Nothing – or something?

I’ve got nothing.

For the last few weeks, every time I sit down to write a post, my mind goes blank. As white as the screen at which I’m staring.

For the last few weeks, every time I sit down to work on revisions, my mind goes blank. As white as the pages I’d hoped to fill.

I’ve got nothing.

When my husband asks what I’m thinking, I say, “Nothing.”

And it’s true.

I’ve got nothing.

I sit and stare into space as seconds become minutes become hours become days. Not a thought flickers in my mind as I watch dust bunnies frolic in the sun streaming through my window. Everything I want to say, all the stories I want to tell, all the characters I want to bring to life – they yell and scream and clamor for attention, but all I hear is the dull insect drone of a thousand voices talking at once, and even that finally fades away into silence.

And I’ve got nothing.

I’ve got nothing but hopes and dreams and an ever-growing to-do list. I’ve got nothing but a sense of time wasted and a never-ending headache from all the things I’ve left undone. I’ve got nothing but apologies for my family and my readers and my friends.

I want to have it all.

But instead, I’ve got nothing.

Something tells me I will never have it all, despite what I see on TV every day. Something tells me it’s not possible to have it all, despite what I see on TV every day. Something tells me I’ll stop wanting to have it all, because of what I see on TV every day.

So instead, I’ll focus on having something instead of nothing. Because what I’ve got is plenty. And this zombie state will pass. Eventually.

Right?

Right.

But until it does, the posts here may be few and far between. Don’t worry, though – I’ll be back soon. I love blogging too much to let this place go quietly into the dark of night, especially when the light of day is so warm and inviting. 🙂

In the meantime, how have you been lately? Tell me about everything going on with you – I may not have much to say, but I’ve got plenty of time for listening!

(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

Reaping time!

Reaping-Angel-Book-Blitz

No, I’m not in danger of participating in the next Hunger Games. 😀

If I haven’t mentioned it lately, I love being part of the writing community. I met S.L. Saboviec thanks to the fabulous Michelle Hauck and one of her awesome critique workshops, and am seriously glad to have her as a critique partner. The good she has done for my writing is immeasurable. So naturally, I am super excited to announce that Reaping Angel, the newest book in her Fallen Redemption series, releases today!

Reaping Angel is the sequel to Guarding Angel, which received an honorable mention in the 23rd Annual Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards: “…A fascinating story of a particularly loving guardian angel. Overall, the writing is emotionally grounded, character-focused, and technically superior…”

Enael starts picking up the pieces of her decisions from the first book and comes face-to-face with her nemesis from centuries ago. If you enjoy fantasy or paranormal, this series is not to be missed!

GARA Covers

About the book

After the battle at the Bastille, the Council of Seraphim offers reluctant demons Enael and Kaspen a chance to return to Heaven – but only after they’ve completed sufficient penance. Ready to move past the ugly chapter in their lives, they settle into their new assignments.

Until Enael’s former lover…

Tomb-yard Follies, a review

tyfSo my reading has been a little slow of late. Between sick kids and school events, revisions and renovations, it’s been a little hectic around these parts. But over the weekend, I managed to carve out enough time to read Tomb-yard Folliesthe latest in Jim Webster’s Port Naain Intelligencer series, and these be my thoughts.

To begin with, I thought it was great fun. The beginning, in particular, had me intrigued. After all, nothing breeds potential conflict quite like a mysterious group of people in robes ambling through an orgy.

😀 😀 😀 😀 😀

Getting back to the point, this was a bit different from the last two in that Tallis and Shena appeared less than they did in previous stories, but it was interesting to get more of a feel for Benor. I’d have liked a bit more in the way of explanation about Tizah, but perhaps the enigma that is Tizah will be further expounded upon in later stories?

Please? *looks hopeful*

Anyway, this was a lovely way to dispose of an afternoon, and I can’t wait to see what Mr. Webster comes up with next.

To get your copy of Tomb-yard Follies, head on over to Amazon or Amazon UK!

(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

Bliss

My bliss lies in writing. I love it – I can’t get enough of it.

So many irons in the fire...

So many irons in the fire…

No, really. When I haven’t written in a while, I start getting really cranky. Ask my family.

Of course, that also extends to times where I’m not writing as much as I’d like, or times where extracting the story from my brain is like extracting a particularly difficult wisdom tooth, or times where editing is kicking my butt six ways from Sunday…

Still, writing (and editing, I suppose) is my bliss. What’s yours?

(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

Street

When I saw this prompt, I knew exactly which picture to share:

wlcsp

It may not be new, but it’s one of my absolute favorite pictures. I shot this on our family vacation last summer. It took us fourteen hours to get to the Black Hills, and there were plenty of streets and roads along the way. Roads crammed with cars eager to leave the city behind, streets full of pedestrians out enjoying the summer sun.

But this one?

This one captured my imagination from the moment I laid eyes on it. I love images like this, where man’s influence is minimal at best. Where the only evidence another person has ever trekked across these hills is a lonely road and a dream. Places like this seem to be growing fewer and farther between.

Sure, this photo isn’t perfect. It’s a little pixellated because I had to zoom in from across the road to get the image I wanted. It was the middle of the afternoon when I took this picture, and we were all exhausted after driving all day the day before. It was quiet in the car; the kids were too busy pressing their noses to the windows to bicker. But that only lasted while we were in motion – once we stopped, all bets were off. If I’d had more time, I could have crossed the road, but that wasn’t an option. This photograph is like us – imperfect, but beautiful. Despite its – our – flaws.

Because of them, even.

Every time I look at this picture, I feel peaceful. The storm has not yet broken, and the road calls to me, its twists and turns promising adventure just beyond that hill. All I have to do is put one foot in front of the other. As in pictures, so it is in life.

Sometimes all you have to do is just keep swimming/walking/writing/photographing.

(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

Home

egghunters

That’s me on the bottom right. Thank goodness high-water pants haven’t made a comeback.

Home is where your story begins.

My story began in a modest red house on a quiet corner in a small town. But nothing stays the same for long, and when my little sister arrived a couple years later, that quiet corner became considerably less quiet.

And so it goes.

Many years (and even more plot twists) later, I left that modest red house with its white garage and its yard full of trees behind me as I ventured out into the world. Eventually, I decided that I wanted to go back to that little red house on the corner, but it was too late. I was too grown up.

IMG_20130813_112118

Maybe you can’t go home again, but you can always take it with you.

You can’t go home again.

So I made my own home. Several times over, in fact. And while I think it’s true that you can’t go home again, that’s only because I believe that home is something we carry with us wherever we go. Home is in our memories. Home is in the way we look at the world. Home is the way we treat others.

Home is a state of mind, a way of being, a feeling that can’t be taken away.

When I think of home, I think of the warmth of my grandma’s kitchen. I think of the hustle and bustle that went into family get-togethers. I remember the after-dinner tea and cookies, and how all of those things came together the morning after my second wedding as we all congregated in the kitchen of my new home.

Home is family. Home is friends.

Tadpole and Bubbles like to get up to all sorts of shenanigans.

Tadpole and Bubbles like to get up to all sorts of shenanigans.

Home is where your heart is.

It may be a sappy cliché, but that’s only because it’s true. Home is where your heart is because, without heart, there can be no home.

(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

Throwback Thursday

I’m doing something new today and participating in a Throwback Thursday event. I’ve been working on an old short story the last couple days, and while I’ve wanted to blog about it, I…haven’t. Not yet.

This seemed like the perfect opportunity to share the story again. 🙂

Ideally, I could finish this story in the next month (or maybe two). But since I ended in the middle of a scene and have no idea where I was going with it, I suspect it may take longer than that to finish. Thank goodness I made lots of notes when I started out, or I’d be totally up a creek right now.

I have my work cut out for me as it is.

If you’d like to check out some of the other things people are sharing, head on over to Part-Time Monster, Adventures of a Jayhawk Mommy, and The Qwiet Muse. I can’t wait to check out everything else later on tonight! 🙂

(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

Literally critical, part two

If you missed the first part of this story, look no further! You can find part one of Literally Critical right here. And now, to pick up where we left off…

The problem we faced producing both the ‘Port Naain Re-evaluation of Literature’ and the ‘Port Naain Guide to Literary Merit’ was not the workload. The real problem was the need for anonymity. Had we been able to credit the authors of the copy then we could doubtless have hired plenty of contributors. In fact, the act of merely offering money would mean that we would have been forced to beat writers off with a stick. On the other hand, had the Port Naain literary world known who was writing the content for these two publications; it would most likely have been we who were beaten with sticks.

The anonymity did lead to problems for some. I had to do a review of an event Lancet Foredeck had featured heavily in. Now I will admit that I have never let my long association blind me to the flaws in Lancet’s work. Installation poetry has always struck me as somewhat overblown, after all what poet worth their salt cannot spontaneously knock off a few stanzas or even just a rhyme or two when the situation calls for it.

But still, Lancet is a better than middling painter, a perfectly competent teller of tales to large groups of young children whom he can hold spellbound, and to be fair, he’s not a bad poet. But at the event I attended, he surpassed himself. He launched into a mixture of pre-rehearsed and spontaneous work which was breathtaking in its comprehension and range. As he finally sank down into his seat the entire audience stood to applaud him. Even those who were merely present to drink at the bar rose to applaud him. Indeed the barman brought him a tankard of the bar’s best ale to quench his thirst without even being asked or staying for the money. On that day, in that place…

Literally critical!

Tomorrow, another one of poet Tallis Steelyard’s intriguing adventures will hit the virtual shelves. In honor of the event, here he is to talk about the life of a literary critic:

It is true that looking back I have had an interesting career. Indeed there is much I have achieved that I can look back upon with a sense of modest pride. There are very few incidents I feel disinclined to recall to mind and few about which I feel any real shame. But because I feel a duty to a younger generation of poets and other writers, I believe it behoves me to set aside my regrets, my mortification, and tell the plain unvarnished story. You see, I too have dabbled in literary criticism; I have dipped my pen in its unhallowed waters.

Now I don’t want anyone to assume that I did this because I was pandering to some unfathomable malevolence within my nature. No I did it for the most honourable of all reasons; we needed the money.

On reflection, one sees that within the life of even a great artist there are times which appear designed purely to test your mettle. This was one. Shena had not been well, she had caught something she just couldn’t seem to shake off, and she spent much of the winter confined to the barge. This meant that our income dropped considerably, we were faced with having to heat the barge during the day, and what reserves we had were waning rapidly. I had attempted to take her place dealing with the shore combers, but frankly I never made a tenth of what Shena did, and what I did make was purely because some of their number took pity on me and shared my desire to see her fit and well and back at work.

Then Silac Glicken approached me.

Where my heart will take me

IMG_20140416_183356Don’t stop believin’.
Let it go.
Be true to your heart.
Keep on movin’.
I’m goin’ where my heart will take me.

What do these five things have in common, aside from being fantastic songs? They’re words that I find inspiring. But more than that, they’re words I hope to live by in 2016.

Two more days. In two more days, I’ll be 32. While I officially surpassed my mother’s age back in August, it’s really just hitting me now, as I approach the first birthday she never reached. Perhaps this all seems a bit self-indulgent, but for some reason, I’ve always thought I would leave the world like she did – young, and with things left to do. There was – is – so much I want to accomplish before I die, and I had no idea…