Chantal Boudreau's Blog, page 39

Solutions not Resolutions – Yikes!

Do you know what’s sad? I can watch the scariest, goriest movie without batting an eye, I can cut myself and draw significant blood (accidentally, of course) and it does not faze me in the slightest, but any open wound on my loved ones turns me into a useless ball of mush. This is something as a responsible parent you don’t want to be doing – you want to be in complete control and come to that family member’s aid in as quickly and as expeditiously a manner as possible. I do try. I have driven my boy to the hospital before, to get stitches in his chin, but I was a shaky, fumbling mess the whole time.

I pulled a tack out of my foot today without a second thought, after driving it right in to the head. There was only a little blood. I threw on some antiseptic ointment and a bandage and it was no big deal. But last night my boy got a tiny cut on his head and that meant trouble. It wasn’t serious, but because there were tears and blood that was real and not mine, there I was again…goo.

I’ve had to envision horrible scenes for my stories, I’ve seen every Saw movie there is in all its graphic detail, but I can’t seem to cure myself of an inhibition to handle any cut worse than a scratch, or any damage worse than a bruise. Fate forbid I might find myself having to deal with a broken bone someday (I just knocked on wood …or the plywood conglomerate they use in furniture that passes for wood nowadays.) So much for the tough and gritty horror writer – eh?

And the worst part is, I can’t figure out a solution for this one. The only way to desensitize myself to such things would be repetitive exposure, and I certainly wouldn’t want that. In the end I guess I’ll just have to rely on my husband’s help with these events and admit there might be some issues I’ll never be able to completely conquer.

Solutions not Resolutions – I’m Learning to Listen (Be Patient)

On one of the writer groups I belong to, someone posted a copy of a letter from an editor offering constructive criticism because he had been asked for more detail on why he had rejected a particular work. She was having difficulty interpreting his feedback and asked if others could explain it. Some people offered their suggestions of what they thought he meant while others railed against the letter, a response which in my opinion was a little reactionary, but I’m guilty of that myself at times.

The letter was from an editor, so someone involved in the industry who is probably very busy, and his feedback was quite concise and civil. Believe me, I’ve gotten both respectful constructive criticism and rude and insulting “constructive” criticism – there is a substantial difference. He never suggested her work was bad; he just explained what he was looking for but felt was lacking. He had positive things to say as well. I’ve gotten letters from editors like that before and made changes to stories as a result. I try to see past my own biases, and consider their perspective, but it’s not easy.

I told the recipient of this letter that if I were her I would take some time to absorb it and then see if it’s just a matter of a difference in stylistic preferences or if he makes a reasonable point that could be used to improve the work. Just because someone gives you feedback doesn’t mean you have to use it. I also pointed out that the editor wasn’t rude or harsh, just offering his opinion and suggestions. I’ve made a habit of reading through feedback and setting it aside to hopefully let it sink in past that first inclination to be defensive, then I reflect on it and come back to re-read it. It always makes more sense if I’ve given it a chance to ferment a little.

Accepting feedback that isn’t positive is a struggle for many writers. It’s one of those things I want to work on with regards to my own self-improvement, because I know my knee-jerk reaction is always a defensive one. I’ve never been wonderful at handling criticism. Anyone who has been bullied during their life has had to build a wall against the negative, or the bullies will tear you down. If you fight the insults and harassment internally, you learn to stubbornly resist anything negative that comes your way, to the point where it becomes a flaw – one of inflexibility. Add to that the fact that most artists of all types tend to be sensitive souls and you get a rather nasty, restrictive combination, one that can be difficult to overcome in order to make use of good advice.

I also told the letter recipient that being overly defensive or hostile in response to this kind of feedback is a way of guaranteeing you’ll never be able to improve using advice from others (she automatically assumed I was saying she was being rude and hostile, which wasn’t the case, but I think the letter had her frustrated and a little flustered and maybe I could have phrased my comments in a better way). I know from experience that it is tempting to be defensive when others offer feedback that isn’t glowing, and some people can be trollish or hypercritical when offering a critique (I honestly think you should just ignore those people), but that wasn’t the case with this letter.

Anyway, I’m bowing out of that thread now. Those who were angry and spouted insults about the editor offering feedback will probably turn their hostility on me for defending him.  I just hope the letter recipient, whether she chooses to use his feedback or not, appreciates the time he took to spell it out for her. I know I would.

Keep at it...Ahem...

Reblogged from Guild Of Dreams:

This has been a month of rejections for me, so far. Rejection is a part of trying to become a published writer, everyone knows that. Friends will try to encourage you by telling you “such-and-such was rejected X number of times before it was published.” That’s nice, but that honestly has no bearing on my success or failure. For every success story after multiple rejections you can reference, there are an equal number of people who struggled all of their lives to get some acknowledgement of their prowess...some recognition of their work...without anything significant to show for it.

Read more… 396 more words

Sharing my post from today at the Guild of Dreams blog...

Solutions not Resolutions – Tackling the Plateau

As I work on one rewrite with another small one to do and a huge editing/formatting job ahead of me, I have to wonder what else I can do to rise above my current plateau – this while trying to make up my mind what, if any, writing projects I’m going to attempt next. I’ve considered a few things that might be worth a shot. I’ve tried writing things outside my comfort zone and I could attempt to adhere strictly to the norms of a genre for a change but that just isn’t me. It kind of feels like I’d be selling my soul because I’ve made a point not to conform…I don’t even conform with the typical non-conformists. I had a management professor, one who took me aside and told me she really thought I should be majoring in management, who used to openly refer to me as her class non-conformist. I’m not eve

I could also look into studying current accepted stylistic trends, but that’s not me either. Besides, as Brendan Sanderson said during his lecture on story plotting, you can easily find two separate style manuals from two separate established writers giving completely opposite advice. He gave Stephen King and Orson Scott Card as examples. Not to mention you’ll hear popular writer folks complaining about “said-isms” on one hand and talk of editors, especially young adult ones demanding an assortment of dialogue tags as opposed to just “said.” Truth is, style preferences are very much dependent on a particular publisher/editor.

I’ve decided instead to turn to studying classic authors I love, ones who are recognized for their contributions to the literary world, and I will spend a month looking very closely at their work, stripping it down and trying to figure out what made it tick. I figure I can put in a month or two breaking things down for each one until October, when my attention will turn, of course, to Halloween. I’m going to start with Nathaniel Hawthorne, one of my favourites, and go from there – trying to pick some writers that weren’t exclusively genre writers (although I might pick a couple of my favourite ones of those as well). I have so many to choose from: Kurt Vonnegut, Stephen Crane, George Orwell, Ken Kesey, Aldous Huxley, Ray Bradbury, Theodore Sturgeon, Tanith Lee, Isaac Asimov, etc. I may not get to everyone I have in mind.

This means I’ll be spending most of the year concentrating on reading and analyzing which means I won’t be very prolific when it comes to writing. Then again, if I can’t keep improving on my writing, what’s the point, right? I want to produce both quality and quantity at some point, if I can.

Oodles of October

Overtime season has finally come to an end for me at my day job, I’m closing in on the last chapter of the first draft of Providence, and my home life is more subdued because the garden has been reaped and the kids are back at school. As much as I might wish this means things will calm down for me, I’m afraid I’m not that fortunate. October is creeping up, after all, and October is the month for horror writers, so October finds me as busy as ever. What do I have on my plate, you may ask? Well how about I share that with you:

Editing, editing, editing - My regular publisher, May December Publications, has experienced a few delays, so the edits for Transcendence I was expecting to review in September have yet to arrive. I’m anticipating they’ll come my way in October. This also means preparing my blurb, my preface and my acknowledgements, all time consuming to some degree. On top of that, Harper Voyager is opening up a brief two week window when they’ll be accepting unsolicited, unagented submissions. I have three manuscripts, Elements of Genocide, Sleep Escapes Us and Intangible, I intend on editing and submitting within that two week span (they’ve all been edited at least once or twice previously, but I’ll be polishing them up again.) By the end of those two weeks, I’ll be lucky if I have any hair left.

Anthologies a plenty – With Halloween approaching, it is prime time horror anthology release season. I know I’ve mentioned these before (in My Hurricane Season), but now I have more details. To begin with, Crooked Cat Publications is releasing their Fear charity anthology, a scary collection of tales from 60 different authors, in two volumes. My phobic tale, “Octavia,” will be appearing in volume one. You can find out more about it at their online launch party on October 3rd. Another anthology from Crowded Quarantine is scheduled for October release, Tales for the Toilet: Volume 1, a horror Johnny reader containing my short tale “And Then the Crow Said ‘Henry’”. I’m also pleased to say that my wicked tale, “Orbs” will be sharing the pages of the Mistresses of the Macabre anthology from Dark Moon Books with other frightful female writers. It had an anticipated October release, but the schedule is not firm and from what I’ve seen with small presses, expect to be flexible.

Preparations Galore – Preparations will be required for two upcoming events. The first is Hal-Con at the end of October. While I won’t be appearing as a guest this year, I will still be there - only with much more freedom to attend panels, hang out and be friendly, and come and go as I please. I’ll also have a backpack full of books and business cards with me and I’m working towards showing up in costume. I’m hoping to see some of you there. The other event is NaNo. I have a great deal of research to do on Lapp mythology, culture and language for my planned “The Trading of Skin” novel. I’ll also be doing more research into North American mythology, for a separate project. I loooove doing research, so this part of my chaos will also be my bliss.

And just a quick mention that I plan on making October a “My Favourite Monster” month for my blog. All my non-review blog postings will offer up something about some of my most-loved monsters, until I start my NaNo blog hiatus in November. I’ll be on the hunt for guest bloggers before then.

Toodles, until oodles, for now!

Battle of the Excerpts

I used to play this game with my writer friends, Ren and Justine, on a regular basis. So when my pal, Bruce, offered up an excerpt for my blog, I couldn’t resist (you can find his book blurb and bio on the Monday posting of Word Blurb). So here’s the excerpt he gave me and I’m countering with one from my latest fantasy novel, Casualties of War. Compare and contrast to your heart’s content. I know Bruce is wicked good, so I hope my excerpt can match his. Which is your favourite?

Excerpt: Blood of the King

Chapter 2 (Part 1)

A helm clattered off the wall walk, bouncing end over end down the stairs. It hit Khirro’s foot, startling him and sending a jolt of pain up his leg. When he looked to see what hit him, he recognized the dead eyes of a member of the king’s guard staring back at him from within the helm. A pained grimace twisted the face, blood dripped from severed tendons and ragged veins. Khirro recoiled, pain flashing down his spine. He kicked at the head, the sound of his armor scraping stone impossibly loud in his ears. His toe contacted the helmet painfully, sending it spinning across the landing. It trailed off blood spatters as it rolled to the edge then disappeared over the brink. Khirro breathed a sigh of relief.

“Help me.”

Khirro flinched. The king’s plea came again, a breathy whisper barely audible above the sounds of battle. Chickens ran about after their heads were removed, but nothing could speak without life remaining within. Khirro shifted painfully onto his side.

“My king,” he whispered.

Braymon lay in a tangled heap, hips wrenched farther than possible, one arm pinned beneath him, the other twisted behind. Blood streamed from his shaven head onto his cheeks and into his eyes, a mask of red through which little flesh showed. He blinked clearing his vision, a slow, lethargic movement, then directed his gaze toward Khirro. A pained smile twitched his lips; it quickly turned to a grimace.

“I thought you lost, lad.”

The blood drained from Khirro’s cheeks.

“No, your highness. I... I was knocked unconscious. I’ve only just woken to find you here beside me.” The lie tasted more bitter than the coppery tang of blood on his tongue.

Braymon coughed a fine spray of bloody spittle. Khirro knew it meant something inside him was bleeding.

“I’ve not much time. I need your help.”

“I owe you my life.”

“Then you can return the favor.”

Fear lumped into a mass at the back of Khirro’s throat. “What can I do?”

“The healer will know I’ve fallen,” Braymon said coughing again, face strained with the effort. “Take me to him.”

Relief. He didn’t ask to be avenged or dragged back to the battle to die a soldier’s death. Khirro glanced at the blood pooling beneath the king’s contorted body, flowing from some unseen spot under his plate mail, and pushed himself up to kneel beside Braymon to better assess his condition. The battle raged above but no one appeared on the stair.

“You shouldn’t be moved,” Khirro said after consideration. The way the king’s body twisted upon itself made him feel sick. “It would mean your life.”

Braymon shook his head minutely. “It matters not. I must get to the healer before the warmth has left my body or all is lost.”

“I don’t think--”

“Soldier,” Braymon said with a tone of command befitting a king. “If you do this thing, all else will be forgiven.”

Khirro gaped at the king’s words. He fought to keep tears at bay as guilt siphoned the strength from his limbs. His mouth moved trying to form the words to apologize for not rejoining the fight, to beg forgiveness, to explain, but his constricted throat choked them. Instead, he nodded.

“You’ll have to remove my armor to carry me.”

Khirro stripped the king’s armor as quickly and quietly as his hurts allowed. Each time he shifted the king, Braymon’s face contorted with deeper levels of pain, but he never cried out, and each piece of armor Khirro removed revealed more horror. The king’s blood-soaked underclothes stuck to him like a second skin; the jagged end of a bone punched through the flesh of one thigh; a loop of intestines protruded from a long cut in his abdomen. As he uncovered each injury, Khirro felt more grateful to be alive and whole and his own injuries seemed less significant. By the time he finished removing all the pieces, the king’s eyes were closed, his face taut with pain, cheeks pale. Khirro had to look closely to ensure he still drew breath.

“We’ve no time to lose.” Braymon said in a strained whisper. “Take me to the center keep.”

Khirro stood, teeth gritted against his own meager pain. He reached for Braymon but stopped, unsure how to proceed. He saw no way to pick up the injured man.

“Don’t concern yourself with my pain, it will end soon enough. Put me over your shoulder.”

A shudder wracked Khirro’s spine as he paused to look around. A few men ran about the courtyard below, but they were distant. Above, the fighting reached the top of the stairs. Two Kanosee soldiers—one wearing gray leather, the other the black breast plate splashed with red—hacked at soldiers of the king’s army who tried to keep them from the stairway. Khirro hoped they’d hold them long enough. He bent and hooked the king by the armpits, struggling to pull the dead weight from the ground. The king clenched his jaw, every muscle he could control straining to help.

Finally, the king’s limp form flopped over Khirro’s shoulder. He imagined he felt the soft flesh of his innards through his leather armor and his stomach flipped, forcing bile into his mouth. He swallowed it. The pain proved too much for the king and a cry tore from Braymon’s bloodied lips as his broken body pressed against Khirro’s shoulder.

Khirro looked back up the stairs, hoping no one heard. At first he thought the Gods with him as the fight continued, but one of the Erechanians fell and as the gray leather-clad Kanosee pulled his sword from the man, he leaned toward his companion and pointed down the stair.

A sword flashed and the man fell, but Khirro saw no more as he turned and rushed down the stairs, focusing on his feet hitting each one and not over-balancing under the king’s weight.

By the time he reached the bottom of the final flight, Khirro’s back and legs ached, his pulse beat in his temple as his breath came in ragged gasps. If he didn’t pause to catch his wind, he wouldn’t get much further. He stood at the foot of the switchback staircase, half-bent, and watched a pebble strike the ground near his foot. Khirro looked at it without understanding, his fatigued mind reeling from lack of oxygen, but realization came quickly. He twisted awkwardly, ignoring the pain in his back, to look up the stairs. Halfway down, the black and red mailed soldier hurried toward him, battle axe in hand.

Interestingly enough, and sheer coincidence because I wrote Reid into existence long before I knew Bruce, he and Reid, one of my main characters, actually share the same last name . Here’s my counter excerpt...let the battle begin!

Excerpt: Casualties of War

After what seemed like an eternity, the three travelers finally arrived in Anthis. As the wagon approached the school, Reid leaned forward in his seat. A solitary figure sat on the bench outside the front door. Reid recognized the short but muscular build as belonging to Nolan, one of his students. Gillis had labeled the young man as a lone wolf, and Reid considered it an apt description. Nolan offered no more friendly gestures than Dee, glaring with his black eyes through his unruly dark hair, which played mane to his bronze-skinned face. Reid drew the wagon up short.

“Wow, I didn’t expect you to be part of the welcome party,” Reid commented, trying to elicit a smile. The boy shrugged.

For the first time in hours, Dee spoke. “He would appear to be the entire welcome party,” she grunted.

Nolan glanced her way. He pursed his lips and jutted out his chin in an open sign of aggression. Typical, thought Reid. Nolan preferred to put on a tough guy show. Reid was not sure if the boy did it out of insecurity because of his small stature, or if there were underlying stresses which Nolan kept to himself. The fact was that the young man did seem to bear a chip on his shoulder. Nolan gave Dee one last cold stare then turned to speak to Reid.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. It’s dangerous. I’d rather be in my mouse-hole of a room right now as opposed to out here exposed to the elements, but a cold’s nothing compared to what I could catch in there.”

It was Reid’s turn to frown.

“What are you talking about?” Reid climbed down from the driver seat and approached the surly student. “Where is everybody, Nolan?”

Nolan crossed his arms and eyed Reid with contempt.

“If you want to know so bad, go in and see for yourself.”

Without even considering the newcomer now perched on the edge of the wagon, Reid hurried over to the door. He opened it only to find Clayton, Gillis’s brother, standing on the other side. The lanky youth looked tired, and more nerve-ridden than normal, if that were possible. What disturbed Reid more than Clayton’s anxiety and obvious fatigue was the absolute expression of horror captured in the boy’s face.

“What is it, Clay?” Reid demanded. “Where’s Gillis?”

Clayton struggled to speak, glancing out past Reid at Nolan. Abandoning his attempts to explain, he resigned himself to silence and gestured for Reid to follow.

When they entered the space that had been designated the Common Room, Reid could no longer deny that something was drastically wrong. Several of the students were there, looking severely lethargic and drawn in the face. The more shocking sight, however, was Gillis. He lay sprawled in a settee when they came in, but struggled weakly to his feet when he realized exactly who it was who had arrived. His skin was grey in color and his cheeks sunken in. He wavered where he stood, having barely managed to muster enough strength to stand in the first place.

“Tell me I’m not hallucinating, Reid,” he breathed. “You’ve been here three times already, that I can remember...I’m sorry –so sorry.”

Reid remained frozen in place, trying to grasp what exactly was going on. Finally, he faced Gillis, who was now leaning on the settee for support.

“It’s the magic plague, isn’t it?” Reid stared at his partner, his eyes filled with dread. “How?” He sat back in one of the chairs, crumpling as though he had been kicked squarely in the groin.

Gillis shook his head. “I don’t know, but it’s worse than you might think. Nattie, she’s dead, Reid. She wasn’t in the best health to begin with. She only made it three days. I don’t know how long the rest of us have either.” As he spoke, he gestured towards the sickly students huddled about the room. He sat down quickly to avoid falling over.

Reid sat near catatonic in his chair, overwhelmed by the situation. His dream had been blossoming, growing. There was still a great deal of work that had been ahead of him, and he had known that there would be challenges, but he had never expected anything like this. It was like a giant foot had come out of nowhere, treading down with great force and crushing everything he had managed to build.

“What are we going to do?” Reid murmured. His head was spinning.

Gillis slumped back in the settee, his expression grim.

“You have to go to the University, Reid. They have the cure. You have to get them to sell it to you, or trade it to you, or something...and you have to get enough for all of us. If any of these students die, we’re done for. Please, even if you can’t get enough for me, you have to get some for Clayton. I promised our parents I’d take care of him. Instead, he has been taking care of me. He may not be showing any of the symptoms of the plague, but he has been exposed.”

“The University! They won’t give me anything. Do you know how happy they will be to see us out of business? What are a few fatalities for the sake of eliminating the competition?” Reid’s shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes, wishing he could make all of this disappear.

So there you have it! Two dark excepts from two different fantasy tales. Bruce’s book is coming soon, and if you liked the excerpt from Casualties of War, you can find it here:

http://www.amazon.com/Casualties-War-...

Let us know what you think – writers are suckers for feedback.

Bending Bad

Okay, I admit it...I’m totally addicted to the show Breaking Bad. Truth is, I have a fascination with good guys who, as a result of extreme duress, do things that would have been otherwise unthinkable to them under normal circumstances. I also find myself revisiting the notion of bad guys, be they bullies, thieves or even murderers, proving to be not so bad after all, maybe even doing something altruistic or heroic despite a shady and/or despicable past. People rarely land on one end of the ethical/moral spectrum or the other. The good guy may have at one point cheated on a test, or fudged his taxes. He may be willing to lie or get violent for the right reasons. Just because he or she usually is well-behaved, doesn’t mean they always were, or always will be.

Bad guys can be equally gray. I’m reminded of an episode of Legend of the Seeker where Richard, in disguise, accompanies one of the enemy home to his family. The man, it turns out, is not evil to the core. He does things he doesn’t like doing for the sake of his job, his sense of duty and his need to provide for his family proving to be stronger than his sense of right and wrong. But he does have a family, and he loves that family. After seeing the soldier interact with his wife and children, Richard finds himself struggling with the fact that he then has to betray the man.

Furthermore, there is something essentially rewarding about a villain who has chosen to cast off bad for the sake of redemption. It suggests that all is not lost for those who have strayed from the proper path. Maybe they had been tainted by bad influences, but are willing to change once they realize the error of their ways. Maybe they were misunderstood, choosing an inappropriate way to express fear, pain or insecurities, and are uncovering a better way to cope. Granted, those characters usually end up dead, as other people are not likely to accept their new outlook on life and once the character has achieved redemption, there is no place left for them in the story. On the other hand, sometimes they manage to carve a new place for themselves despite the distrust and displeasure of others.

One of the most difficult bad-good characters I’ve ever tackled has been the character of Royce in my Fervor series. I’m working on the fourth book in the series, Providence, right now, and he is proving as trying as ever. He started off a bully in Fervor, gradually cast off by those who were supposed to be working with him, and after sinking as low as he thought possible, he set aside his pride and begged them for help. When he seemed to be mellowing and turning a new leaf, he reacted to a stressful situation with a shocking act of violence, destroying most of the new-found trust he had established. Eventually, he does end up an ally to the heroes of the series, after suffering for past wrong-doings as well as breaking a little in response to a cruel twist of fate, but their alliance remains a tenuous one. While he behaves heroically and has the odd occasion of self-sacrifice, he remains brash, impulsive and bitter. He exists as a constant dichotomy: both a bad guy you love to hate and a good guy you hate to love (but still do) at the same time.

As challenging as this type of character can be, having to weigh the rare good deed with reminders of the bad things he has done and still thinks about doing, they also add the most excitement to the writing experience for me. While other characters are more predictable, Royce will turn on a dime, shielding his cohorts from harm one moment and taunting or bad-mouthing them the next. With him, the negative aspect of his personality extends beyond just a response to environment, and is inherent to his genetic make-up. This means he’ll never completely change, nor will the others completely understand him.

While some good characters might “break bad” and some bad characters might have an instance of enlightenment and transformation, Royce has evolved to be bent both ways – and to me...that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I only hope he never bends so far that he actually does break.

My Hurricane Season

Every year when we start to hear hurricane warnings, like the current one for Hurricane Leslie, I’m reminded of where I was when we first got word that Hurricane Juan was on its way. I was at Word on the Street, but only there to buy books that year. I had a completed manuscript, very rough, for Magic University at the time, but the concept of being published seemed well beyond my reach. I was of the opinion that someday, when I had retired from my day job, I would start putting in the effort to make my dreams of being a published author happen.

I guess I wasn’t prepared to wait, and now I can proudly say that in addition to having four of my novels published, I have even had some of my short stories included in anthologies alongside writers I greatly admire.

But the weather isn’t the only type of hurricane I seem to face this time of year. My life becomes a tempestuous mess from the end of August to the end of November every year. Part of it is my day-job work schedule. Overtime this time of year is unavoidable, my work weeks often running into six days with some extended into evenings. My kids go back to school, which involves preparation and adapting to new teachers and agendas. My daughter’s birthday is in September, which demands more of my time. And I spend September and October revving up for NaNoWriMo in November. But that’s not all...

This year, it seems that after a brief dry run, I have a deluge of my writing work being released in the September to November stretch. I addition to that, my first self-pubbing efforts have finally culminated in a finished product. The first in my Snowy Barrens Trilogy will be hitting the market in e-book form shortly, with the print version soon to follow. My novel, Transcendence, is scheduled for a September release and I’m slaving away over illustrations while waiting on edits. I’m also working on the fourth novel, Providence, whenever I can squeeze in a few words. October is even crazier, with the release of my short story collection from May December Publications, the Fear anthology with my short story “Octavia” from Crooked Cat, the Mistresses of Macabre anthology containing my short “Orbs” from Dark Moon Books and Tales for the Toilet featuring my short “And then the Crow Said Henry...” from Crowded Quarantine. Then in November, the third in my Masters & Renegades series, Prisoners of Fate, is slated for release.

And I’m expected to help promote all of this – writer interviews, teaser tales, guest posts, and much more. I’m lucky I don’t need much sleep or I’d probably have an anxiety attack at the thought of all this work. The storm is on and I’m hanging on for dear life, hoping I won’t be blown away.

It turns out, I’m actually thankful that the invitation to return to Hal-con as a guest this year proved to be a dud (either the result of poor communication or the result of being bumped by higher status guests, your guess is as good as mine.) If I had to prep for a convention stint on top of everything else, I think I’d be rocking and gibbering in the corner, pulling out my hair. As is, I will be headed to the con for a day, to hand out business cards and network a little.

For now, I plan to weather these storms the best I can...and if Leslie shows her face in Nova Scotia, I’ll do my best to tackle her too. Such is my hurricane season.

What I Did on my Summer Vacation

I wish I could tell you that I spent my summer breezing around Europe, or at least making a short journey to France (like I did a few years ago – see the lovely pictures) but the fact is my life is a little complicated at the moment, and time and money wouldn't allow for it. My writing and publishing efforts are only a small part of it. Family obligations are another, but the big thing this summer was having to pay for a new heating system. We chose to invest in a cost efficient combo oil and wood burning furnace, but it came with a higher upfront price and it required some renovations.

Now, I like to say that I can write anytime/anywhere, but that only holds true when I'm away from home with my music cranked so I can ignore the people around me, or when I'm home with my usual chaos. It turns out, when I have friendly invaders working on my home, getting in the "zone" is nigh impossible. I tinkered with a couple of short stories, mainly experiments outside of my regular genre and comfort zone, but made very little progress on my current novel. I'm hoping it's just a temporary thing and that I'll get back on track once the wonderful workmen are gone. If not, I'll be struggling to get this one, Providence, in the bag before I embark on my latest NaNoWriMo attempt, and I'm still undecided as to which of my projects I'll tackle for that. Right now it's a toss-up between Wearers of Skin, another myth-based dark fantasy/horror, or a myth-based straight fantasy called Akin to the Wind. I just can't decide.

With my writing suffering, I've been focussed a little more on family activities, like going to the beach, and mundane things like cleaning the basement and walking the dog. Maybe this is a sign that I need a vacation from writing as much as I need one from my accounting work. When you find yourself working the equivalent of two full-time jobs, no matter how much you love them, eventually you're going to need to recharge.

So that's where I am right now, refuelling before NaNo and not one but four books scheduled for release over the next few months (three novels. and one story collection). I've been submitting like a mad woman, and I've gotten a few acceptances and a few rejections back so far. But I'm losing steam on that too, and I think I should spend the next week of my vacation just not even thinking about stories or books. Maybe I can "cleanse" my system and start fresh at the end of the month.

And as far as my lack of travelling this vacation?...Well, there's always reading stories written by somebody else or just daydreaming of France on the beach ---maybe in five year's time I'll get back there when the debt for the furnace is paid off.

Experimenting

I’ve always believed that as a writer, it is important for me to push myself and stretch my boundaries. That means writing things outside of my usual genres and my comfort zone. My latest experiment was a bit of a failure and I have to admit, try as I might, science fiction is not my thing. Nevertheless, several of my test-readers did enjoy my latest flash fiction piece that got a thumbs down from both one of my regulars and the publisher for whom I wrote it. It isn’t really something I’d consider submitting elsewhere, so I thought it would make a good blog post. Have a read, and feel free to comment...

Turbulence

“Entering orbit, Captain.”

Captain Virginia Bendall reclined slightly and glanced out the window. This was only the third time she had ever visited New-Terra V, but the same could not be said for Chief Pilot Roberta Hadley, who had been born and raised on the planet. Hadley had learned how to pilot a small ship on New-Terra V as well, training to fly transport vessels in its particularly tricky convective weather patterns.

“Must be nice to be back in your home terrain, Chief Pilot,” Bendall said.

“Certainly, Captain.” Hadley grinned. “Familiar territory is always a treat.” Captain Bendall thought she sensed a hint of a laugh in the younger woman’s response – somewhat surprising coming from someone as straight-laced as Chief Pilot Hadley. Hadley was normally about as rigid as they made them. She even made her rather stiff captain look somewhat relaxed. “Descending into atmosphere, then we’ll be proceeding to the landing base at Ferrell.”

Because of the unusual weather patterns on the planet, it was far too risky to descend directly to Ferrell in the transporter, but the city was the only location on planet that could properly accommodate a space marine freighter crew on shore leave. Bendall had promised her crew a break after their last serious skirmish with their enemies, the kulpreets ,where they had had twenty percent casualties and five percent fatalities, heavy losses for a freighter. New-Terra V was their first opportunity for that break.

“I’m just glad we finally made it, Chief Pilot. Everyone here’s wound so tight somebody’s liable to snap. We all need a chance to loosen up a little. Since this is your home turf, the helm is yours. Take us in to Ferrell.”

Bendall was expecting Hadley to head southeast on the Delta Plains and circle around to Ferrell from there. It was the customary ride, long but smooth and easy, with nothing to look at along the trip other than fields and more fields of grain. But instead, after muttering “Loosen up, eh,” with a mischievous smile, the Chief Pilot swung a hard left towards the mountainous terrain to the southwest. It definitely was not the standard route to Ferrell.

“I don’t think I know this route,” Bendall remarked, gripping her seat tightly in response to the sudden change of direction. “Is it a short cut...a scenic route?”

Hadley answered only with a wicked little laugh and more acceleration.
The landing transporter swooped and dipped around rocky outcrops and spindly mesas, a couple of close calls giving Bendall a jolt of adrenaline. Then, as they reached a point just past a stretch of mountain range, the vessel dropped very suddenly, leaving Bendall’s heart in her throat. The transporter began to jostle and shake, a response to the powerful air currents whipping past them.

“Strong winds here,” the captain commented. “What are those?” She gestured toward a collection of lens-shaped clouds.

“Lenticular clouds,” Hadley replied. “We’re heading into the wave. Hang on tight!”

Bendall was about to ask why, but did not get the chance. The transporter began to shimmy so hard she thought it was going to shake the teeth right out of her mouth. She clamped onto her vibrating chair with such force she wouldn’t have been surprised if her fingernails had left grooves in the metal there. She expected to see Hadley do the same, but instead the chief pilot appeared to be taking in the full experience of the ride, tossing her hair and making quiet sounds of surprise.

The captain held her breath and clenched her jaw together, closing her eyes until the worst was over. She could hear Hadley panting and squirming in her seat, no doubt finding the ride equally disturbing as she did. When the shuddering of their ship finally stopped, Captain Bendall opened her eyes again. She was sure now that she had never flown this trajectory to Ferrell. A ride like that she absolutely would have remembered.

“Wow,” she exclaimed, still mostly breathless, as they arrived sooner than expected at Ferrell. Her extremities were numb from the vibrations and her knuckles still white with tension. She hadn’t exactly appreciated this short cut. “I’m sure of it. I’ve definitely never come this way before.”

Chief Pilot Hadley glanced back at her with eyes gleaming and cheeks flushed, her expression filled with delight. There appeared to be something of a glow to her. She slumped back in her seat with a satisfied sigh.

“I know,” she said. “It’s the turbulence...”