This passage is taken from Chapter 10 of Wergild, the first book of my Seer of the Sidhe series. The dagger was long, about the same as my forearm, and beautiful. I guessed fairy-make, but it could have been anything from djinn to merfolk. The hilt seemed inlaid with a deep jade enamel, with an intricate scrollwork of silver over it. A straight blade, and nearly the same width as the handle. On one side of the steel, the stamp…
Happy Independence Day! We’re well and truly entrenched in July now, and I find myself in the middle of my fifth year of living in Switzerland. And even though it seems that America might be a dumpster fire behind a seedy downtown hotel that never changes it sheets, that hasn’t diminished the pride and gratitude I feel as an American. And it’s with the classic American spirit of hope depsite the odds, that I’m making rather exciting plans for the second half of this year.
Though you may travel far and wide,
No haven of life is found inside.
Viking hoard be cold as stone
Hot be heart and breath and bone…
I am such a perfectionist, and such a do-er (my sisters would call me an overachiever) that I forget to let myself and my work just be. I convince myself I am not doing enough, or I am not doing well enough. The merry-go-round in my brain just can’t let it rest. I’m either a terrible writer or I’m not giving my best. That kind of self-condemnation is destructive. And paralyzing.
I live in the thunder and ride the lightning
My sound is grand and big and bom bom bom
What lands do separate –
Nay, what words, indeed!
For I know not that which
Can bridge the distance ‘tween.
My main assignment was to create a 1000 word max. short fiction piece based off of observations or notes that I kept during the duration of the class. I chose the image of a gate standing alone in a field.
Near the end of 2011, I sat down and sketched out my first rough idea for an urban fantasy novel. And as I enthusiastically brainstormed and developed ideas, a bitter voice in my head told me to stop, to give up, to throw the towel in and relinquish the dream of being a writer. “Better to give up than be known as a bad writer,” it told me.
My mother taught me about tea when I was young. How chamomile soothes. How herbals heal. How black tea warms a body up from the weary bones to the stretched-out skin. The first time I drank a mug of tea, if I remember correctly, I was ten, in the fifth grade. It was perhaps 11 o’clock in the evening, or maybe later. I would stay up late reading most nights,
This is a guest post I made for The Stay at Home Something, a blog written and curated by my good friend Brooke Gale Louvier. In it, I detail the struggle of being both a mom and writer. Often, it’s a dark and difficult path. But sometimes, once in a while, there are days when my soul sings. Image credits go to Brooke. Finding a Way to Make Your Soul Sing When you’re young, it seems that the whole world…