Anna Scott Graham's Blog, page 12

Re-releasing a novel (and other beloveds)

Dark starry sky from 5.21 a.m. PST today.

The act of publishing a book. Then actually letting it go....

After the first death (or goodbye of whatever sorts), others accumulate. It's the nature of life, which is consoled by new shinies that distract or ease or heal said losses. Maybe that Splitting the Sky is a standalone, rare in my noveling wheelhouse, makes it harder for me to simply walk away. And yes, it's only been one friggin' day, but somehow yesterday felt.... Bereft. Perhaps the new administration added to that sense of WTF, well, of course it did. LOL not LOL, yet that wasn't the only reason I kept feeling like my heart was empty.

Well, not empty. Depleted. Askew. Changed. How you feel after one much loved passes. Or something similarly disturbing. Or altering. Or whatever. Whatever dude, what the eff ever.

Okay, this is definitely related to yesterday's hoo haa. Did I predict that sense of WTF-ever when I decided to release a book on Inauguration Day, obviously NOT. But it's done, the book is out, our country is.... Um, nope, can't go there this dang early in the morning. This morning I woke at a stupid-early hour, even though revisions aren't breathing down my neck. Only this nagging sense of, "What next?" Or "Why goodbye?" Why goodbye to those so decent, to whatever seemed impossible to ignore, like a novel that came outta left-freakin' field, taking over my whole damn life for several weeks, then is gone as if all that attention and love weren't real. I dunno man, I really don't know.

Yet (YET!), all is not lost, nor is this post meant to be a whine-fest. This entry acknowledges that no matter how much we yearn for something, or feel it is wholly and forever permanent, life moves on. Books are released, people die, administrations change, and though we feel battered and anguished, confused and frustrated, hopeless even, not all hope is lost. A trite homily? I don't think so, mostly from my faith, but also from the simple nature of life on this planet. Shite happens ALL THE FLIPPIN' TIME. Has Earth crumbled into dust in the midst of such turmoil? No. Have humans obliterated each other completely? No. Will I close up the noveling shop and retire from active authorial duty? Not on your sweet life! (Have I had some caffeine to prop me up having been awake for nearly three hours already, hell yes!) Hell yes I'll keep publishing books, maybe even write another along the way. The way to healing is this: Mourn what has been taken, then take a step forward. One step. Nothing impossible, although it might hurt like a scab ripped prematurely. But take that step. Then maybe another. Or pause, breathing deeply. Pain still persists, our lungs screaming for the past. Past Me wrote that novel twelve years ago when America's first black president was running for a second term. I assumed my nation had turned a page on our bigoted history. I was wrong. But (BUT!) I also didn't know the grandkids were coming. Or that my dad would only live long enough to meet one, Mom cuddling three of the four. Shit happens all the damn time, but then a dozen and a half years later, I released that book, which yes addresses corruption and the miseries that result, but also LOVE. Healing. Joy. Not the thrills expected, but something different. Unplanned yet not the complete end of the world. It might FEEL like the end. But it's not.

Future Me gives nothing away. Past Me is grinning from this unexpected triumph, not merely of Splitting the Sky, but that Present Me is writing about moving forward. From loss, from grief, from disbelief. From what seems to have no effing purpose, however it's a new day. Maybe a long day from how early I woke, but a different day nonetheless. So yeah, we lose some; loved ones, novels, a sense of democracy. Equally (although nothing about life feels at all equitable) we gain...something. I don't know what yet, but something.

Hold onto that hope, because as Dana Noth says, "Sometimes hope is all we have."

Splitting the Sky

Ooooohhhh! Always nice to post about a new novel! Splitting the Sky went live this morning, and is available for free on Smashwords. Coming soon to other online retailers, yay!

So here's the story: One corrupt leader, six missing astronauts, and an uncharted dimension collide with a damning secret as bereaved families mourn their beloveds. But what if those rocketeers aren't dead?

Science fiction meets psychological drama while love triangles bump into political intrigue! Set on Clatham, a planet a whole lot like Earth, those astronauts are entangled not only in their rocky interpersonal relationships, but find themselves inexplicably linked within the pilot's mind after a cataclysmic explosion sends their crew cabin into...The Split! D'Rozen, the pilot, harnesses all within his head, determined not to lose any of them, especially Tarryn, whose husband Lee back on Clatham knows his wife is still alive.

That's the synopsis. But let's step back a little to explain why this book, originally written in August of 2012, is being released TODAY. Or maybe I don't need to delve into that too deeply, what with a duplicitous head of government as a main character in this tale's drama, ahem. Yes I chose to publish this novel on Inauguration Day to make my own subtle statement. I also decided to release it now because I badly required a distraction that has indeed kept this author plenty busy for the last several weeks. I'm exceedingly grateful to my husband for his phenomenal support, as well as my dear friend Catherine Lucas, who graciously provided the amazing cover photo. Past Me gets huge kudos for writing this book, which balances my slight irritation with her for subsequently chucking the notes for it, and several other early stories, but who knew back in 2012 what 2025 would require.

Fortitude, patience, intense inner strength, calm, tenacity.... Did I mention mettle? I think I did. Because yes, a whole lotta something is on the horizon, but better to focus on creativity, on peace, on love. Love swirls through this story, love and sacrifice. The sacrifice for one's crew and kin bests all the nasty machinations. Gotta remember that.

I'm immensely pleased, and yeah, a bit proud, to talk up this tale. A standalone, Splitting the Sky taps into my fondness for love stories, science fiction, familial relationships, and (Spoiler!) happy endings. Or relatively happily ever afters. If any of this strikes your fancy, download your copy FOR FREE (as always) on Smashwords. I'm hopeful it will be available in wide online distribution by the end of the week. And here's the first chapter, hehehe.

Chapter1

 

 

 

TheTeháche Mountains loomed all about Estén like another arm or leg. Breathing incrisp morning air, he also noted coffee alongside an odd freshness. He smiled,glancing to the campfire. He didn’t smell burning wood, a scent as ingrained asthese peaks. Yet the coffee was sharp, as precious as the cool breeze tingedwith glints of sunshine. He turned back to the tent, hearing gentle snores.D’Rozen remained asleep, his drones turning to rumbles.

Walkingto the edge of their campsite, Estén gazed into the canyon. Always this spotfelt theirs, as though no one else had ever tramped this flat, gray slope. Hesmiled, then went for the coffee, a strong brew he preferred. His brother wouldbitch, but if D’Rozen wanted it weaker, he could get up before dawn and makeit. Steam rose from the cup and Estén inhaled it, a ritual from his youth.Drinking coffee was as necessary as breathing or standing on a wide precipicethat led to…. Estén returned to his perch; from the smooth landing he observedthe sky, some clouds, but mostly a wide blue horizon, framed in spots by tipsof rocky crags. It took the better part of a day to reach this site, but the brothershad been making the pilgrimage since they were ten and twelve. D’Rozen had twoyears and a few months on Estén, yet memories had stuck from around the sameage, like their lives were on one timeline. Recollections were tinted; no onesaw everything equally, but they had rarely been separated, experiencing allthe same things. Except for this time of the day, which D’Rozen always missed.Estén smiled, tiny sips of coffee attempted. It was still too hot, so insteadhe sniffed the comforting warmth, caffeine right along the cup’s edge. Esténblew at the steam, swirling into the air, hoping none of the essence was driftingaway.

D’Rozenwould have laughed at him, fully aware of his brother’s worries. They mightpossess nearly all the same memories, yet this place brooked no dissent,offering a balm, also one last moment for natural solitude. Estén tried anothersip, the flavor right along his tongue. He kicked a small rock, heard no soundas it flew along the breeze, traveling to the bottom of the canyon. How long ofa descent was it, how many minutes would pass before that pebble reached itsdestination? Not a final resting spot; someone would find it eventually, sendingit soaring. How many stones had Estén hurled into space, into other rocks, intoD’Rozen’s shins? A younger brother laughed richly, clashing with heavy dronesleaking from the tent. Estén smiled, then took a proper drink. Now the day hadbegun.

 

Theytrekked around Muala Hill; every time it seemed to shrink, what Estén thoughtas D’Rozen led the way, muttering it was too damned early, even if they hadeaten lunch right before they left. Now it was nearly two p.m.; they would headback to the site soon, not like how they used to hike for hours. This was ateaser of a vacation, or barely that. It was what both required before being sequestered.Some sense of their youth, of a vast space that possessed firm boundaries.Mostly firm, Estén noted, having slipped on a few rocky places. D’Rozen hadlaughed, then grown quiet.

Theirtransport would be waiting in two days, one of which would be spent getting downthe mountain. That took more time than what they would spend hiking orsleeping, but this elevation required a sacrifice. Estén inhaled with that,then stopped walking. “Hey, slow down.”

D’Rozenpaused, hands at his sides. “What?”

“Shit,just stop a second.” Estén glanced around for effect. “I can’t get a good lookwith your pace.”

D’Rozennodded, then drank some water. Estén didn’t need to admire the scenery; it wasas permanent as any other important moment of their lives. They might notconsider the landscape with equal depth, but brown eyes took in scrubby hillsringing a green meadow, small yellow buttercups swaying in the afternoonbreeze. Estén was hungry; lunch had been small and hurried, for he’d wanted toget walking. Time here was limited, but before each launch, this was required,like coffee, sleep, a good piss upon waking. He felt the urge, then walked fromthe trail toward the wood.

“What,can’t take a leak out in the open?” D’Rozen teased.

“Fuckyou.”

D’Rozen’slaughter followed Estén to the edge of the hill, where a small stream ran, afew animals scampering into the wood. He wouldn’t piss on the trail or themeadow; that seemed immoral; had their father taught him that? Some memorieswere lost, or maybe blocked. Estén pondered it while unzipping his fly, thenforgot it as a deer’s bright eyes peered from the thicket.

Theonly sound was urine hitting the ground, not even the brook intruded. Esténcouldn’t even hear his breath; he hadn’t seen a deer since he was maybe fifteenyears old. Perhaps longer, he thought, still observing that deer, which staredright at him. Did it know why they were there, was it intrigued by bodilyfunctions? Or was it deeper, as Estén always assumed, but never said aloud.D’Rozen thought all of that was shit, but Estén could sense that creature’sintellect.

“Areyou done yet?” D’Rozen yelled from the trail.

Hoovesand tail flashed as the deer bolted into the thicket. The brook sang its songas Estén zipped his jeans, then he turned around, D’Rozen tapping his foot,hands on hips. Estén smiled, glancing to where that deer had stood. Then herejoined his brother.

 

Theyate dinner as the sun set, then sat in front of the fire, not speaking. Theystared at the jagged horizon, light bounding from behind it, but growing dim.As dusk settled, D’Rozen stood, then rubbed his arms. “You get enough of it?”

Esténnodded. “All ready to go back?”

“Sure,I mean….” D’Rozen walked to the perch, gazing at the falling night, cool airforcing his arms around him. Then he turned to Estén. “Gonna be a long trip.”

“Longerin isolation than we’ll be up there.”

“Shit,when’s it not?” D’Rozen laughed. “Like coming here for two nights, but it takestwo days to reach it. Still, it’s worth it, even if it’s a bitch going up anddown.”

Esténnodded. He hadn’t thought about the trip, that wasn’t why he was there. He wasthere to leave that behind, which had been accomplished. Even before he saw thedeer, but those seconds, perhaps a minute, would hold him until they returned,maybe in a year’s time. It might be less, but probably not. Three monthssequestered in pre-flight training, two in space, another six weeks of downtime; missions required long stretches of his life, but other than D’Rozen, whowas there to satisfy? Besides, D’Rozen had done this to him last year. Fair wasfair, even if it wasn’t.

“Youready for bed?” D’Rozen asked.

“Yeah.Tomorrow’ll be here soon enough.”

“Soonerfor you than me.”

Esténsmiled, standing from his seat. “No shit. Gonna have to rise your ass if we’reto get to base in time.”

“Nottoo early,” D’Rozen said, gazing at stars.

Esténstared toward the sky. Night seemed to have fallen like a blanket, but thedarkness was littered with white specks, how they appeared from here. Inmonths, the stars would be close enough to snatch from inside the ship. Yethere they always looked more real. He didn’t mention that, D’Rozen wouldn’thave cared for any theoretical bullshit. Estén smiled, then patted hisbrother’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming up.”

“Sure.Don’t have anything better to do.”

Esténnodded. “I’m going to bed. You close it up?”

“Yeah.And tomorrow don’t make the coffee so damned strong.”

“Getup and make it yourself.”

“Fucker.”

Esténchuckled as he headed to the tent, his brother softly grumbling.

 

D’Rozenwoke to Estén’s deep snores. It remained dark outside, but he needed to pee sobadly, not even night could preclude it. He slipped on shoes, got out of bed,then stepped from the tent, shivering. Night was cool, yet a sliver of morningteased over the far horizon behind the tent. D’Rozen pissed back there, hearingthe splash against the ground while Estén’s rumbles hovered.

Kickingdirt over the dampness, D’Rozen gazed at the morning. Who knew the exact time,yet it was a new day, their last together for a year, perhaps more. D’Rozen hadthe next liftoff, but he hadn’t told Estén that. They would see each other inpassing when Estén returned, D’Rozen in training. Then another eight or ninemonths until they could return here. When they did, it would be for a good longstay, nine or ten days, maybe two weeks. The longest they had camped here was amonth, when they were twenty-one, or when D’Rozen was twenty-one. Their ageswere so close, D’Rozen never thought of his brother as younger. Yet Estén wasalways the little sibling, even though he was taller by a good three inches.They looked alike, dark brown hair, rugged faces sporting more years than theyowned. No one ever guessed their ages, thirty-three and thirty-one, whichhelped at work. Most astronauts were in their late thirties or early forties.Two brothers almost twins bucked that trend.

D’Rozenheaded to the tent, but Estén was snoring so loudly, there was no way D’Rozenwould go back to sleep. “Bastard,” he mumbled, then smiled. The coffee would bemore to his taste on their last day. He wouldn’t start it until right beforethe sun rose, until Estén was nearly ready to wake. D’Rozen grinned, then saton a large, flat rock, watching the other side of the sky still lying inslumber.

 

Brotherswere experienced climbers, but D’Rozen insisted on leading them down the cliff.Estén had complained that the coffee was barely more than water, but D’Rozenfelt it coursing through him, or maybe it was the rush of the descent, alwayshis favorite part. Being at the campsite grew old after a few days, although hewouldn’t have minded another week. In departing, he knew an odd sadness, wasn’tsure from where it originated. He said nothing to Estén, who would have talkedit to death. D’Rozen only asked if his brother was all right. Estén said he wasfine.

Unlesssomething was wrong, they wouldn’t speak again until pausing for a break.Footsteps noted their presence, drifting into the warming air, leaving thecooler altitude. Maybe that was what D’Rozen craved, being so far aboveeveryone else. It was why he loved going into space, looking down on theirplanet. It was spatial, also arrogant, which wasn’t an isolated trait. Manyastronauts thought highly of themselves, but a certain amount of conceit wasnecessary to endure the training, not to mention the education preceding it.D’Rozen was typical of his compatriots in the program, a little vain, but hewasn’t an asshole. Neither was Estén, probably one of the most humble withinthe organization. If they didn’t look so much alike, many wouldn’t realize theywere related.

Itwasn’t selfish pride, only awareness of how privileged they were, how hard theyworked. It took guts to put one’s life on the line; every flight was anotheropportunity for failure. It was never rote, not like these mountain treks,which both brothers felt could occur in their sleep. They had been coming heresince just out of childhood, but entering the upper atmosphere was fraught withanxieties. At least they had no one to worry about them, not girlfriends orspouses, or parents. A sudden chill crept over D’Rozen and he halted theirprogression. “You all right?”

“Yeah,are you?”

D’Rozensmiled. “Of course. We’re halfway down.”

“Noshit. Keep going.”

Theyshared chuckles, then continued the descent. Now the air felt hot, or perhapsit was the energy expended. D’Rozen took several steps, reaching a smalllanding. Base could be seen, if he squinted. Not that he needed glasses; bothbrothers had perfect vision. Another hour and they would be there.

Esténreached the flat, then stepped to the edge, taking a piss. D’Rozen smiled.“Don’t hit anyone.”

“We’rethe only ones here.”

D’Rozennodded. It was nearing the end of the camping season, why the mornings had beenso cold, night falling quickly. During summer, a transport arrived severaltimes a day to ferry campers, but they had to arrange it for this trip. D’Rozendidn’t worry about missing the transport. For what he had paid, that van wouldwait all night if necessary.

Asthey checked their packs, Estén cleared his throat. “What?” D’Rozen asked.

“I’llnever forget that deer. Been years since I’ve seen one up there.”

“It’llgive you something to brood over when you’re bored stiff in two weeks.”

“Yeah,”Estén laughed. “I’ll be floating in zero gravity, wondering about that fuckingdeer.”

D’Rozenstared at him, then smiled. “Yeah, you probably will.”

“Weused to see them all the time,” Estén sighed. “I wonder what happened to themall.”

“Noidea. Let’s get going.”

Esténnodded as D’Rozen resumed their descent.

 

Twentyminutes later D’Rozen was considering that deer, which he had barely noted. Theway Estén pondered things like that somehow wound their way into D’Rozen’shead; he would probably be thinking about that damned deer for the next sixmonths! D’Rozen grunted, then looked down. Base was easily in sight, but notransport vehicle yet. That was all right; they could eat what food remained,take another piss, walk out this trek. By then the van would be waiting.

“Hey,you still thinking about that deer?” D’Rozen called.

“Nope.”

“Uh-huh.”D’Rozen didn’t believe him. “Well, I am now, damn you.”

Esténlaughed.

“That’sright, fucker. Got that stupid animal stuck in my head.”

“Servesyou right.”

D’Rozensmiled, then gestured toward the van, arriving at the base. “There it is.”

“Isee it.”

Itlooked how Clatham did, small but comforting. Every time D’Rozen ended amission, his planet appeared like a beacon, round and odd but home. He had onlyflown three times, but it stuck like these descents, somewhere never removed.It was probably Estén’s fault too; this would be his third flight. Maybe theirshared memories overlapped to the point where even space flight felt communal.D’Rozen laughed, would never tell his brother. Estén would tease him for ages.

Ashe chuckled, he missed small rocks rolling from under Estén’s boots. D’Rozennoticed a tug on the line, then heard a sharp scream. Then he gripped the cord,but it didn’t keep Estén on his feet. He stumbled past D’Rozen, slamming intothe side of the mountain, a dull thud following. “Estén!” D’Rozen shouted.“ESTÉN!”

 

Thetransport van struck bumps and potholes as D’Rozen gripped his brother’s limphand. If not for the driver and his companion, D’Rozen wasn’t sure if Esténwould even be alive. It took all three of them to rescue Estén from the smallcrevice, then gently haul him to the base. Estén was unconscious, which D’Rozenthought was good. The jagged angle of his broken leg nearly made D’Rozen illand the driver had gagged before getting into the van. His partner wascertified in first aid, but couldn’t do more than cover Estén with blankets,hopefully keeping him from going into shock. D’Rozen thought it was enough; hisbrother was only thinking about the deer.

D’Rozenwasn’t sure how he knew that, yet that damned animal was spinning throughEstén’s mind. Not the fall or the pain, just a deer with wide peering eyes.D’Rozen shut his, but that creature teased, better than recalling the deadthump when Estén hit the cliff.

Reachingthe main road, an ambulance waited. D’Rozen thanked the transport driver andhis partner while paramedics eased Estén onto a gurney, then into the emergencyvehicle. Carrying his pack and Estén’s, D’Rozen joined them, sitting near hisbrother’s feet. The ambulance’s siren was loud, but didn’t dislodge that deer,or again D’Rozen was compensating, easier to consider that than the bustle aroundhim. Yet he didn’t miss the initial diagnoses; a badly broken leg, headinjuries, shock. An IV was inserted into Estén’s hand, fluids administered.Hopefully painkillers as well as whatever else they thought was necessary;D’Rozen was an astronaut, but medical care went over his head.

Reachingthe hospital, D’Rozen wondered what would happen first; probably surgery forthat wrecked leg. A CAT scan too, discovering any hidden injuries. After exitingthe ambulance, D’Rozen spoke to a nurse, giving information. Glancing aroundthe lobby, he saw no one familiar, but didn’t expect that to last. Murmurswafted; an astronaut has been wounded. D’Rozen assumed some governmentmiddleman would arrive before the night ended.

Theevening was warm, emergency room doors opening and closing regularly. D’Rozenstood alone as the nurse returned to the reception area. Then he was approachedby a doctor. “Are you family?”

“Hisbrother. Is he all right?”

“Hisleg’s a mess,” the physician sighed. “He’s in mild shock. Initial scans show nointernal injuries, but he’s got a concussion. He’ll live, but will be here awhile.”

D’Rozennodded. “Good, I mean….”

“He’sgoing into surgery now, I just wanted you to know the preliminaries.”

“Thanks.I appreciate it.”

Thedoctor cleared his throat. “Are you from around here?”

“No,we live about three hours away. We were camping at Teháche. Been doing it sincewe were kids.” D’Rozen’s throat grew tight. He blinked, that deer all he couldsee.

“Well,why don’t you follow me, you can wait in the surgical lobby. There’s a placefor you to shower and sleep if you want.”

“Yeah,that’d be great, thanks.” D’Rozen hoisted the packs, then took slow stepsbehind the doctor.

 

Heslept on the sofa until a nurse tapped his shoulder. “What, how is he?”

“He’sin recovery, everything went well.” The nurse motioned to another man, seatedacross the small room. “You have company.”

D’Rozenrubbed his eyes, then gazed at the figure, arms crossed over his chest. Thenurse walked away, leaving the men alone. D’Rozen sat up, stretching his shoulders.“How long you been here?”

“Acouple hours. Sounds like he’ll be all right.”

D’Rozennodded, perhaps Holtz knew more. “He just slipped, I have no fucking idea howit happened. Suddenly he was falling past me and….”

“Allthat matters is he’ll recover. That’s the best news.”

D’Rozenwondered if Holtz was spouting a line. “Yeah, that’s all that matters.”

Holtzstood, as tall as Estén, older than the brothers. He paced around the room,then stared at D’Rozen. “I know you have plenty on your mind, but you also knowwhy I’m here.”

“Theydidn’t need to send you to tell us he’s off the next launch.”

“Weneed to fill that space. They want you to do it.”

“Me?”D’Rozen struggled to his feet. He was starving, also exhausted. And shaky, buthe approached Holtz with firm steps. “Right now all I care about is Estén. He’smy priority.”

Holtzglanced at the floor. “You guys aren’t impervious you know. Santos was in a caraccident yesterday and Gibson’s condition won’t allow any travel for at leastanother year. I realize the timing’s shitty, but….”

“Mybrother could’ve died today Holtz. I am not gonna….”

“Youdon’t have a choice, all right? Either you accept his place or….”

“What?You’ll terminate me? Shit!” D’Rozen felt nauseous, wanted to stand under a veryhot shower. He closed his eyes, then opened them, that deer all he couldponder.

“D’Rozen,we need you. Your country needs you. This mission isn’t just another trek intospace.”

D’Rozenstared at him. “Yeah?”

Holtznodded. “Estén knew, I guess he kept quiet like he was directed.” Holtz gazedaround the room. “I can’t detail it here, but Estén’s gonna be fine and thiscan’t wait.”

D’Rozen’slast mission was a classified assignment; was this a similar case? “Is this todo with….”

Holtzblinked, then glanced at the door. “D’Rozen, we need you.”

“Esténdoes too.”

“Weneed you more.”

D’Rozen shook, then found himself nodding, the pit of his stomach ablack, aching hole.

Last chapter

August 2012 as though I knew one day I'd need a photo aligning to what was then being written.

With the release of Splitting the Sky just days away, I'm deeply involved in the final edits. I've been reading each chapter aloud, and one remains. After that I'll reread today's assignment, then tomorrow I'm not doing ANYTHING writing related, LOL! Need a break before I publish this novel on Monday.

Why read a novel out loud? In part to better relate authentic dialogue. In part to root out nefarious typos hoping to remain hidden. In part to.... Make sure that this story, originally written in 2012 then unearthed last November, is all I want it to be before it goes live. Ages ago, like around the time StS was written, I read aloud my books before releasing them. I got out of that habit, not sure when, maybe when I was publishing The Hawk on its initial go-round. Anyway, it's been quite enjoyable reading aloud, and not altogether quietly. I do lower my voice around my husband, otherwise I try to do justice to the characters, the prose, and the dialogue. And boy have I renewed an appreciation for those who read for audio books!

I have pondered starting a channel to do just that for my own novels, but my goodness lately I feel like time is one of the most precious commodities. Perhaps its my near-obsessive focus on this story, wanting it to be in the best possible shape before Monday. Which is an apt goal, wishing to give readers the most bang for a freebie. All my books are gratis, and if you want to know why, well.... Hmmm, on my Smashwords interview I used to answer that query, but now it seems that question isn't listed. Okay, well, for me writing is a gift, and I can't fathom charging for that blessing. And if you want to know more, email me and we'll have a natter.

So many aspects of this noveling gig; churning out a rough draft, polishing it brightly, garnering a book cover, writing synopses and choosing genres, getting the word out in my very subtle manner, lol. I've been making posts daily on Bluesky about it, then of course what I blab about here. Yet these are minute drops in the enormous bucket that is now independent publishing. And that's fine, again I don't do this for monetary gain or to satisfy more than myself. I do this because 1) I can both for the writing of stories and the availability of online distribution. And 2) because I am led to do this, not merely by an overactive imagination but a spirit of loving creativity that burns through me so thoroughly that I have no choice. I tried giving this up not long after I wrote Splitting the Sky, then again in 2018. Yet here I am, in 2025, still plying a trade that is more than a craft. It's my heart, my soul, one way I breathe. I'm sure my husband is weary of listening to me mumble, but he's also my biggest champion. As I note in dedications, his support makes all the words possible. My faith in Christ does too, smiley face.

Turning into a different person

Trinidad Head from Saturday, 11 January 2025. It was blowy and cold, but nice to observe from inside the car.

"I don't see how anybody can predetermine how their movie is going to turn out, or why anybody would want to, because it's a creative thing that is changing every day, and you're changing every day while you work on it. You start to make a movie, and when you finish it you'll be a different person."- Barbara Loden

I read this quote earlier today and obviously it struck a chord. Not that I'm planning to make a movie soon (or ever). Only that I'm hoping to start writing soon (or ever again). And the first (long) line proffered me a whole lotta freedom.

I have notions how the story will end, snippets of ideas for the middle, but no clear path for how to get from Chapter 3 (because I'm keeping Chapters 1 & 2 that I wrote last year) to say, Chapter Question Mark. I don't even know how lengthy of a story this will be. Not The Hawk long, or please Lord I hope not! But maybe a novella. A novella would be F-I-N-E fine! At this point, I just wanna WRITE!

But do I want to become a different person? Oooohhh, that's one helluva query! I think I do, or I am, ready, that is. Ready to write, to change, to, to.... Move on with this series, my persona as a spinner of yarns, new yarns. Publishing novels is great, don't misconstrue, but you can't release them if you don't liberate them from your brain, heart, and soul. My soul is in dire need of some renovation, in the noveling department, in the moving forward from crappy politics and that maelstrom. I'm eager for typing more than these entries, more than excerpt alts for Bluesky posts. I'm so freaking READY (as well as scared a little shiteless) to delve into another world where.... Where I'm sort of in control! Oh yeah, that's really it, even if change occurs because personal change is at times unnerving, rattling, scary. But scary is the next four years here in America, so....

But enough of that. More important is Barbara Loden's quote. She was spot-on, brave, well before her time. She was an actress that directed a movie I'd never heard of, but click-click-click and there I found her, or rather she found me on a day when I needed a huge reminder of why I write, why I breathe a creative life. Why I need to stop frickin' procrastinating and WRITE THE DANG BOOK!

Soon, I promise myself. As soon as I publish Splitting the Sky, well, a week or two after that. Really. I promise. 

I promise.

Hearts not pricks

Hearts sewn with my left hand to assuage my achy right shoulder. These hearts took nearly twice as long to sew, but sometimes the best things don't happen overnight.

What's so frightening about peace, love, and understanding?

My first novel featured a white woman with a biracial sibling. My second, and first indie publication, concerned a bisexual author, his long-time liberal Catholic girlfriend, and the AIDS epidemic. My focus has always been on inclusiveness amid varied genres ranging from literary fiction to fantasy, women's fiction to sci-fi. Sense a theme? It's all about peace, love, and understanding.

Today's title hit me yesterday morning, but other than ranting how different Jimmy Carter is from the incoming president, I didn't have much plotted for this entry, which I didn't want to turn into some raging blah blah blah that has already been done to death. Yet I want to mention how hearts matter more than male appendages, and while yes I'm a woman (So what do I know about penises?), I'm married to a man who just turned sixty and yup, age hits everyone.

During Carter's funeral, the incoming president scowled nearly the whole time. He looked mad. Indifferent to who was being lauded as an exemplary human being, a man concerned with others. Carter thought with his heart, which probably far outlasted what other bodily organs could maintain. The incoming president puts off an aura of the heart not being necessary, especially its empathetic purpose. Only the prick matters, as if men are nothing but a hard and powerful penis.

Lots of wide assumptions here, I realize that, and women are not immune from this need to dominate. But the essence is this: as we age, as we near death, our beating hearts remain the last organ to go. We might lose cognitive power, the ability to breathe on our own, our legs won't support us, elimination problematic. These bodies aren't meant to sustain us in perfect fashion from birth to our last day. But that damn heart muscle outshines and outlasts all those other functions, IT IS US. We are our hearts, from inside out. And if our hearts are full of peace, love, and understanding, no matter how screwed are up the rest of our corporeal shells, that peace, love, and understanding will ripple beyond the spaces we're stuck in, flinging light and love everywhere.

Some people seem terrified of that notion. Some people act as though selflessness is the antithesis of success. Some people appear to believe that only a few deserve happiness. This planet's history goes round and round on the axis of egocentric, power-hungry personas and again we're caught in that nasty cycle where peace, love, and understanding are for the weak and the foolish. Scowls matter. Ignoring or outright harming of the vulnerable is vital. Hearts aren't necessary, only pricks. What bullshit!

I have said many times that in writing fiction, when a character surfaces from catastrophe, a broken heart once mended possesses great capacity for compassion, mercy, love. I'm going to keep writing about that ESSENTIAL ELEMENT OF HUMAN NATURE despite a segment of American society that wants to stamp out the feeling that emerges when faced with another's anguish and the sense of wanting to relieve that misery. That's the definition of compassion, and why is that so freaking hard for the incoming administration to grasp? That people matter, not power. That hearts last longer than penises. That love is truly what makes this crazy world go round, not the evil that lately mostly men coordinate. Sorry, but when it comes to world leaders taking out their aggressions on others, recently it's men in those positions. Our incoming president seems to suggest that anger and ruthlessness, indifference and tyranny make for a better human being, a better planet Earth.

Yet we all have hearts. And like I said, those hearts will be the last parts of us to go. I pray for a change of heart in those whose actions I can't fathom, and that someday peace, love, and understanding will be norm and not still our fervent wish.

Like a bright pink sun

While the Carter family absorbs the loss of their patriarch, I watched Jimmy Carter's funeral with a sense of peace. Joy. Recollection to simpler times before all this modern technology when it seemed that strength of character and honesty mattered. Perhaps I'm blinded, wearing rose-coloured glasses tinted by the vibrant pink sun pictured above. Regardless, I needed a throng of eulogies to lift my mood and dangit I received that in full yesterday morning.

It's funny what can herald a breakthrough in one's emotional state, their creative endeavors, or physical well-being. I needed a presidential state funeral, okay! What I NEEDED was the reminder that goodness matters, selflessness is imperative, decency isn't superfluous. Good lessons all round.

But what about that bright pink sun? That scrap of Kaffe Fassett material had been slated to go into the block below. Yet when I tried fitting it in, its massive PINKNESS overwhelmed the rest of the hexagons, so to the office I went, cutting another piece for the block. The new hexagon is the top right, with what looks like plentiful veins attempting a coup. Veins reside above my hand, where I'm trying to keep the entire block from tipping over backwards, and while veins aren't what I was hoping to feature in this block, better than one exuberant pink sun outshining all these lovely slips of fabric.

Jimmy Carter never seemed to me as if he wanted to overwhelm anyone. He was the first president I actively recall, a kindly man, but when you're ten, eleven, twelve years old, presidents don't matter much. Yet by the time he lost to Reagan, I was fourteen, fully aware of hostages held in Iran, failed attempts to liberate them, and the ridiculous notion of a former actor becoming our nation's leader. How naive I was, ahem. Yet Carter's life wasn't wrapped up in self. His walk of faith took him to the highest leadership pinnacle in America, but those four years were a blip in the grand scheme.

The bright pink sun is better served on its own, especially after I add some blue (hue to be determined) diamonds as its perimeter. Then it will go into the Eden quilt block stack, dimming it further. Eventually it will be incorporated into a comforter where its brilliance will be balanced by other singular yet pretty blocks, and it will shine accordingly, yet not pummel one into submission. Our lives aren't meant to pummel anyone, thank you very much. Our lives, in my humble opinion, are meant to fill others with peace. Consolation. Love. Carter did just that and how damn important it is, and what a fantastic job he did. I picture Jimmy Carter with that ever-present smile, fully aware how terrific was his life, not always easy, but so meaningful. Contrast that with the permanent scowl on others, and realize that joy matters, goodness counts. Meh and muck might last an evening (or longer), but happiness and generosity dawn every time a bright pink (or yellow) sun emerges.

Staving off the inevitable?

Yours truly from summer of 2001. I still have the shirt and canvas bag behind the purse.

If I write about calamities, am I hoping to ward them off within my personal life?

I'm in a wonky headspace right now. This post was going to be about the sentence above, but I don't feel like analyzing that. I'm.... Meh. Sometimes one just feels meh.

A dear friend became a grandmother again this morning, a little girl entering this world that at the time of her conception didn't seem as crappy as it now feels. I'm trying to keep that stiff upper lip, but all my years of living in the UK feel like a dream as this year begins, as so many unknowns linger. I feel like when my mom died in 2018, lost and bewildered with a major case of WHAT THE MUCK! I didn't write for a couple of years, trying to sort out my brain and heart. Therapy helped, time's passage did too, making quilts up the friggin' wazoo because the whole noveling gig was mired in grieving. Maybe that's why writing now, or thinking about writing, feels overwhelming because my nation is about to head into a BS administration and with less than two weeks to go, the reality of that is hitting me hard.

The book I did write after Mom's death became a series, and within that series I substituted muck for the F word. It was liberating in a way, mucking this and muck off and muck you, mostly spoken by a former soldier who didn't take shit off anyone. I wish I had Yarzel Nasri's presence of.... Not optimism, more like what is is what is despite war, death, injustice or any other shitty thing that occurs. Usually I do, my faith reminding me, bolstering me, keeping me together when life gets truly unbearable. I've endured some heavy crap, who hasn't? Yet I've always known, truly grasped with both hands, that this particular piece of crap isn't the be-all end-all. Today is not one of those days.

Yet it's a great day for some, like a family welcoming a new baby into their lives! That's pretty damned fantastic, even if I think the world sucks galore. This baby's grandmother and I met when I lived in the UK, that family moving to Yorkshire in time for two sisters the same ages as my daughters to start school. They all started school, then 9/11 happened, dude! Now that's been over twenty-three years in the past, good grief. I'll be eighty-one (if I'm still around) in twenty-three years, fascinating. Things to ponder, I suppose.

I felt old this morning, doing my stretches, gazing at a panel for a possible quilt, Christmas themed, but it was something new to put on the design wall. I was tired of the Red Sky at Night blocks that obviously aren't turning into anything more than something to hog up surface area. Hog up, no hogging, the latter being a Bluey term. No hogging Muffin, no hogging all you rich white men who can't seem to make enough money to satisfy yourselves. No hogging you despicable world leaders invading other countries. No hogging our incoming president who makes me wanna...

I could tell that man, that FELON, to muck off. HAH! I can edit a novel about a corrupt leader, release it on the twentieth of this month, and a part me will feel less.... Fragile, downtrodden? Hell if I know, but I will publish a book this month, and maybe another in March, and maybe I'll start writing something new in between those stories. Maybe I'll sew a Christmas quilt. Or finish RSAN, or who the muck knows what. Muck! I so wanted Kamala Harris to be my country's next president. I so wanted America to rise above its racism and misogyny and devotion to the almighty mucking American dollar. Instead, we got mucked.

Except... A baby was born today. A healthy little girl, dearly loved. Something new happened today in my world, and I'm gonna cling to that, to my faith, to the whisper-thin sense that this is not the end of the mucking world. 9/11 was terrible. Nazi Germany was TERRIBLE. The next four years will suck big time, but like all other catastrophes, this too will pass.

Somehow, it will.

I like being efficient

Hearts can be very efficient. And so begins another post!

Prepping a novel for release, and other quirky notions...

I thought about this around mid-morning, how I was waiting for the pot of soup to simmer, meanwhile filling a couple of pitchers with water, not wanting to simply stand by the pot because a watched pot often takes ages to boil. 

LOL.

Yet it wasn't merely lunch on my mind, but my fictional WIP, as I'm in one of the last revisionary cycles. Hoping to release Splitting the Sky in two weeks, egad! Where have the last several weeks gone? Wait, don't answer that. Time's inadvertent march onward can't be analyzed, in that it moves too damn fast for me to consider. But here I kind of am, regardless.

This isn't so much about me not liking to be idle, although I don't like being idle. It's more about using time to its best, um, usage. Being efficient. Not wasteful. Because I'm two times twenty-nine, okay, fifty-eight. Maybe the whole two times twenty-nine thing is so last year. In a few months I'll be fifty-nine, talk about EGAD! Anyway....

Not a very efficient manner to discuss efficiency. Actually, I'm, uh, killing time, DUDE! I just had some mid-afternoon ice cream and I don't want to do my late-afternoon stretches for another fifteen or twenty minutes, allowing the ice cream and subsequent cuppa to settle. Not that my stretches are arduous, but....

(For crying out loud, get on with this friggin' post!)

That was Past Me hollering. Not sure why she's got her knickers in a twist, while Future Me hums quietly to herself, staring out the window at a sunny day. It's gray here, fog twirling, then receding, and I think I'll build a fire tonight. Always nice to sew in the evenings with a fire crackling and....

(ARE YOU GOING TO WRITE ABOUT EFFICIENCY OR WHAT?)

Oh yeah, sorry, um.... So I was making soup and filling water pitchers while waiting for the soup to simmer and thinking about my next novel and I titled this post and made a note and felt very good about myself. So simmer down yourself Past Me!

Um, huh. This isn't what I meant to write about at all. It's devolved into a lot of silliness to be honest, but sometimes silly is efficient too. Sure it is. Uh-huh. Yup.

Okay, so maybe it's not, but also to be honest, writing about being efficient is actually turning out to be an epic fail. Okay, maybe not epic, but certainly not successful. Maybe because it's Monday. The first Monday of the year. And in two weeks I'm hoping to release a new novel. And that's all I want to consider for Monday in two weeks from now.

Ba-dump-bump. Happy first full week of the year everyone!

Sometimes things happen out of order

Hexagon block for Alexandria, a wonderful ongoing process!

Quilts. And novels, ahem....

I almost titled this Sincere considerations, because to blithely discuss writing (actual writing not revising) or machine-piecing a quilt seems precarious. Why? Because it's been over a year since I finished writing anything new and a few months since sewing with my machine which is STILL UNDER ITS COVER. 

But I'm not going to change the title. In leaving it alone, I'm possibly setting myself up for disappointment, but damnit, I REALLY WANNA WRITE SOMETHING NEW! And look at something different on the design wall. I stretch twice a day in the room where the design wall resides, and I meant to take down the blocks just minutes ago after completing my stretches, but I forgot. Jeez Louise! I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached (and I'm a little afraid I'm forgetting how to.... Not write, but, but, but....)!

The out of order bit relates to the quilt I'm sincerely considering, a Christmas quilt. Because why not? Also because I have fabrics already cut and an idea and I don't have a Christmas quilt believe it or not.

So yeah, Christmas in January. I'm (possibly) in!

As for writing.... This time last year, or maybe last February, I started what was going to be part of The Enran Chronicles. An addendum, if you will, detailing the life of a character that turns up in Book Three (to be released in March). After three chapters, I gave up, but saved the work of course. Because Book Four of The Enran Chronicles began with an abandoned chapter, so best to not throw anything away, like story notes, ahem.

Anyways.... Last night I surveyed those chapters, copying them into a new document, deleting the second chapter, then saving it as a new version. This morning I read through it, revised a wee bit, made notes, then closed it thinking, "Yeah, I could write more of this. Not that I know what's gonna happen but...." But that's okay. Just that I want to expand upon it, with no pressure to turn it into a full-length novel, feels GREAT! Maybe a novella. Or maybe I'll write another couple chapters, then close it up for a while.

Maybe that's all it will be.

When I started the Alexandria quilt, I assumed no stoppage would occur. Why begin a project with a cloud over it? Yet I set it aside for nearly two years! What about that random chapter of Book Four, something tossed off without proper notes (because sometimes notes really aren't necessary), then turned into a novel, actually more than that. That one chapter helped shape a series and if I write a novella prior to the next book in the series, it's my series, my decision. My joy to write as I please and better to be happy about creative endeavors than wanting to tear them, or oneself, into shreds.

The creative process, be it for novels or quilts, can't be crammed into a box or forced onto a list, followed with absolute precision. There are few absolutes about creativity; I write and sew for pleasure, and if my methods are unusual, so what? What matters isn't even a finished piece or story, although completed items make me feel better than unfinished pieces. But after the last few years, getting older has taught me that time is a tricky beast, awfully precarious when it feels like it, and best utilized with minimal constraints about what emerges. My efforts are enough, because what needs to be accomplished WILL BE accomplished, and what is meant to languish will, well, fade away. There aren't enough hours in the day for all I'd like to do, which is a pretty spectacular blessing, to have plentiful dreams waiting to be fulfilled. So maybe I'll write soon. Maybe I'll start a Christmas quilt soon too. Maybe I'll have dinner soon as well, lol. It's closing in on suppertime, EPP time, basketball time. Writing and quilt designing will happen tomorrow.

Or they won't. No worries either way.

When notes are thrown away

Capitola, California on 12 September, 2012, not long after I had finished writing Splitting the Sky.

All I have to go on is a manuscript and a playlist. Huh....

Happy new year! I hope you enjoyed whatever made you most content, and little of what pained. My thoughts are with those in New Orleans, Las Vegas too, and of course so many other places on this planet mired in conflict. As well as all the rancor within hearts, and while I spent much of yesterday prepping for more paper-pieced hearts, the first post of a new year concerns writing.

Or what happens when one writes a novel, shelves it, decides it's meant for the hard drive only, tosses all physical proof of its background, leaving only a playlist, the manuscript, and a few meanderings in a personal blog right after it was written. Because that's what happened with Splitting the Sky, and I'm kind of flying blind-ish as I polish the story, wondering why I chose this character name or that plot point, other than the few clues songs attached to each chapter concede.

Why did I throw out the notes, you rightly ask. Well, you see, there were a lot of folders from those early days of my writing tenure. MANY FOLDERS, because I was churning out stories left and friggin' right. At one point I was inundated with novels, the vast majority of which will remain safely tucked right where they are on hard drives and in flash drives. Yet Splitting the Sky was written at the tail-end of that lightning-speed comet of literary inspiration, or what could be called the How I Learned to Write Fiction era of my life. From 2007-2012 I wrote over forty novels. I'm not joshing you. I seriously went on a fictional tear and while MOST of them stopped at the initial draft, I released a handful, then found myself wrapped up in The Hawk, and spent five years wrestling with that behemoth. I won, I think, but if nothing else by the time I wrote Splitting the Sky, I kinda knew how to write a decent book.

If you are in the early stages of becoming a writer, maybe it won't take that many novels for you to get it together. Or maybe if I had written less, concentrating on revising.... Now that kind of musing is irrelevant because it's been eighteen years since I wrote my first book, and that was simply my authorial path. I'm grateful for it as today I'm here with some good stories released, hoping to begin work on another, lol. I don't know WHEN I'll write something new, and that's okay (It really is okay, Future Me smirks, then winks.). It's okay because no matter what I'll NEVER THROW OUT STORY NOTES AGAIN. Never. Really. Learned that lesson, dangit, but again, no harm done as Splitting the Sky (STS) didn't seem to require me to peruse its background, other than listening to the playlist not for information, only as a reminder (maybe, hopefully) that writing a novel can be as easy as, well, writing it.

Copious character sketches, detailed plot lines; I did that with A Rose Blissful and all I came away with was twenty-five thousand words of blah blah blah, then I bailed. All that mulling over, all those musings.... Sometimes musings can strip the life out of the story. Sometimes pulling a book outta one's backside makes for a more invigorating tale. Sometimes I even know what I'm on about, as Past Me pokes her head up from the sewing machine, in my pre-English paper piecing days. I don't know which quilt she's got under the presser foot, but currently my machine languishes under its cover like those forgotten stories, most of which are now as anonymous for their beginnings as STS. If I wanted to resurrect any of them, I'd be as reliant on their playlists as I am with the current WIP. Yes, I have a written WIP, but the writing was a dozen years ago when Past Me didn't even conjure quilts.

She doesn't pay me any attention, but Future Me shoots me a glance. What, I ask.

She smirks again, then shrugs. 

Am I going to write something new soon, I inquire.

As usual, Future Me doesn't say jack. Quickly she nods, then huffs, walking away.

I smile, thinking back to when I started The Hawk. A short story, I told myself. When I saved ALL MY NOTES FOR EVERY LAST DANG IDEA. The past, I permit, has its golden moments. But the future, I smile inwardly, holds great promise.

Grasp that with both hands folks. Somehow, some way, the future is gonna sparkle. All we need to do is breathe.