soul the most is when they appear truly happy to see me when we are out in public. That is absolutely the best because you know you’re someone special if these teenagers acknowledge your existence and affirm that they know you beyond the classroom.

I love walking through our local Mall or downtown or eating at a restaurant and have students call out to me, stop by my table, call my name and wave happily from across the street or parking lot, or sit at my table in the Food Court of the mall and chat for awhile, everybody pulling up chairs and telling me the tea. Some of which, I must admit, I didn’t really need to know; but my students, current and former, still seem to enjoy hanging with Ms. Johnson. Let’s be real, I enjoy it, too.

It also reminds me of the influence I have on them and the weight of that responsibility. They are fragile and strong, meek and vibrant. Individuals, who desperately want to fit in somewhere but stand out as well. I find great pride in watching them flourish and not because I arrogantly think I had anything to do with their success and growth. I genuinely feel happy watching my students find their voices and I truly hurt when they silence themselves. I think—or at least, I hope—that’s why I am good at my job. Why so many of my students take as many of my courses as they even if the subject isn’t their strong point or even something that interests them.

It makes me feel successful at my job each year when older students walk back through my classroom door for another year or stop and say hello outside of the school building or stop back by my room just to chat. Hopefully, I’m right and it’s showing me I did my job correctly. That I reached them in some positive way. That time in my classroom mattered to them. That’s how I measure my success as a teacher—in the smiles and waves and acknowledgment I receive from my students, former, current, and even future. They, to me, are all amazing.

Beauty in the Breaking

Why is it that humans are innately programmed to hide their emotions? Or, more specifically, those emotions deemed weak like sadness or pain? Why are we supposed to bottle it up and hide it from the world? “Buck up, little camper” often comes to mind here. What does that mean anyway? Get tougher? Deny our feelings? What? I’ve never understood the feeling of embarrassment or horror at the thought of others seeing me cry, but I have felt that and acted accordingly—shoved the pain down deep and moved forward. Or recited that practiced false phrase, “I’m fine” like my life depended on it. But why?

This past week I was off social media and even my blog, for the whole week, which is uncommon for me since becoming a published author. Now, last Monday and Tuesday was for happier reasons. (I was finishing up my prepublication checklist and turning it into my publisher for my third book, The Dead, which comes out this fall.) Then the week went all to hell with a major family emergency starting on Tuesday night and taking up all my time and focus for the next two days.

Friday morning dawned hopeful and seemed to be getting back to normal. The 20 ton knot of anxiety that had taken up residence in the center of my chest had dissipated to a manageable quarter pound knot and I was thinking things could only get better. Until my daughter called to inform me that Buck, our sweet, FOMO/velcro bullmastiff had bitten her in the face. And now my world was spiraling again. I held it together while getting all the information I could from my daughter. They’d been napping together on the couch (something they had been doing for years), and when my daughter moved to get up, Buck attacked. I calmly handled all the phone calls—my husband, my father (a physician who lives nearby to check on my girl and get her to the ER), the vet to schedule bringing my dog in to possibly be euthanized.

Emma and I had noticed a subtle shift in Buck’s demeanor over the past few weeks and had an appointment with his regular vet scheduled to evaluate him. I was thinking brain tumor because he was six, which is the time these things can start, and had been exhibiting some odd behavior that was getting worse. Buck, normally a velcro dog, had begun putting himself in his crate and staying in the back of it instead of hanging out with us. He would come up to me and push his head against my leg while his teeth chattered harshly. We saw him chewing on his front paws almost obsessively at times. He appeared anxious. So we knew something wasn’t right.

After staying calm through all the phone calls and chaos, that quarter pound knot had grown back into the 20 ton version; and as I sat down at my desk, I had a hard time keeping the emotions bottled up, especially in front of my first period class. When the bell for class change rang, I realized I could not keep everything inside; so, I did something I have never done in my many years of teaching—I handed my class over to an aide (who, by the way, is a beautiful human being). I ended up in a colleague’s empty room and just broke. All the stress and pain from the week that had become that 20 ton knot pressing on my chest was released and I just broke.

Funny thing, I broke in front of my friend, who never once made me feel weak for doing so. Whoever came up with the rule of never showing true emotion in front of others really didn’t know reality. That “Buck up, little camper” idea is stupid. Sometimes we just need to break in order to keep going. I finished my day, albeit sad and still stressed, but that knot was gone. I could breathe and face what I had to do. So remember, there is a beauty in the breaking.

Community

Yesterday, I attended a community fundraiser benefiting Paws for Cause. Luckily for our bank account, my husband didn’t attend with us as he views an auction as a competition to be won at all costs. While I did “win” a few items from the silent auction portion of the event, the true wins for me weren’t competitive. For one, I watched my elderly mother fawn all over a beautiful Shepherd named Falco, who is used for apprehension and narcotics detection and has more energy than the Energizer Bunny. Truly, the only time that dog was still was when Mom loved on him and when his handler okayed Mom having her picture taken with Falco. The joy shining in my mother’s face and pulsating through her voice as Falco reminded her of her beloved Lance, a German Shepherd her family had owned when she was a child/early teen. Mom was Lance’s person and the two were inseparable, even sleeping in the same bed. Although, as Lance was quite large, Mom routinely ended up on the floor over staying in the bed.

For another, I was overjoyed to run into a few former students (one from over eighteen years ago) and learning about their lives now. I have to admit that whenever I run into former students outside of school, I can’t promise I will immediately remember their names; but I love that they remember me and want to chat, especially when they tell me what they remember about me and my class. I got to do that last night and, not that I take any credit for the amazing people they have become, I was amazed and awed at the outstanding human beings they were and are still. And for them to walk up to me, apparently happy to see me, means more than I can truly express.

On top of all that, as mine and now my daughter’s lives just get busier and busier (I mean, soon she’ll be out of the house), precious time with her and my mom is a rarity that I treasure. How many more days do I have with either of them? Just getting to spend time, eating, talking, and laughing with each other is an amazing gift. This is community to me.

In my books, that is the community I portray—this idea of finding joy and peace and health in the company of family, friends, and even strangers. It’s shown in the relationships in my books. Tarin and Halicyon, Hil and Tarin, Finn and Kwin, and Syllé and them all. They rely on each other, are strengthened by each other, find comfort in each other’s presence, and always have each other’s back; but not to the exclusion of all others. Their community can expand as the situation and occasion dictate and they welcome friends and strangers because that is community—an ever-expanding and fluctuating system open to all who wish to be included. So, who can you include into yours?

To promote or not to promote

I have been inundated with messages and posts from advertisers swearing to make my novels the next international best sellers. They promise exposure all over the world, millions of copies sold, ebook downloads galore, and all within days of them taking over the promotion of my trilogy. It just sounds too good to be true, and probably, most of them are. There are plenty of scams out there promising big things or mirroring authentic retailers and publishers, who simply take your money and run, or in modern terms, ghost you. Once paid, the emails don’t get answered, the phone calls go directly to voicemail, and the “business” moves on to their next mark. So, how does someone know the real from the con?

I’d love to have a simple answer for you, but I don’t. In today’s publishing world, there appears to be so many online opportunities to publish and social media is one of the best ways to promote yourself, and since both of those are digital, they are easy for scammers to use to defraud you. It’s why I haven’t ventured too far beyond my comfort zone or too far beyond the familiar. I shy away from solicitations—often checking them out but never truly engaging. I hesitate and wonder if the deal is legit or a scam. It’s exhausting and I still have no real idea how to tell the legitimate from the fake.

Recently, I saw a call for authors to submit their books for an event in another state. It looked fabulous and I got excited. I started filling out their form, but halfway through, I began the what if discussion in my head. I analyzed everything I possibly could about their site, put the form on hold, let it run through my head for several days, and then finally, after a great deal of research and talking with a friend of mine who knew about the event, finalized the form. I was too late. The author spots at the event had already been filled. So, I missed another great opportunity because I don’t have the faith that I can tell the difference between a real deal and a con. Pathetic, right?

What I’ve learned, though, is the too good to be true is. There is no fast road to stardom. It’s not right around the corner and no promotion is going to quadruple or more your sales in a night or a few days. The process takes time, tenacity, and even a few wrong turns. Be smart. Do your research. Trust in yourself and your work. Good luck!

The Symbolism Behind Sylle’s Blue Flame

In my books, Sylle, as a child of the Leas, wields the flame of the Leas, a power that manifests as a blue flame. This power is unstoppable once ignited and no monster of the dark, not even the indomitable Malrauk can withstand it. The idea comes from many sources from throughout my life that have just gathered and congealed in my memory until coming forth in my book series.

Growing up in a religious family there were, of course, the biblical Sunday School sources. You know, the flaming sword blocking the entrance to Eden after Adam and Eve sinned. The “cleansing” of Sodom and Gomorrah (can never remember how to spell that one) with fire raining down from the sky. The fiery bush. Actually, in the Bible, fire represented many things: the power of God, most importantly, but also, purification, the road of trials, and the destruction of evil. So, I definitely got the idea started there.

Now, as to why it’s blue. Well, first off, I have blue eyes and so does Sylle; so, there’s that. Also, I always liked the reasoning behind blue in many religions. Depending on the religion, blue is meant to remind you of the power of the divine as well as marking a place of refuge or sanctuary. In some religions, it symbolizes the link between heaven or the afterlife and earth. (As I’ve said before, I’m a bit of a fact nerd and have a tendency to read and read and read and retain bits and pieces of so many facts and ideas. My brain is stuffed full of strange tidbits of information that leak out in various ways.) So, Sylle’s flame is blue because it is a manifestation of the power, divinity, and infinity of the Leas.

It can cleanse as well as destroy. It can heal as well as kill. It’s potency is dependent upon how Sylle wields it and also her emotions. Like the time at the Fall Festival in The Forgotten when it erupts with the power of an out of control bonfire because the changeling harmed Tarin. Or when she is on the ropes with Tarin being hoisted up into the Drengas kingdom in The Lost and uses her flame to heal Tarin. It is akin to wizard fire, which is how she masks it in order to hide her true identity. Now, wizard fire as wielded by Gideon in The Lost and the upcoming third book The Dead is not as powerful but is a pretty close second as it was bestowed upon wizards by High Queen Sedivar as a weapon to use against some of Merilik’s more lethal creations like Malrauk’s, wraiths, and changelings.

This is probably more back story than you wanted, but as I said, the information in brain leaks out in so many ways. You’ll find even more uses for Sylle’s power in The Dead, but you’ll have to wait until this fall to read them. Just know that she’s not done battling Merilik yet and their fated battle is looming.

Stillness is Not the Same as Silence

As an introvert, I have always been quiet and unobtrusive. Hiding in silence. Hoping no one notices me or draws attention to me. So, my silence wasn’t coming from a place of strength, but a place of fear, timidity. As I’ve grown and flexed my introvert muscles, I have begun to rise above that timid silence and be still. It’s a skill I have fostered and grown and still work on today; but I have learned that in stillness is boundless strength and power. It’s something Sylle is known to do as she watches her surroundings, learning and observing and helping herself make rational decisions. My stillness gives me a breather, a moment to stop and put my disordered thoughts in order, trample down unfounded fears, and listen to myself.

One of my favorite scenes from The Lost occurs in the Drengas throne room as chaos erupts around the small group of fighters from Helmfirth and Exulias. The elite Drengas warriors are in an uproar over their betrayal by one of their own, which is causing Tarin and others in his group to fear for their safety; but Sylle, Tarin notices, is simply standing silent amidst the tumult surrounding them like a solid fortress buttressed by a storm. She doesn’t seem fazed at all as she quietly surveys the chaos around her, observant and still. This enables her to deduce at least one of the culprits and come to a decision on how to proceed as safely as possible. I love this quiet stillness she exhibits. It’s not a weakness. It’s not indecision. It’s strength. It’s determination. It’s self-confidence. It’s power.

That’s what I have learned after years of searching for the shadows in which to hide from the world. I’ve learned that there is a difference between remaining silent out of fear—of being noticed, of saying or doing something embarrassing or wrong—and being still. Still to observe. Still to decide. Still to remain quiet within myself. My stillness has helped me to learn when to speak and what to speak. It has stopped me from saying something before thinking about it. And I have to say that I have learned a great deal about the people around me from being still.

I learned all this from Mac, my wolf growing up. He would often sit in the shadows or on the periphery and watch quietly. He perfected the art of being still, of observing and dissecting the world around him so that when he moved, it was with purpose and decisive. I marveled at that when I was a teenager because that was not who I was, but it was who I wanted to be. So, I wrote that trait into my character Sylle, but I didn’t just pass this trait along to Sylle. Queen Atheneal, Lady Sariel, and Hil also exhibit it. These women all use stillness as a part of their armor and use it exceptionally well. They know when to sit back and wait, when to move forward, when to guard their tongues, and when to speak out. Those are important lessons for anyone, and I learned them pretty well. Honestly, I still have a ways to go, but now my silence isn’t fear-based. It’s confident and strong. (At least, most of the time. Hey, I’m human, not a fictional character. I screw up just like everyone else.)

Strong women

I’ve always been fascinated with archery. I have no idea why, and I am certainly not very good with a bow. So, I can’t say where this fascination originated. I first attempted archery as a freshman in high school during gym class—a class in which I may have accidentally shot my gym teacher in the butt. Well, I grazed his butt cheek to be more accurate. But honestly, my slight obsession with the sport started long before that. I mean, one of Syllé’s skills is archery and I’ve already acknowledged that her character was an idealized version of myself. Also, one of my main characters is a fiery haired human/elf from Helmfirth who is uncontestedly the best shot ever. I’m talking about my character Amarris

Amarris is a complicated character—independent, strong (physically and mentally), sharp-sighted, and looking for revenge. She’s the niece of Therendé’al, the Dréor king’s strongest and most powerful lieutenant and her mother’s assassin; so, Amarris has been waiting for the chance to get vengeance. However, she hasn’t focused her life on revenge. Instead, she’s lived it and reaped the benefits of a present and nurturing father. Her life has been hard but good and she has honed her archery skills to a level above all others. She is one of my favorite characters and not just because she is an archer but truly because of the incredibly strong woman that she is.

If you were interested in a visual of what she might look like in my mind google the iFit trainer Hannah Eden and add brilliant red hair. You see, when I was adapting my original fan fiction, it was 2020 and we were in the middle of the pandemic while I was in the beginning of my battle with breast cancer. Follow a year with three surgeries, Tamoxifen, and a bout of COVID, I was very out of shape and had gained quite a bit of weight; so, as soon as I was cleared and physically able, I started back working out. That’s how I first was exposed to Hannah. As soon as I saw her on that first workout, I realized I was looking at Amarris because Hannah isn’t some waif-thin, barbie proportion, ready to be blown away at the lightest puff of wind type of female. She’s strong, healthy, and solid. That’s how I always viewed Amarris; and when I first saw Hannah, she had flaming red hair, which was the distinguishing trademark of Amarris. Well, that and her insane ability to hit absolutely everything she aimed at, including the heart of a certain dwarf.

Amarris was already formed in my imagination and on paper before I ever found the iFit videos with Hannah. Those videos just helped solidify in my mind a real image of Amarris and the woman I saw her being. The type of woman I always wished had been in Tolkien’s works. The type of woman I created Syllé for myself to be within Tolkien’s world. Not a woman who needs to be saved constantly. You know, that damsel in distress trope that is abundantly annoying in how it continues to raise its nasty head in books, television, movies, and even real life. I don’t need to constantly be saved and it annoys me that because I am female, a lot of the world views I do. That doesn’t mean I never need help or don’t appreciate it when it’s offered. I certainly couldn’t have gotten to remission without help—doctors, surgeries, medication, of course, but most importantly, a phenomenal support system starting with my husband.

Needing help, I have learned, doesn’t mean you sacrifice your independence or are weak and can never stand on your own. It simply means that you aren’t a member of some superhero squad like the Avengers or the X-men. Seriously, even superheroes need help to survive. So, I’ll end with one of my favorite toasts: here’s to strong women. May we know them. May we raise them. May we be them.

I love writing.

My favorite thing about writing is connection—to the characters and the story, yes; but also just the simple connection of pen and paper. There’s something about the feeling of the pen in my hand and the sound of it crossing the paper and the magic of seeing my words come to life on the page. I find it calming, pure, and uniquely intimate. Much more so than typing ever is. Typing is impersonal and half the time we don’t really remember what we typed or only fragments. But pen and paper engraves it into our minds. There have been studies that have proven writing notes with pen and paper causes a connection with the material in our brains infinitely better than typing on a computer. I realize the tech giants own the American education system, but if I had the power, I would remove all technology from the classroom and return to thee days of textbooks, pen/pencil, and paper. Return to the days of computer labs that were only there for final draft essays to be typed up and printed out to turn in after all other parts of the planning process—brainstorming, outlines, rough drafts—were done on paper with a writing utensil, not a keyboard. As a teacher who has watched student literacy and writing skills steadily deteriorate since the mid-1990s, I say we join with the Nordic countries and our own Silicon Valley and take the screens out of our classrooms.

Rant done. Soapbox gone. Back to me and my paper. And by the way, the irony that this blog is being typed on a computer is not lost on me at this moment. Nor am I saying we shouldn’t use to computers to write anything. What would the world be without email? Less immediately connected, of course; but more intimately connected, too. Teaching my students how to address an envelope is something I never thought I would have to teach a teenager. The fact that I do is sad. Getting mail—not email, but an actual physical letter—was such a glorious experience. Now, even Christmas cards and birthday cards are digital. You can’t hold digital in your hands and store them with a ribbon in a keepsake box to bring out and go over again and again, reliving the feelings the words on the paper evoked. Emails, snapchats, posts, they’re all fleeting, impermanent for the most part. But a tangible piece of paper lasts. That’s connection.

Even the smell of paper stirs memories. I mean, really, anyone ever get a perfumed email? Or the whiff of the sender’s cologne? Or pipe smoke? (Yes, I’m remembering someone with that pipe smoke reference.) You can’t send someone’s scent or essence through Snapchat. That’s part of the connection of pen and paper. It’s personal, real, connecting.

My journals are some of my most treasured possessions. I love reading through them to laugh at my childhood writings, cry over old heartbreaks, gloat over triumphs, and find joy in my growth. I love my early mornings with my coffee, the sunrise, my dogs, and my journal. The writing brings me joy and calms my anxiety—as does the growly snores of my two bullmastiffs leaned up against me. These moments are important and I wish more people took the time to stop and connect. I wish I could get this across to my students—the importance of connecting with not just your writing, but your thoughts, your mind, and your audience. Writing isn’t a chore to get through for a grade or assignment or job. It’s a lifeline.

Raised with wolves

Recently, I was asked by a reader and friend if Braxis and Pyrrha, the Léasean wolves and Hounds of Sedivar who serves a protectors for Tarin in The Lost, were named after my two bullmastiffs; and while I will admit that my dogs (Buck and Annie, by the way) are intimidating, they are actually huge, scary looking goofballs that will protect their pack only when necessary. Most of what they do is drool—A LOT— and lie around on the couch or the humans in the house. And to answer your question, I have never had any dogs named Braxis or Pyrrha. The names reminded me of gladiators of ancient Rome for some reason and I liked that image when I thought of those two wolves—something more than their intimidating appearance and fully able and ready to dominate when threatened.

Braxis, at least, is modeled after a dog from my childhood and early teens. His name was Mackenzie, Mac for short; and he was 152 pounds, solid black with a white crescent-shape on his chest. He was a wolf dog and my mom got him from a local breeder before such breeding was banned. His parents were both basically wolf, Mackenzie River Valley wolves, to be exact. I think their papers said they were each 7/8 wolf with the final 1/8 being German shepherd, so Mac was as close to pure wolf as you could get without raiding a pack for a pup. Thankfully, we had the space for him as we lived on around eighty acres that we surrounded by even larger beef cattle, dairy cattle, and/or tobacco farms. He had a ton of space to run, which he did every day. I remember watching him just run laps for hours around the perimeter of our farm. When he was done, he’d throw himself down on the ground at my feet and just look around, ever vigilant.

That was Mac. He was always hyper alert and aware around those he viewed as his pack and Mom was most important. I remember one incident from when I was in the third or fourth grade. We were home and the construction workers were there completing some finish work on the house Mom and Dad built on their land. One of the workers showed up late and drunk. The others were around the side of the house doing I have no idea what, but their jobs, I’m sure. Anyway, my mom didn’t want this guy around her daughters and not just because he was inebriated. He was leering at us and made me feel uncomfortable. When Mom asked him to leave the property, he started advancing on her with that awful smile on his face and this look in his eyes that still makes me shudder. Mom tried to stand her ground and continue to ask him to get off her property while keeping me and my younger sister behind her. That man just kept coming.

It was about this time that Mac appeared from around the corner of the house. He enjoyed hanging out with the other workmen because they gave him treats from their lunch pails and he’d often run off with various tools or 2x4’s causing them to chase after him—an activity he found particularly amusing. Anyway, Mac put himself in between Mom and the man and backed the drunk into his truck. I swear I’ve never seen that kind of fear in a person’s face and I’m not quite certain he didn’t actually mess himself. As he was scrambling into his truck, several of the other workers made it around the house to see what was going on. Their foreman noticed Mom’s face and my sister and I peeking out from behind her and Mac’s stance and told the man to go home and not return today or any other day. Mac never moved from his stance staring that man down until his truck backed out of our driveway. Once he was gone, Mac turned and trotted back to my mom where he sat at her feet, threw his head back, and howled. It was awesome and scared the crap out of the other construction workers, except the foreman, who chuckled and nodded at Mac before getting his crew back to their work.

There’s a scene in The Lost where Braxis and Pyrrha help protect Tarin from a militia group from Vanguard that has been infiltrated by Vikari. After the bad guys are subdued, Braxis and Pyrrha flank Tarin daring anyone to even try something against the dwarf lord and Tarin grins as he’s never felt so indomitable in his life. That’s kind of how I felt even though Mac wasn’t howling for me, but it was cool.

Now Mac wasn’t exactly serious and intimidating the entire time. He had a definite sense of humor and mischief. No one can ever convince me otherwise. He would often run into the neighbor’s cow fields and “herd” the cows. He never bit any of them or took any of them down; he truthfully just got them into a close group and moved them around the field. Mom would always send me after him convinced the farmer would shoot her dog. My job was to catch him and bring him home. Mac knew the drill and always chose the field with the evil bull with horns. He could outrun and maneuver that beast, but I couldn’t. I always ended up treed with the bull below glaring at me. Mac would scoot under the barbed wire, jump the creek, and nonchalantly head for home as soon as I was up a tree, periodically, glancing back grinning at my fate. He would often sit in one of the horse fields halfway back to the house and just happily laugh at my predicament. Most times Mr. Ray would have to drive his truck up next to the tree and let me drop down into its bed to save me. Mac looked so dejected when that happened since his prank was over for the day. He seemed to enjoy messing with me—a little like Braxis and Pyrrha take such pleasure in “intimidating” Finn when they first meet.

So, to answer my reader’s question (probably with more information than they had wanted), I do not now nor have I ever had any dogs named Braxis or Pyrrha; however, I did know a wolf named Mac who was my friend, torment, and protector for many, many years.

My muse & its awkward timing.

Most of my best ideas have arrived at inconvenient times. Not when I’m sitting at my keyboard with a fresh cup of coffee and a perfectly open schedule, but when my hands are buried in dishwater or I’m halfway around the block with the dogs tugging at their leashes or I’m mid-debate with a classroom full of kids. I’ll be thinking about grocery lists and school emails or lesson plans, and suddenly a voice that isn’t mine will say something like, But Mommy, I don’t want to die. And just like that, a story has found me.

I’ve learned that stories don’t seem to care whether I’m ready for them. Ideas slip in while I’m busy attempting to be a responsible adult—while grading papers, walking Buck, or folding the same load of laundry I could swear I just folded yesterday. Inspiration arrives unexpectedly, and if I’m not paying attention, it will drift away. I have learned that when I later sit with my journal and try to force what came to me so effortlessly earlier, the result is never as good as the original, which is why I have so many journals—two by my bed, one in the tv room, one continuously in my school bag, three more in various places in my classroom, and a small spiral one that is always in my purse for quick jots of inspo when I’m on the go.

In 2025, I shared a video of walking my dog Buck at o’dark-thirty in the morning before sunrise and the only discernible part of the video was the crunch of my feet on the gravel drive where Buck and I were walking. The screen was black with indistinguishable slightly darker shapes throughout but the sound of my walking was the key. As I walked, it sounded like orc marching and my head, the scene of the thousands of Black Guard marching out of Shara formed in my mind. I still believe what I came up with on my walk is way better than what was written in book three, The Dead; but I still really like the scene anyway. It never occurred to me to take a journal on my walk with Buck, and if you’ve ever walked a curious bullmastiff at any time of the day, you would understand why. At any moment, you can be pulled off your feet to go investigate a smell, a sound, a ghost, whatever; and don’t think it’s anything your puny human senses will register to give you advance warning that you are about to be rendered airborne.

This happens to me a lot—scenes, dialogue, ideas, characters—shooting out of the blue at me and I’ve learned to be prepared by having a journal always at hand to quickly write the ideas down before they fly away. I know that if I simply think I’ll come back to it at a more convenient time, the result won’t be the same as the original. Every time these musings have developed into the scenes and characters in my books. Often they are disjointed sentences, bullet points, quick fragments of thought that when I return to them develop into larger ideas. More often than not those ideas develop far beyond the original inspiration or thought. Some rare times, I get to actually sit with the idea and flesh it out right then and there; but those times are truly rare. And if I’m being honest, I like jotting quick thoughts and then mulling over them in my brain for a bit until I have time to sit down and fully flesh them out. It’s not the best time when standing in a room full of teenagers to have your mind elsewhere, so, the majority of my musing doesn’t occur during school days. But it will occasionally slip in here and there. I mean, honestly, if the kids can have license to daydream and tune me out, why can’t I return the favor?

Getting Published

I often get asked what the publishing process has been like for me, and I have to admit that it hasn’t been the traditional route. Or at least, I don’t think it has. I didn’t go through a professional agent who then advocated for me with various publishers. Although I did have an agent of a sort. I didn’t have to do a mass send off of my manuscript with a cover letter advertising me and my work hoping for someone to take a liking to it. Although I did email my manuscript to a publisher and hope they liked it. Spoiler alert: since I'm published, they did. And I have had to deal with the marketing side of publishing—social media accounts, maintaining a website, setting up book signings, registering with BookBub and GoodReads and Amazon. Major stress and worst part of the entire process, especially, as I’ve stated in past posts, for an introvert.

Here’s my publishing process. I was having an argument with my daughter as most moms do with their teenage daughters from time to time. I was angry because she was down on herself and coming up with all kinds of reasons why she couldn’t do something—all ridiculous reasons, by the way. In the midst of my truly fabulous mom lecture about why she shouldn’t give up on herself or her dreams, my brilliant and talented daughter looked me dead in the eyes and threw the fact that I was too scared to even try and get my book published. Major slap back! So, later that day in my classroom, I called a dear friend to tell her that I was failing my daughter and teaching her through my own lack of action that dreams aren’t attainable. I admitted that I was being a horrible role model for my own daughter and I needed help. I was supposed to show my daughter how to be strong, independent, and confident in myself and my talents and I was not doing that.

Somethings to mention about my friend: 1. She’s family. The kind you choose. My daughter has always called her “Aunt.” 2. She’s fierce. Like don’t make her angry fierce. (So, the basic opposite of docile me.) 3. She had been working in the book world for 20+ years and knew about books and publishing, which is why I thought she could give me good advice about how to start the process.

Well, when I finished explaining my situation, she told me to hang on and after hearing a few beeps on the line, another voice I didn’t know was speaking. My friend had done two miraculous things: a three way call without hanging up on me (I still have no idea how that works) and gotten me in touch with the owner of a local publisher. After introducing us and giving a brief synopsis of how I was a teacher and had written a fantasy book I was looking to get published, the publisher asked me to email her the first three chapters of my book, which I did as soon as I got off the phone. I received notification that she liked what I had sent and would like to see the rest; so, I emailed the entire manuscript to her. Several days later, she let me know that her company would like to publish my book as a trilogy, instead of just one book.

So, not the normal publishing experience, I admit; but I’m proud of my work and honored she liked it enough to go through this with me. I guess my approach wasn’t the norm, but really, who’s to say what that norm actually is? I mean, everyone’s normal until you get to know them. Anyway, I’ve learned to take a risk, to share with strangers things that so intensely private and “sacred” to me, and I’ve grown from the experience. And I feel more like the role model I want to be for my daughter. All good things.

Now if I could just get someone to take over the social media aspect, I would be golden.

Loss

One of the themes I explore in my trilogy is the power of loss—how it shapes you, often defines you, and changes you. Also, what loss teaches you about yourself by the way or ways in which you face it and, hopefully, deal with it. I can say that I have never met anyone (other than a newborn) who had never faced loss of some kind in their lives and I certainly have on several occasions in mine. The loss of a loved one whose absence leaves a hole so big in you that you are certain you will never fill it. Or the loss of an ability that you were certain was the keystone of your very existence. Or the loss of place which rocks your identity to its core because you don’t know where you belong anymore. Or something as simple as the loss of an object that was important to you.

Most of these types of losses are intense and often very difficult to navigate. Some, not as much. We can always buy a new favorite pen, but we can’t replace the person or pet or ideal or hero or sense of home. Those losses will always haunt us and shape us no matter how much time has passed. Last year, I lost two people I dearly loved; and I still feel as empty today as the moment I heard they had died. I still have them in my contacts because I can’t bear to remove them because removing them means they are gone; and the realization that if I call or text either number and they won’t be at the other end still sucks the life out of me. It’s a void that will never be filled no matter how much time has passed.

Knowing what I know about loss, you may then ask why I introduced it into my trilogy. You’d sound a bit like my husband who banned taking me to any more Nicholas Sparks’ movies after seeing “Message in a Bottle” because, as he put it, “No one wants that kind of a sucky ending. You go to a movie to escape crap like that not watch it.” He also didn’t approve of my answer that life is not fair and bad things happen. His answer? “It’s Hollywood. What do they care about reality?” I guess the same could be said about authors, especially fantasy authors. I mean, we’re inventing a totally new and magical world with unreal characters, species, and magic; so why couldn’t we just make a totally happy and fair story with only the evil villains suffering? Here’s why as far as I’m concerned: we need reality even in a totally make believe world. We need loss and pain and frustration as much as we need joy and success. Both help us grow and evolve.

In my trilogy, all of my characters, even the villains, have suffered loss—some more tragic than others, but loss just the same. They have also experienced joy in many forms and brought on by many different circumstances. These experiences have shaped them into the interesting characters they are in my books. Syllé has seen her home destroyed by one who was bent on her destruction. She witnessed betrayals at the hands of friends. She was unable to save either of her best friends from death nor could she stop the kingdom of Shara that she loved so dearly from being annihilated. She lost friend after friend and suffered so many defeats; yet, she never stopped fighting for those she loved and for what she believed was right. She also experienced profound joy in the family she created—an adopted father (Falinor), two capricious brothers (Finn and Kwin), a sister (Hil), a brother/friend (Halicyon), and love. All of this brought her laughter which shaped her along with her losses.

Tarin lost the only home he’d ever known when Shara was destroyed. He also lost his father who was his hero and someone he loved dearly. On top of that, he had to leave his father behind to save his mother and sister—a deed that will always haunt him. What if he had stayed? Maybe he could have saved his father? Found a way out of the mountain to safety? Those doubts and nightmares never leave Tarin alone and are one of the many reasons why he is short-tempered, always doubting, always trying to prove himself, and desperately afraid of losing anyone else. So, he fights hard for those around him and makes every decision based upon how he will keep his family and people safe. Even Therendé’al, the Dréor, suffered loss and it shaped him and warped him into something twisted and dark. Dark enough to turn him from the right path and onto a never ending journey into darkness.

That’s what loss does: it gives us a choice, or many choices, and the one we choose shapes up further. We can become stronger, weaker, happier, angrier, or a combination of all those based on the choice we make to deal with and face the void. How each of my characters face their losses and their pain is a reflection of the ways I have faced loss in my life as well as how I’ve seen others handle it. I have been proud of myself and desperately embarrassed by my actions; but all of my choices and their consequences and epiphanies have shaped me into the slightly neurotic, socially terrified, fiercely principled person that I am today. Just like everyone else has been shaped by what they’ve experienced. That’s what makes writing authentic and relatable—being honest with your readers, your characters. Letting pieces of you show through what you write. That’s what makes fantasy reality.

Snow Days

In education, we all love a good snow weekday or Sunday. In fact, especially us teachers, very often have the various “Snow Dances” going on whenever a cold front is heading our way. Unless, of course, you never get out for snow because you walk to school, your bus has automatic drop-down tire chains, or you live somewhere like Hawaii. BUT if you live anywhere below the Mason-Dixon line, the announcement of a snow day is accompanied with choirs of angels singing and divine rays of light filtering through the atmosphere. They are holy. It’s a surprise day off for the kids as well as the teachers—no faculty meetings, no professional development, no required being in your rooms staring out the windows at the beautiful white stuff adorning the world around you.

When the announcement that school was going to be closed today, my first reaction was “Hallelujah, I’m sleeping in!” And when I got up this morning and had my usual quiet time writing routine (I did miss sunrise, though. I mean, I said I was going to sleep in.), I started thinking about snow days and how they look elsewhere. Then those musings changed to how it might look in Exulias; and I have to say, they didn’t look good. You live in a kingdom inside a mountain. You don’t have to leave the mountain to go to school. It’s probably just down the corridor from your room, right? No walking six miles through ten feet of snow both ways. Just opening your door, turning down the hall, a short feet dragging walk, and you’re at school. Sad, really.

Probably the only way you’d get out of school in Exulias is death in the family, clan holiday, or being sick—faked or real. Faking illness wouldn’t work for Finn or Kwin, unfortunately. Their mother, Hil, is Exulias’ healer; so, no matter how good a show Finn would put on to get out of going to school, I thoroughly doubt he’d trick his mother. She was zeroed into his prankish nature from day. one of his life and is one of a very, very few who can see through him. These thoughts led me to write a short, and I found, highly amusing piece of Finn trying to get out of school to avoid a test. He was able to trick his father, Bearn, but not Hil; and the consequences for his actions were dire to his mind. I laughed at the piece.

I’m not sharing it, though. It’s just a silly, whimsical segment that I wrote merely because it came to mind. I might use pieces of it in future stories or adapt it in someway, but right now, it’s not ready to share. Or at least, that’s how I feel about it. Writing the story was fun. Imagining my Finn trying to pull one over on his parents brought me happily back into the realm of Exulias once again; and I have to admit, that kingdom and its dwarves are my most favorite characters and places to write about. They’re silly, heartwarming, amusing, frustrating—basically my family—and I adore being in their world. That’s important when you write, especially fantasy. If you can’t imagine yourself in that world interacting with those characters enjoying every moment, I don’t think your writing will ring true.

You always ahve to find a bit of yourself in your worlds and find what makes you you for the realms to be accessible for your audience. I do believe that Middle Earth was Tolkien’s love and he often walked its lands in his dreams and musings. That’s why it works and that’s why so many millions of people have walked those paths themselves usually beside their favorite character(s). I travel MithTerra in my mind and on paper every day. Sometimes the travels make it into a story and sometimes they simply stay on the pages of my journal, not quite ready for print. That’s where this will stay—for the time being, anyway.

Writing Between Bells and Bedtime

I had a student a few days ago ask me how I could possibly do everything I do in a day. He was genuinely concerned about my state of mind and incredulous that I would even attempt everything. It got me to thinking about what my days actually look like and if I’m really being successful at everything. So, first, my days start EARLY, which is unfortunate. I am not a morning person, which may surprise you if you’ve read any of my posts about sunrises or seen any of my TikToks; but I don’t like mornings. They come way too early for my taste; however, I have stuff to do and, therefore, I am up early (by 4:45, if you must know). I have the normal routine of teeth brushing, morning meds, taking dogs out to pee and walk (you may have seen a walk post on Instagram or TikTok), and then doing my own run/walk and strength workout. (Nothing major. I’m not much of a fitness fanatic.) I try to get done before the sunrise for my morning coffee, journaling, and dog snuggling; but that is often one of the morning things that gets cut during the week if I’m running late for some reason. On weekdays, I am heading to school and then I teach from 8am through 2pm with a short 20 minute break for lunch. (Well, let’s be honest. The bell for lunch rings at 12pm. I can’t head for the faculty lounge for my lunch until all students have left; so, I usually sit down to eat around 12:10-12:15. I also have to be back to my room before the students arrive after their lunch, which means I am usually heading back towards my room a little before 12:30.) My planning period is from 2-3pm at the end of the day and that is when I grade papers, get ready for the next school day, answer and send emails, possibly attend IEP or 504 meetings—the usual teacher stuff outside of physically teaching students. I am usually home a little after 4pm, which leaves me about an hour and a half to two hours to continue grading papers or preparing for lessons, ride, write, clean, or read—really whatever I think I can fit into the time I have—before I need to begin getting dinner ready. After dinner with the family, we clean up, put leftovers away, talk, watch a little television, and then I head for bed to start the process all over again the next day. I always end my day with nonelectronic activity (ie. read, journal, work on puzzles, grade more papers. You get the idea.)

Looking at my schedule, I began to wonder how I ever got anything done, especially my trilogy; and I have to be honest—some days nothing gets done. Some days, the writing is my priority to the detriment of my teaching responsibilities like grading and planning. Sometimes I don’t get much writing done for several days in a row because of the essays, papers, tests, projects, whatever, that need to be graded or the lessons/units that need to be created and planned. I guess, though, that I give off a persona of accomplishing everything—at least, to that particular student. Disclosure alert: I don’t now, nor have I ever, accomplished everything I set out to do in a day, a week, a month, etc. I’d love to think I could, but it’s not possible. I’d love to write more during my day, read more as well, and make sure everything for my teaching is done; but that’s impossible. I mean, right now, this writing is getting done before I head home for the day and instead of going to the barn and riding. While writing this, I have fielded three phone calls—one from my mother, one about house repairs, and one from a parent. I have also had two intercom interruptions, five different students stop by for help, ask a question, or simply chat. It’s taken a lot longer to get through this than I had planned, so no ride, unfortunately.

After I get done with this, I have to finish planning for Monday, run of copies, and complete creating a test because instead of my planning period today, I got to escort my 6th period class to the gym for a pep rally and returned to my class in time for my afternoon duty. So, I will have my planning period after this, on my time, technically after working hours are over. Story of a teacher’s life, though, right?

Something New

I had a productive morning today and thought I would share some of what I wrote while enjoying my sunrise time. So, I have been working a bit on fleshing out the back history of the characters and realms of the Valaraii Rising Trilogy. I guess you could call them prequels of a. sort. They’re not yet anything full-fledged, just stories and. scraps of stories. This morning I wrote about Falinor’s and Syllé’s first meeting when she was simply a child set loose in MithTerra. See what you think:

The elf walking into the Dragon’s Lair pub was furious.  His bloodstained cloak drew a few penetrating glances, but any identifying features like his black hair, strong elven frame, or famous dragon-etched armor were fully hidden within the confines of his cloak.  Seemingly oblivious to the stares, his brown eyes flashing with fury within his hood, Falinor weaved his way to a far table where he could sit with his back against the wall and scan the other occupants of the pub.  Falinor, indisputably the greatest warrior to walk the lands of MithTerra, had felt the darkness for a century or more growing and corrupting lands, peoples, and even those who were supposed to be incorruptible, elves.  This new phenomenon had been titled Dréor, and Falinor had had the unfortunate circumstance of meeting a disciple of one of those beasts just before he’d entered Norolin. 

 Falinor had no home.  The only kingdom he might have called home he had left over a century before when the only female he ever considered as a mate, Azrul, chose Thallan, king of Aelgalad as her husband.  Because of their long history and friendship, Falinor could not ignore Azrul’s urgent summons to return to Aelgalad.  He had thought seeing Azrul again might be hard, but Falinor was too struck by her obvious worry and a disturbing undercurrent of darkness in Aelgalad to notice any past regrets or discomfort.  Her request had been simple—decipher the reason King Arterius had chosen to remove Calarta from the reach of any in MithTerra.  Azrul seemed to believe Arterius’ reasons were key to deciphering who the Dréor stalking Aelgalad’s halls might be.  Falinor got the impression that Azrul had her suspicions but never pressed her for any details, a decision he would ultimately regret.  In hindsight, Falinor should have guessed based on the task she gave him.

 Now, as he sat with his back against the wall of the Dragon’s Lair, Falinor realized how truly alone he was.  No kingdom.  No family.  And now, thanks to a betrayal by one in his company, no allies.  The only thought that gave Falinor any comfort was knowing he had ended the life of the elf who had knowingly led them into the trap before she or her Vikari allies could kill him, but the battle had cost him—his entire party, his trust in anyone but himself, his sense of safety.   Falinor was alone and that knowledge seeped through him, chilling him to his core.

 As Falinor sat in his corner eyeing the other patrons wondering which ones were waiting to end him, the elf was startled by a whiff of lavender and then the room in front of him shifted out of focus.  Suddenly, a voice he knew in his soul called his name. Accompanying High Queen Sedivar’s voice came an image of a child, a young girl with uncontrollably curly brown hair and precocious blue eyes walking a road slightly north of Norolin.  From the image’s vantage point above the child, Falinor could see a warg pack quickly closing in. Falinor closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see what he knew would happen, but the vision was still in front of him.

 “I have chosen you as this child’s protector,” High Queen Sedivar’s voice resonated through his mind.  “I bequeath her to your care.  She is special.  Train her.  Watch over her.  Guide her.”  Here, the high queen paused, giving Falinor a slight break from the power of her voice.  “Her name is Sylémar.”

 Suddenly, the room came sharply into focus, and Falinor could once again hear the raucous noise of the pub’s patrons. Without another thought, Falinor shot out of the Dragon’s Lair and was soon galloping up the road north of Norolin that he had seen in his vision.

Coming around a curve, Falinor caught sight of the girl standing in the middle of the road watching the warg pack, which had surrounded her, slowly creep towards her. Before the elf could react, he was horrified to see the pack leap as one at the defenseless child.  He was too late, but instead of fleeing, Falinor continued up the road.  He was startled to make out the child crawling out from under the melee of the warg pack’s attack and start running towards him, a smug grin on her face.  Reaching the child just as the pack realized their prey had evaded them, Falinor reached down and snatched her off the road.  Swiftly, he urged his horse back to Norolin with the warg pack howling in frustration at their heels

Sunrise

I’ve said before that my favorite time of day is sunrise, but a very specific sunrise event—on my couch or deck with Buck and Annie snuggled up or sitting beside me, a hot cup of coffee, and my journal. Today was on the couch because the three of us do NOT do cold and it was arctic cold level this morning. (I mean, pee freezing before it even hits the ground level of cold!) I sip coffee, scratch doggos’s heads, and write. It’s so serene and a fabulous way to start my day.

Today, however, there wasn’t much writing going on. I did start with something—an outline of the next plotlines in the piece I am currently writing—but the writing didn’t last long as soon as I remembered today’s date. It’s Martin Luther King Day, and as a teacher, I have the day off. My one and only favorite Monday of the entire year, except six years ago. My sunrise that year was very different. I actually didn’t get it because I was too keyed into my appointment that morning—a needle biopsy to check the two masses that had been suspected with my mammogram and then confirmed with a breast ultrasound. January 2020 was not a good month for me, and the need for a biopsy had my usually low blood pressure pushing heart attack territory. I knew about this disease—my mom had it, my aunt had it, and twelve family friends over the years had fought it. Some successfully, but more not so successfully. I had a twelve year old daughter at home and a husband I adored and, let’s be honest, life. I had no desire to die yet. So, my sunrise that morning was not serene, not calming, not sunrise.

After my procedure, I was told that the results would be back by Wednesday and a followup appointment was made for 2:45 that day. And, of course, the customary, don’t worry platitude was given before I left the office. Late morning Tuesday, I received a phone call from the radiologist’s office. It was the peppy nurse calling to tell me that my results had come back in and the radiologist would like to see my at 3:45. Could I make it? Of course I could. Being a normal human, I did ask the nurse if everything was okay; and she gave me the customary answer that only the doctor could go over the results with me and again, not to worry. A person knows, though. When you get that kind of call rescheduling you for an earlier appointment and the nurse is extra peppy on the phone..I don’t know. You just realize the news is not going to be what you want to hear. And it wasn’t.

This morning, instead of writing, I remembered that day six years ago—my anxiety, fear—well, terror, to be honest—and the next day sitting in the radiologist’s office while my husband held tightly to my hand and my sentence was passed. I remembered the first person I called as I left the parking lot and the looks on my parents’ faces when my husband and I shared the results with them later that evening. I remembered my young daughter’s face when we sat her down and explained it to her and how she promised me she’d shave her head to match me when I lost my hair.

2020 sucked for many reasons—the worldwide pandemic comes to mind, obviously—but for me, that was a side note. I remember just trying to find my breath and my way through the surgeries and drugs and protocols on top of trying—and failing—to avoid another disease that was ravaging the world. 2020 was a horror show. But looking back this morning, I thought of all the things I learned about myself: my husband is amazing and never stopped holding my hand through everything. My daughter is a rock star who loves me. Many of my coworkers reminded me that I wasn’t fighting cancer alone. My students sent me care packages, painted me beautiful artwork that still hangs in my home, or sent me cards and emails to tell me they cared. One of my dearest friends called and texted me every morning to let me know I was loved and needed. I could write a novella about all the support. What started as a memory of pain turned into remembrance of all the love and joy that is in my life. So, it was a good morning; and even though, my body is drastically different than before the disease and some days I just don’t want to look at myself in the mirror, I was reminded that my life is full and beautiful and most importantly, I’m still living it.

Thank you, Sunrise, for the affirmation. It was needed.

Where the hell?

My dad is not a fantasy fan. Ask him about Harry Potter and you would receive a shrug and a shake of the head? Game of Thrones? No clue. Lord of the Rings? He didn’t even make it through five minutes of the first movie. He just has no interest, which is certainly his perogative. His choice? Nonfiction, ideally podcasts or NPR; but more recently, he has gotten into reading nonfiction more and more, especially WWII oriented books. So, when I heard he was reading my first book, I was surprised and flattered.

I expected Dad would maybe make it through the first chapter before closing The Forgotten; so when he told me he was in chapter six, I was impressed. To me and anyone who would listen, Dad made no secret of the fact that he didn’t like fantasy and had actually never read anything from the genre before in his life; and he did mention how hard it was for him to get into the book and understand the genre. But he persevered. Why? Sweetly because his daughter wrote a book and he was going to read it.

Shortly, I started getting phone calls from my dad that always started with, “Kris, I’m at … I was just wondering how in the hell you came up with that?” And he was sincere. He was impressed with the depth of my characters and the range of personalities as well as the monsters like the Strygoi, changelings, and malidaemons. He couldn’t fathom what had inspired the Limnades and the Malrauk or the plot twists (as he put it). Those conversations are something I will always treasure in my memory. I was talking to my dad about something I had written and an added bonus? He was a true fan of my work. He loved it and wanted to know when the second book was coming out.

When he got The Lost, Dad sat down and read it through cover to cover. Again, he called me to ask where in the hell I had come up with things. So cool. I’ve been asked that same question incidentally by my students as well as at book signings, book talks, and most recently, a literacy event for local teachers where I was the presenter. Here is my simple answer: I have been a voracious reader—thank you, Mom—my entire life, and everything that shows up in my books are inspired by something—more than likely many things—I have read. Take for instance, the wereling. In my books, they are a race with a humanoid form and a beast form. I call them wereling because I learned somewhere that “were” is Old English (I think?) for man/human and “ling” comes from the term “changeling” which can be interpreted as a shapeshifter. I also read somewhere that according to folklore in Romania/Transylvania, if you were arrested and charged with witchcraft or possibly being a vampire, you could beat the charge by claiming to be a shapeshifter who is tasked with protecting your village from witches and vampires. I always thought that was awesome; so you find a version in my book, except the wereling are charged with protecting the people of Light from the dominions of Dark; and they do it so effectively that Merilik has them exterminiated—or tries to, at least. Also, they are the Light’s version of a changeling. You know that science principle “for everything there is an equal reaction”? (Something like that. I never was good at science.) So, in my novels, for each creature of the Light, there is a version/counterpart in the realm of Merilik, the Dark Lord.

So, the answer to my dad’s question where the hell I come up with things in my books, it’s simple: I have read, I do read, and I will continue to read.