Jillian Webster's Blog, page 2

Book Two Available for Pre-order!

 The Burn of a Thousand Suns is officially available for pre-order on Amazon! ️‍

Click HERE to be directed to Amazon.com

Amazon only allows for eBook pre-orders. If, like me, you prefer paperback, that will be available on August 3! 

BLURB:

After her near-death experience in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, Maia has finally accepted who she is—or has she? New and terrifying nightmares have begun, reminding her that along with the good may come an ocean of bad. There is a darkness lurking within...

Arriving in the drowned streets of LA, a strange and dangerous world awaits Maia and Lucas, and they have no time to spare. Thousands of miles sprawl between them and the city of Leucothea in The Old Arctic Circle, filled with deadlands, vicious mobs, and erratic weather. From the relentless heat of the Californian desert to a merciless Arctic sun that never sets, the journey will test them in ways they could never have imagined.

But nothing could prepare Maia for the shocking chain of events that await. Walking an unraveling tightrope between worlds, she will be thrust upon a crossroad of the most gut-wrenching kind—one that no matter which direction she chooses, she may lose everything she holds dear, including Leucothea, forever.

The second book in The Forgotten Ones trilogy, The Burn of a Thousand Suns continues Maia’s haunting journey as she battles her way towards The Old Arctic Circle.
The countdown continues! One month…

Prologue for The Burn of a Thousand Suns, The Forgotten Ones Book Two

A CLOUD OF DUST billows from Maia’s feet.

Like everything else around these parts, the gravel has shriveled up. Caved in. Crumbled to dust like hollow bones of the earth.

A mirage of water hovers along the horizon in a tsunami-like, metallic wave. The hot air blowing across them is like the inside of a furnace, the heat so intense it nears suffocating. Every step is a struggle. It’s as if Maia’s legs have been wrapped in lead, weighing each foot down to the ground the moment she lifts it.

A scorpion scurries across the road.
​
The endless desert highway they now roam has been swallowed in oscillating mounds of sand; the scorched earth cracked open like a gaping spider’s web. Any cement left exposed to the elements has been ruptured by the crooked arms of barren shrubs, desperately clawing from beneath the rubble.

Maia casts a glance at Lucas. A red cloth is wrapped across his nose and mouth like a mask, a thin layer of sand glued to the areas wet with condensation. His tired eyes squint against the early evening sun, hovering like a demonic orb suspended in the brown haze of sky.

Another gust of sand hurls across them.

Maia motions her hand to catch Lucas’s attention. He nods, and she tosses him her staff. He hands her a small rag. They’ve been switching the two items every few miles. The staff doubles nicely as a walking stick. And with just a flick of the wrist, the rag can swat away the relentless black flies, frantic for the moisture of their skin and eyes.

Maia’s face is also wrapped with a bandana, now matted and drenched across the bridge of her nose. Her auburn hair has been tied into a thick bun on top of her head, which not only keeps her cooler but also protects her scalp from the harsh rays of the sun.

A black shadow flickers across them as another circling vulture curls on a wing. The birds have been tracking them for miles, ready to swoop the moment one of them crumbles to the ground.

Maia reaches for her steel canister, secured with rope against the side of her pack. She brings the hot metal to her lips, delicately sipping the warm water and swirling it around the taut skin of her mouth. Her teeth crunch on a piece of sand before swallowing it down.

The vulture circles around again.

This California desert road has felt endless, but the wide-open expanse—albeit harsh—has been a blessing. It takes a tremendous amount of energy to constantly be on guard, and out here, they’ve got none to spare.

But the harsh terrain also filters out the crazies, so they don’t have to worry as much about malicious bandits taking something they hold dear. There are no half-breeds--bounders—hiding behind seemingly innocent, rotted-out vehicles abandoned on the side of the road.

Like that one car back in LA, with the juvenile cottonwood exploding from the hood.

With every skeleton of a vehicle they approach, they each take a side, splitting around it with a wide and cautious stance. So far, there has only been one body found out here and he was far from alive. The only threats on this road seem to be the scorpions and the rattlesnakes—and even they want nothing to do with the lethargic, shuffling humans.

A rusted sign on the side of the road lies crooked and covered in layers of sand. Lucas swats the dust from the faded green metal.

Seattle 994 Miles.

Nine hundred and ninety-four miles. Maia’s heart sinks. Having grown up with kilometers, she’s not as familiar with the unit of distance, but she knows the number isn’t good. They’ve been in America for over two months … and they’ve only traveled less than a hundred miles.

Of course, most of that time was spent hiding within the treacherous streets of Los Angeles, preparing for their four-thousand-mile journey up the new North American West Coast. Every day they would scavenge the crumbling, deserted homes and eerie, waterlogged streets in search of the right supplies. They planned for every possible danger, packed for every harsh and foreboding terrain. They knew they were using precious time staying in LA, but every minute was desperately needed.

Even still, after all that, she feels like nothing could have prepared her for any of this. Sitting around a fire in a deserted home talking about what to expect doesn’t shield one from the numbing pain of swollen feet, open blisters, and a merciless desert sun. Or the bee stings, the slithering things, and the icy-cold evenings.

But, one foot in front of the other—they’ve discussed this. They’ve made a pact. There is no room for negative thinking, which, especially when out in the elements, can prove equally as fatal.

Just keep moving.

Lucas turns from the sign and his face drops. Maia’s seen this face before, back when they were stuck on a collapsing raft of garbage in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and a storm was heading their way. Her heart plummets to her gut as Lucas slowly pulls the bandana from his gaping mouth, his eyes wide in horror as he scans the horizon behind her. He mouths something. She cannot hear him but she knows exactly what he’s saying. She reluctantly follows his gaze and her rag drops to the dust.

“Meu Deus,” she repeats as Lucas steps next to her.

They stand frozen before the swiftly approaching, mammoth wall of sand.

Lucas turns toward Maia and yells through the barrage of dust suddenly pelting the side of their sun-scorched cheeks, but she can no longer hear him.

Every possible danger.

Every imaginable terrain.

The billowing cloud mushrooms from the horizon, quickly choking out the last remnants of the sun. They should be running for their lives, but Maia is paralyzed by her thoughts.
​
What she wouldn’t give to be back in the hellish streets of LA.

Book Two of The Forgotten Ones

I am BEYOND THRILLED to share the cover and blurb of Book Two of The Forgotten Ones trilogy, The Burn of a Thousand Suns.

Release date is set for August 3. I’ll be announcing the pre-order in a few weeks!

I absolutely cannot wait for you to read this one, friends. This book was such a joy to write and took a few wild turns that I could never have prepared for.

BLURB:

𝘼𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙧-𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙖𝙘𝙞𝙛𝙞𝙘 𝙊𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣, 𝙈𝙖𝙞𝙖 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨—𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙚? 𝙉𝙚𝙬 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙛𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙪𝙣, 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙣 𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙗𝙖𝙙. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙡𝙪𝙧𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣...

Arriving in the drowned streets of LA, a strange and dangerous world awaits Maia and Lucas, and they have no time to spare. Thousands of miles sprawl between them and the city of Leucothea in The Old Arctic Circle, filled with deadlands, vicious mobs, and erratic weather. From the relentless heat of the Californian desert to a merciless Arctic sun that never sets, the journey will test them in ways they could never have imagined.

But nothing could prepare Maia for the shocking chain of events that await. Walking an unraveling tightrope between worlds, she will be thrust upon a crossroad of the most gut-wrenching kind—one that no matter which direction she chooses, she may lose everything she holds dear, including Leucothea, forever.

The second book in The Forgotten Ones trilogy, The Burn of a Thousand Suns continues Maia’s haunting journey as she battles her way towards The Old Arctic Circle.

Book Update

Click the link above for pre-order. Hello, friends!

I wanted to fill you in on a couple updates. A second edition of The Weight of a Thousand Oceans is underway and will be released to the world on July 13th! The storyline has not changed, but I have given the prose a bit of a polish, added book club questions and the first three chapters of Book Two to the back.

The first edition of Oceans is no longer available for purchase. However, should anyone be interested in the next edition, it is available for pre-sale on Amazon (Kindle only at the moment – print version will be available shortly).

For those of you who already own the first edition, the book club questions and opening chapters of Book Two will be posted to this website. I will be sure to let you know when they are up!

There is a lot happening behind the scenes at the moment. This has moved the release date of Book Two from mid-June to early August. Since I am the queen of impatience, this has not been an easy pill to swallow, but I strongly believe it will be worth it. Thank you for understanding.

As always, I will be shouting any new updates from the rooftops. I am BEYOND excited to share the next installment of this story with you! Stay tuned... 

Free eBook Giveaway!

Enter to win 1 of 100 FREE eBook copies of The Weight of a Thousand Oceans

Available on Goodreads only from October 20 - 27th, 2020.

Winner will be announced on October 28, 2020!

Happy reading and good luck! Click here to view on Goodreads.

Prologue from The Weight of a Thousand Oceans

It’s happening again.

Her nightmares have been occurring more and more. No matter how hard Maia tries, she can’t seem to escape them. They chase her into the deepest recesses of her mind, smashing through locked doors and hidden rooms, mercilessly dragging out everything she’s fought her entire life to forget.

She recognizes this wild and foreboding forest trail where she now stands—knows every detail of it with every cell of her being. She’s familiar with every green vein of each fluttering leaf, and every knotted and twisted branch snaking deep across the path. She’s walked this passageway thousands of times throughout her twenty years of life. Each night, when it greets her in her dreams, she knows her mother will be waiting for her on the other side.
​
And she knows what she’ll be expecting.
​Closing her eyes, Maia inhales deeply, then holds out a single trembling hand. With one sweeping motion, she commands the branches of the overgrown trees to instantaneously swoop to the ground, clearing the once obstructed trail leading out onto the beach. She wanders hesitantly down the path, careful to avoid the huddled branches along the ground, now quivering from the fear of being crushed.

Stepping out from the forest onto the warm sand, she is immediately enveloped into her mother’s welcoming embrace.

“Good darling. Very good,” her mother whispers with a smile, then grasps Maia’s hands, leading her farther out onto the beach. “Now,” her mother says with an even bigger smile. “Do the same with all the bush.”

Maia turns to the trees behind them and swipes her hand across the landscape, gasping as every tree and bush bow to the ground.

“Ssssshhhh, be careful now--don’t hurt them. They are all your children. Look…” her mother says, grabbing her by the shoulders as she steps behind her. “Look how they bow to you. Look how much they love you.”

Alarmed, Maia retracts her hand and the trees uncoil upwards again, sending leaves seesawing to the ground.

“I don’t know … I don’t understand,” Maia breathes with alarm.
Her mother stands proudly behind her but says nothing.

Maia turns to face her. “Mum, I miss you so much.”

“I’m right here, darling. I’ve always been with you, right here in your dreams.”

“What is happening to me?”

Her mother lifts Maia’s chin, gazing down at her with a discouraged look across her face. “Come,” she finally says with a sigh.

Her mother’s long white gown flows behind her in the breeze as she slowly wades into the shallow shores of the ocean. Her fingertips skim the glassy water’s surface as her dress gathers around her legs. Maia stands with reluctance on the shore, the rolling hills of the tranquil New Zealand coastline sitting behind her. The sky a placid dome of blue, a light breeze sends the newly fallen leaves tumbling across the deserted beach.

Scanning the shoreline, Maia watches with trepidation as the coast on either side of her slowly wraps around until it connects across the ocean, transforming the body of water into an immense lake. Her mother now stands alone in the middle, reaching out to Maia.

“Come, my darling,” she says with a smile.

Behind her mother a foreign city now looms, murky and vague. Countless dark towers shoot into the sky, disappearing into a rolling layer of low-lying, black clouds. Maia stands frozen along the beach, consumed by fear. The water just a step away, she peers over the edge to find the shallow shore has morphed into a sudden drop into a bottomless watery abyss.

“Mum, I can’t jump!” she shakes her head, frantic as her mother’s body begins to dissolve into the sea. “Please, don’t do this.”

Her mother’s hands clench in fists at her sides. “Stop being so afraid, Maia. I’m trying to help you!” Her fading voice is suffocated into a whisper, the details of the mysterious city behind her are now illuminated through her gown. “Hurry!” Her mother reaches out to her.

The once placid ocean is now furious, sending countless massive crests of water hurling towards Maia. Her mother continues to call to her, and then she stops, suddenly mesmerized by something along the shore. Her eyes narrow and her hands drape to her sides, placated like a rag doll. A smile curves up from her lip, and then she disappears completely.

Maia cries out, but her screams are immediately silenced. The ocean is still heaving massive swells at her feet, sending white explosions of water scattering into the wind, but the surges make no sound. There is no ruffling in the trees, no birds chirping along the shore. Panting, Maia’s gasps remain mute despite the adrenaline in her veins stealing the breath from her lungs. It is as if the air itself is being sucked into a void.

Soft laughter travels in waves across the barren expanse. Chills race up Maia’s spine as she recognizes the laughter as her own. She turns hesitantly to face a fierce young woman standing alone along the shore. Her delicate white gown ripples softly behind her as she steps with confidence towards Maia.

Maia remains frozen, captivated … terrified, as the ghost of herself glares at her with two different colored eyes that faintly glimmer like crystal. Her flawless skin is like porcelain, her long, deep red ringlets of hair spill across her shoulders and down her back.

Maia pulls frantically at her own hair, discovering her long, auburn waves have been replaced by a full head of vibrant, red spirals. She wraps her arms tightly around herself, trembling in her sheer white gown, but she cannot move. They stand across from each other—mirror images, motionless and silent.

Then the ghost reaches slowly for Maia, a peculiar grin spreading wide across her face, and Maia unleashes an earth-shattering wail.
​
Shooting up in bed, Maia’s screams still pour from her lungs. Her clothing and sheets are once again soaked with sweat, her face streaked with tears. She clutches at the sheets, gasping for air as her grandfather rushes to her side.

Swadharma

 It was the summer of 2018.

I had just finished writing my second book and was polishing the first half as much as possible so my husband could read it (and love it) while I was away and then give me his unending adoration for writing such a beautifully articulated story.

I left. I saw my family. I came home again.

But my husband did not completely love the first half of my book.

He enjoyed it, but had a few constructive critiques for me. They were good critiques - really good, and only a few. But all I could hear, deep inside, drumming like a mantra was;

I knew I wasn’t good enough. And I was right.

I didn’t touch my book again for an entire year.  ​During that time, I did think about my book in small glimpses… often accompanied by some guilt that I had started this thing that I believed to be beautiful and now it was sitting on my desk collecting dust. But I just wasn’t ready.

So, I found yoga. I practiced nearly every day for over a year. I found buried hurts and opened my heart and fell head-over-heels in love with it. I started meditating again and listened deep down to my inner voice.

And then I took it another step further and began researching the ancient 4,000-year-old philosophy behind yoga, called Vedanta. With everything I learned, something deep inside me screamed, “YES.” The principles were everything I already believed my entire life to be true, but had no idea they actually belonged to anything. Just a gut feeling. An inner knowing.

That’s when I learned about Swadharma. It was a silent AHA! moment in the middle of a café, and it saved me -

from myself.

Your Swadharma is your own, natural, innate truth. It is your unique role in life according to your natural-born skills and talent. It is why you are here. And it is your duty to find it and live in accordance to it.

The more we know about nature, the more we realize everything is as it is on PURPOSE. Its beauty and its purpose are deeply intertwined, and make this world the incredibly varied, unique and beautiful place that it is. The flowers, for example, are shaped and colored in a specific way to attract a very specific animal to pollinate. Everything in nature is here to fulfill a certain purpose.

And so are you.

So, how do you know when you’ve found your Swadharma?
 
Your Swadharma is that thing in your life — maybe a hobby or an interest, something you feel pulled to — that you feel completely at peace and contentment when doing. It is spontaneous, it comes naturally — unasked and unsought. It is the most natural way of being YOU.
 
And it is DIVINELY inspired.
 
Is there something in your heart of hearts that you feel a pull to? That pull is there for a reason . And there is a reason it won’t go away. 
 
Does that mean following our Swadharma will make us rich and famous? Maybe. For some. But not for most. It doesn’t mean you’ll make stacks of cash and the world will bow at your feet — but it does mean you’ll be HAPPY. You’ll spend the rest of your life doing the thing your bones cry out for. You’ll have an inner peace when doing it. It will come as natural as breathing. And that, my friends, will make you the richest person in the world.
 
It is your divine right and your duty to be YOU.
 
One of the podcasts I listened to was lead by the minister of the Vedanta Society of California, named Swami Tattwayamananda (say that three times fast).  He says regarding your Swadharma, “If you say, ‘I do not want to do that. I will do something else—it will follow you. You cannot escape your Swadharma. You will always feel restless.’”
 
I know this feeling all too well.
 
I’ve been writing for over twenty-five years, mostly consisting of private journals up until about ten years ago. When I started making my writing public, a whole new sense of grief fell upon me. The insecurity and fear that wrapped tightly around my writing was at times crippling. Every time I posted a blog, my finger would hover over the “publish” button, just trembling. My pounding heart almost deafening. A surge of adrenaline would cause my face to go crimson.
 
Because deep down, I was convinced I wasn’t good enough. And by hitting “publish” – the whole world would see.
 
But I loved writing, more than anything.
 
When I learned about Swadharma, there was an almost instantaneous shift. I realized,
 
This is who I am. And I am this way on PURPOSE.
 
And for the first time in my life, I gave myself permission to be ME.
 
I immediately grabbed my journal and wrote, “I feel this is huge.
I feel like I have been unleashed.
Unchained.
Everything I’ve learned so far has been…
YES!
It’s everything I already know to be true.
Makes perfect sense.
So, now that I finally understand Swadharma, I feel like I have been set free.

Something has truly  just happened.”
​
I opened my computer again.
I found my novel.
And I have set a publishing date for the end of 2020.

My issue has always been trust. I have never trusted or accepted myself. Always looking for validation from my peers that I never got from my mother. Always a tap dance number for approval, and it has never been enough. Never enough. Because approval… acceptance … must come from within .

But now. It all seems so simple now.

I am here, for a reason.

And so are you.

Be YOU with all you are. You are a gift to this world.

​Just be YOU. So now, as my finger hovers steadily above the “publish” button,

I feel nothing but peace.

It is a sunny Sunday afternoon as I write this. My windows are open and an assortment of birds are flooding the sky with the grace of their song.

Not a single one of them is concerned with how they sound.
​
They are just happy to sing.

Worries that don’t ...

HER FINGERTIPS HOVER
ever so delicately 
just along the foggy pane of the bathroom glass.
Just behind.
Just behind. 

She carves a line on the mirror
the condensed water dripping like dew
from the tip of her finger.
Tracing the reflection of the lines
curving out from her eyes.

Wondering which worries have caused them…

Worries that matter.
Worries that don’t .

I yearn to whisper to her, 

Stop…

you’re missing it​. Just moments ago, I gasped my last breath
lying far away from this place
on a dark hospital bed 
blanketed in the flashing lights 
of a monotone computer screen.

Beep. 
Beep. 
Beep.
Beeeeeeep.

The early morning light 
casting soft shadows across the cords trailing out 
from my hand aged with time. 

Knotted.
Spotted. 
Empty.

Then in a glimmering instant
I stand quietly just on the other side
of my own reflection in the mirror.

Gazing into the eyes of a younger self.
Insecure. 
Worried. 
Doubts relentlessly taunting her 
like winged demons dancing around her head. 

Her judgments so swift
she doesn’t even notice 

they lay across her like daggers. 

She reaches out to me, pressing one hand against the glass 
searching past the blurred droplets 
speckled like constellations across the bathroom mirror.

But she cannot see me. 

Oh, my sweet darling. 
What I wouldn’t give 
to tell you,

How young you still are.
How quickly the day will come
where you would give anything
 
-anything-

for the body you now shame. 

Please, my sweet girl, 
could you try
as hard as you may
to remember…

Life is fickle.
Impermanent.
Impossibly fragile.

Try to embrace this monotonous,
seemingly unremarkable day.

For the time will surely come, 
when you will look back, 
and will give anything 

-anything- 

for this one imperfect day.

Suddenly she leans in
so close I can nearly touch her.
I place my hand against hers 
on the other side of the bathroom mirror. 
Just behind. 
Just behind. 

But she cannot see me. 

She delicately traces the lines curving out from the corner of her eyes. 
The faint groove now burrowed between her brow. 
​
She wonders where they came from…

Worries that matter?
Worries that don’t. ​

On Being a Writer

When you are a writer, you are relentlessly drawn into a force beyond yourself.


You work towards a vision no one besides you can see.
You believe in yourself and a story that doesn’t fully exist yet.
You beat yourself into oblivion
to produce something
that you never really know will work out.


So you work.
And you work.
And you WORK.


Oftentimes, your work slips past unnoticed,
as life pulls everyone around you in a million different directions.


But all you can think is,
“Will they like it?"
"Will they live inside this wild world I’ve lived inside my entire life?"
"Will anyone even care?”


Do you know how you know you are truly a writer?
Like honestly,
a true and fiercely committed,
I’ll-do-this-till-I-die writer?


When you do it despite all that.


When two a.m. sprawls across your bedside clock and all you can do is lie awake,
eyes wide open,
writing the next sentence of your novel in your head.
You believe in it.
More than you’ve believed in anything your entire life.


Apparently that’s what they say faith is.
Faith despite evidence.
Faith despite all of life slapping you relentlessly in the face
with the cold hard fact
that you are one among millions.


But you do it anyway.

Because you are.
You are a writer.
You don’t stop.
Don’t stop.
Never stop.

Write on my beloved friends.
Write on.
​ My early morning workspace.

A Homage to Our Pain

 
The truth is,
everyone is battling with something.
Whether it be an external conflict
or an inner demon -
no one person is exempt.

That’s the deal we make - that’s the human experience.

Whether you are deep in the fury of your storms
or the pendulum swing has temporarily granted you mercy,
I think we must take a minute
to pay a homage to our pain.

Because the reality is,
some of the most beautiful aspects
of who we are,
were once shaped by the darkest days of our lives. 

Think about it...

Your convictions. 
Your truths. 
Your battle wounds. 

Your deeply ingrained strength that held you together when everything seemed to crash around you...
​
was welded together
from all the things that once broke you. 

Our scars are what make us beautiful. 

If it weren’t for the soul-crushing,
slide-down-the-wall-with-my-head-in-my-hands,
cry-until-I-can’t-breathe
loss and rejection I experienced at a young age,
I wouldn’t be here today. 

And here..
where I stand in this moment,
is so much better
than anything I could have ever dreamed of.

Stand proud.
Stand TALL.
You are stronger than you think. 
And it is only because you have fought your way through.

Your wounds have become your wings. 

So keep on keeping on,

you tough little thing, you.