Netbound Publishing, Who?

 

For those not in the know, let me present a few words stolen (umm … procured) from their website, which can be found at http/netboundpublishing.com/Home_Page.html if you are so inclined to check them out. And really, why wouldn’t anyone check out this fast-growing publisher dedicated to the fabulous new and established Indie writers willing to take a different route in the publishing world?

Created by Mikel Classen and Mary Underwood, Netbound Publishing cuts a large swath through the publishing hinterland to deliver several new books which should be on your reading list for the next year. But first, let’s find out what exactly Netbound Publishing and Books believes (ahem, here comes the procured part):

This is a company that is developed for writers by writers. The concept is to not only publish quality books, but to also put quality writers in front of the public and help them become successful.

We Believe:

That writing pulp fiction is not a crime! (But it is often about crime)

Genre fiction can be artistic and literary. (Though I don’t know who’d want it to be wordy and boring)

Young Adults have a right to vampires that don’t sparkle. (And we have a duty to give it to them.)

Romance can and should include a body count. (A strong emotional tie to firearms or explosives counts as romance.)

A western can be set in outer space. (with Nazis)

It’s okay to shoot the piano player. (twice, he sucked)

We have a plan for the zombie apocalypse. (We know you do too)

In Werewolves!

Mary L. Underwood – Editor, Publisher – http://munderwood@lighthouse.net

Mikel B. Classen – Editor, Publisher – http://mclassen@lighthouse.net

Melissa Stevens – Graphics Art – http://TheIllustratedAuthor@gmail.com.

Linda Lovecraft – Copy Editor

Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan USA

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 New Releases

 

 

 

 

 

 

We’ve gathered together the best in independent horror authors to create a fresh and exciting anthology that will leave you wanting to howl at the moon. Your screams will fill the night as you read from one story to the next, each more terrifying than the last, as Werewolves feast on your nerves.

Netbound Publishing is pleased to announce what will be the first in a series of horror collections that will become an integral part of their “Night Terrors” imprint to be available to the book store market beginning in the spring of 2011. They will also be purchasable through Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kindle and Nook.

Teeth, fangs and claws, rent flesh, and howls in the night send fear as the creatures that were once men bring terror and death to those they encounter. Werewolves, vicious demons of the night, hunt for prey as their hell curse drives them to a destiny undreamed by them as men.

 

 

 

I Believe In Werewolves

Horror Anthology

 

Cover art by Melissa Stevens

Melissa now has a page on Smashwords. Her writing is as finely crafted as her graphics. Two of her stories, “The Seventh Son” and “Reunion” will appear in the anthology. http/www.smashwords.com/profile/view/melstevens

 

Featuring:

Afternoon Tea by Jennifer Tucker, Winter Moon by John Irvine, Justice Comes With The Moon by Jeremiah Coe, The Hunger Within by Elizabeth Kolodziej, Werewolves Of Mauvin by Robert A. Read, The Reunion by Melissa Stevens, No Poaching Allowed by Rob M. Miller, Lily’s Angel by Shawn Pfister, The Lycaning by Lori R. Lopez, Parenting – Not For The Faint Of Heart by Scott M. Goriscak, Lakota Justice by Blaze McRob, For The Good Of The Fatherland by Mary L. Underwood, Queen Of The Dogs by Lee Pletzers, Once Bitten – Not So Shy by Sirrah Medeiros, Lie Canthropy by Jerry McKinney, The Seventh Son by Melissa Stevens, Mouretta by Linda Lovecraft, Solitary by Michael Bertolini, Wolf Killer by Mikel B. Classen, The Investigation by Jennifer Tucker

Don’t miss this must have collection of stories releasing in May.

Also, be sure not to miss the “Upcoming Projects” tab on the site. Click and find out not only what books are slotted for release, but what new submissions Netbound is craving to receive.

Whether you are a writer or a reader it is worth taking time to peruse the Netbound site. You might just miss out on the next great writer and read and you will be the last to know.

You have been warned. Now, what are you waiting for? Scurry to the site and check them out. Tell them I sent you. You probably won’t get a discount, but you will like saying my name … right?

Ta and peace,

E. A. Irwin ~ Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Come Monday at High Noon

 

Hello Everyone;

Since I last wrote here, much time has passed. Some days and months passed quickly while parts of time slowed to imperceptible increments with almost no measure.

As many of you know I’ve not been well, battling several things happening in my body I am unable to control. Well, really, I can’t control anything so why pretend I can?

Looking back, there were many times I wanted to write and explain my circumstances, yet between extreme exhaustion and not wanting to bore anyone with my illness, retreated from much of life and most of my friends. For that I am sorry … the friends part that is. Life continues at its own speed despite me participating.

When last I wrote, I was waiting for news of cancer in my thyroid. After waiting months for appointments, tests, results, the surgeon presented me with lots of information, most of which he almost resented communicating. He was an absolute jerk. From the first word out of his mouth he was combative, and since I’d been through so many doctors and test outcomes I decided I’d just confront everything he said to me, much of which was inappropriate on his part. I left with the knowledge I probably didn’t have cancer of the thyroid (after him telling me if I were to get cancer thyroid cancer would be the best to have since it was extremely treatable.) Good to know if I had the ability to control which cancer invaded my body.

After an hour with him, untold rude remarks, him leaving the room and me trailing after him to ask if we were done, he asked me when he should set the surgery date. Umm … what planet did he hail from that made him believe I was hip to him slicing and dicing my throat and trying to save my voice? I told him I’d let him know and never looked back. So at this point I probably don’t have cancer but will ultimately find out when my thyroid is removed and the biopsy is sent to pathology.

As I sit and write I am concentrating on not dwelling on the surgery which happens at high noon Monday the 14th. For the several year’s journey to get to this point I can only pack my bag for the overnight stay and pray for the doctor’s abilities and God’s guidance in his life. By the way, this surgeon is a wonderful man of faith, and has answered all my questions with great patience and given me hope at a time when most of my health and hope have evaporated. His parting words to me when I left his office this week were, “We’re going to take good care of you. I’m going to do everything I can to save your voice. This is the first step on a long road to get you back to good health.”

Speaking of the voice, that really is a major concern. This surgeon confirmed what every doctor has told me. We talked a lot about that concern as he explained how the vocal nerve lies alongside the thyroid and it just depends if the nerve is clear or wrapped around other nerves and blood vessels. I may have a voice, it may sound totally different, it’s a good chance I won’t be able to sing or if I can my range will be limited. Or if I’m in the unlucky 1 to 2 percent my voice will no longer exist. But he assured me someone would be there to work with me to get even a small sound back. I have to leave the fear there because fear is a demon which steals everything good in our lives.

The surgery was supposed to happen a few months ago, but like everything in my life, oddity happened. I was on the way to work and was in a rear end fender bender. No real significant damage to the car, or seemingly to me. Suffice it to say the 18 year old without his license or insurance wasn’t happy when I finally called the police after him begging for me not to. Such is life.

The headache continued for three days before I said uncle and went to see a doctor. The diagnosis of a concussion wasn’t surprising, but that I walked around and tried going to work a little confusing to me why I tried to be Superwoman. Pain pills didn’t work, nothing worked to take away the pain. A C.A.T. scan was performed. The results looked weird and I was sent to a neurologist on a search and find mission. The neurologist, an absolutely fabulous woman, gave me a thorough exam and explained I passed with flying colors … oh but there were questionable things on the scan so I needed an M.R.I. just to make sure I could go into surgery. Yeah, me too doc, I don’t want to die on the table because my brain isn’t working.

Had the M.R.I. and went back to the neurologist. Apparently the test showed the same problems and she didn’t know why. A grey area in my brain that was patchy. I looked at the pictures as she explained the scan. When I asked her if I should be drooling, she looked at me and told me I shouldn’t be functioning. Okay, that was unexpected. But she said obviously you are highly functioning and I’ve only seen this in one other case so it looks like that’s how your brain is formed. Sounded like a weather report to me – grey and patchy with a chance of drooling. I don’t mean to make light of brain issues because they aren’t a laughing matter. The concern on her face was real, the pain in my head real, the worse news to follow. She pulled up the next set of pictures, the ones after the grey patch which the radiologist didn’t like. She asked if I’d ever had strokes. I said no, why? Apparently there were too many white spots all over my brain which shouldn’t be in someone my age. Holes in my brain. Scarring with no apparent reason. So many questions, so few answers. Did I suffer from migraines? You betcha, since I was ten. She seemed to think this is what had killed the small blood vessels in my brain and scarred the tissue. Brains don’t grow back, hence the egg in the hot pan announcing this is your brain on drugs. But new neural pathways can form.

With a new prescription and an order for more tests to determine blood clotting factors (since we wanted to keep me alive on that operating table) I left her office after receiving two large shots in the back of my head (occipital lobes) to deaden some of the screaming pain. The tests came back marginally well, new tests for RA and Lupus, plus a C.T. angiogram of my brain however prolonged the surgery. The lupus test came back positive, I went to a rheumatologist who stated I probably didn’t have lupus but the thyroid was acting so odd with my diagnosis of hyperthyroid (I’ve had all the symptoms of hyperthyroid and hypothyroid) that he felt that was the auto-immune disease I was fighting. The angiogram was a test I really don’t want to retake if I can help it and I feel for people dealing with cancer or undergoing treatment where they inject heated things into your veins. I kept singing ‘You light up my brain’ as I entered the lab. The I.V. was hooked up and the test begun. About ten minutes into the test, the tech grabbed my head from behind and said not to move, he was administering the iodine dye.

The dye makes you suddenly hot with the sensation of wetting your pants while the scan spins around you. I’ve never quite experienced a test like that except one where an isotope was injected into my arm and the tech had six minutes to make sure the crap traveled the right way through my veins. This fiery brain concoction hit my head like a hot hammer and spread across my lungs and to my heart with rapid pulsing. For a few minutes I merely gasped while trying to get cool. Then ten minutes later the test was over and I was weaving down the hall in a stupor. My neurologist called yesterday and gave me the good news that she couldn’t find any misaligned blood vessels or blood flow around my brain and I could have the surgery Monday. Next month I go back for a check-up with her since the headaches haven’t really gone away. If they can’t figure out what’s going on new tests might happen, like a spinal tap to determine MS or something else. But at least I’m cleared for surgery and with a sense of relief that my brain isn’t going to explode while on the table.

I will be happy to finally have the surgery and hopefully get off some of the medication I’m taking. Between the extreme exhaustion of the thyroid disease, all the prescriptions to regulate my blood pressure, speeding heart, deep depression, and brain pain has left me dragging to the point where some days I get up and go back to bed after only about five hours. But I’m hanging in there.

Needless to say all this has affected my writing. I thought (so foolishly) that after the debacle of the Riley series publisher taking a hike, I would blow the new novel out of my head in a few months. I think most of the ideas got blown out another area of my body. Well I’ve been floundering for almost six months with only about 17K written to show my lackluster effort. Hopefully having surgery will allow me to put things behind me a bit more and on to the next chapter in my life as well as Riley’s life.

On a happy news front, I have submitted “Kingdom in a Glass” and it will be published in the premier issue of the Mind’s Eye Magazine in January 2010. I put a poem “Punished” on one Ning website on a whim because the poem is so acerbic. The site owner liked it and asked if he could publish it in the next issue of Cold Coffee Magazine, which came out December 1. I agreed and that poem can now be found between the pages of the magazine and as a download.

I can honestly say a lot has happened this past year. A rollercoaster of emotions have left me as exhausted as this lump in my throat. I’ve been angry, hurt, felt insane, giddy, exhausted, had two hours one day when I felt like I did when I was younger and more normal, been in untold pain, and have cried a million or so tears. I think the crying jags are the worst, but I’m getting through them with a little help from the pharmaceutical companies. Here’s to little pills.

I’ll close with something I’ve often said. You cannot control anything except how you react to the circumstances you’re going through. You cannot change what you are not willing to acknowledge. Sometimes things just aren’t your fault and give up trying to make them your fault. God is always in control of the situation and if you can honestly relinquish that control you can make it through things you thought impossible.

Take care, my friends. I miss you much.

Hopefully I’ll be back in the near future. I promise not to take so long this time if I’m able to communicate.

P

Song sung blue in the key of P flat

I often wonder how Julie Andrews truly felt when she discovered she could no longer sing, especially since she’d entrusted her exquisite voice to a surgeon and the end result became the unthinkable. Did she cry? Throw things? Wish she could scream bloody murder only to realize a croak would have to suffice instead of the long wail? Did depression cloak her, or deep inside was she able to live what she showed to the outside world? She is the consummate professional—her attitude toward the outcome of her life in seemingly good balance.

 

I am not Julie Andrews.

On any level.

Except one.

 

A passion for singing.

 

For weeks I have struggled with how to relate my situation to those interested reading about my hum-drum little life. Well, not weeks, actually months. I stated in an earlier blog there were health issues I’m dealing with, some not so great moments in the annals of living life to the fullest. To put us into today, we have to take a few steps back to several years ago and continual diagnoses which tipped my world on it’s ear … or upside down in my case since I have vertigo and often I find myself hanging onto the bed so I don’t fall off while thinking I’m twirling on the ceiling. Life’s ups and downs take on new meaning in my house.

Some of you know I am a singer. It has been my passion since I was 15. I’ll write a blog one day about my life singing, the highs and lows, and some of the personal experiences I’ve had while doing what I truly loved. I’ve often thought about writing a short story about my life in a certain choir and one day may take people on the journey of The Disenchanted Diva. But I digress.

 Two years ago I developed a hacking cough, dry, irritating … constant. My personal thought at that time was that I was exposed to an unknown environmental situation since one day I was fine and the next day all hell broke lose in my body. To this day I still think I was exposed to something toxic which triggered the decline of my health due to it attacking what was already vulnerable in my body. No time to find out what was wrong since I was in the midst of one of the busiest times of the year at work, plus no health insurance. But I have a limited background in the medical field so I did what I do best and what many out there do best, what I call prairie medicine. You know the kind of stuff your grandmother used, or at least my grandmother used.

 I did finally go to the doctor when my voice consistently sounded strangled, I couldn’t walk without gasping, and my heart rate soared through the roof. Even I know when to cry uncle.

The result of that visit began a long journey into the wasteland of medical opinion. By the time I got to the doctor I couldn’t speak from the gasping and loss of my voice. Two series of cortisone treatments, massive doses of high-powered antibiotics, an inhaler, and a month in forced silence somewhat restored my voice. A late night call from the doctor after a chest x-ray ruled out pneumonia … confirmed other things, possibly a strangled aorta. Okay, give me a minute to digest the info and I’ll get back to you, doc. I will admit fear freely flowed through me, shutting off logical thought, sending my head into overdrive, all while trying to stuff the emotions deep inside me so I could cope with life.

 I still had to work. Now I got to purchase a C.A.T scan view of the lungs, heart, etc., etc. Let me stop here and let you know money to me is relative. I have never really desired riches, but money does aid you when you need something important like that test. Although, if a record deal had come my way I wouldn’t have refused the cash.

 The scan confirmed C.O.P.D. and a funky ventricle in the heart, plus a few other issues I’ve still not had a good diagnosis on. What the scan also showed was the goiter on my thyroid, once almost infinitesimal, now growing and displacing my trachea. Huh, well that explained the pain I experienced as I watched my neck changing shape. Oh and by the way it’s going to take a long time to recover from this trauma to your system. Way to go, doc. Think you could learn a better bedside manner?

On to the throat specialist/surgeon. The only good report to come out of that visit was that my vocal folds were in great shape. No scarring. No nodes. My years of training and learning to sing properly had paid off. What was shared with me after I was poked, prodded, lump measured, inspection of vocal folds, still upsets me. First, the surgeon told me he didn’t do the type of surgery I needed. Huh? You couldn’t have told me this over the phone weeks ago and I’m now wasting my time and his on something that’s going no where. But wait … more joy to share. I told him I sang. His response to me was this: You will never sing again. Joy. Rapture. Tell me more wonderful news. He told me: In fact, after the surgery you will probably lose your voice altogether and it will never return. How I stayed upright in the examination chair still remains a mystery as my head spun off my body.

 Do you have insurance? No. Now the words you don’t expect to hear from a doctor: How the hell are you going to pay for this? His actual words. I gathered the silence around me and told him I would figure it out. What I really wanted to do was shove every pointy instrument into his eyes and say whoops, guess you lost your eyesight, hope you can find something else to do with your down time. The final cherry on top of the stupendous sundae was I got to pay his outrageous fee for the consultation. I should have stopped payment on the check. I should have kicked him in the balls and said deal with it. Needless to say at this point I wasn’t hip to surgery.

 Fast forward to this year. Another health crisis to deal with. Another blog which may not make it to the page. Still no insurance. This time a new clinic had a nurse practitioner who decided to become my health advocate since so many things were happening. Months into the process we could finally address the growth in my neck. The ear/nose/throat specialist fed a camera through my nose to my vocal folds and thoroughly inspected them. Good news. Despite the continuing hoarseness, totally losing the voice, the folds were in excellent condition. He ordered an ultrasound, which I had.

 

The results were in. My nurse gave me the news. Lots of cysts. Okay, that wasn’t bad news. She looked at me with a different expression on her face: The large nodule has great blood supply to it. My breathing deepened as she watched my face. Okay, so it’s a tumor type thing nodule. She nodded, never forced me to answer, then: What do you want to do? My father had thyroid cancer. Had survived thyroid cancer. The nodule rapidly growing in my throat held the possibility of either being benign or cancerous. Something always in the back of my mind, something to deal with in the here and now. Go ahead and order the biopsy. Are you okay? Yes. Can we increase the dosage on the anxiety medication? She smiled and said we could up it as much as needed. I’m not sure I felt brave, in fact, I’m not sure what I felt except the thing growing in my neck like an alien being waiting to burst forth. Hey, could it suture the wound when it left so I didn’t have to pay for surgery?

 I was brave when I told my mother. Maybe not brave but a little shell-shocked which took the edge off delivering bad news. I do remember going to bed, crawling into a fetal position, putting my arms around myself and rocking since there wasn’t anyone to do that for me. All I wanted was to put my head in someone’s lap who cared and let them stroke my head and tell me it would be all right. I told myself it would be all right. I prayed a lot. I cried a lot. I dealt with the news.

 The biopsy was this week. For the past several years I have been working on facing fear head on. Fear is debilitating. Fear is that nasty demon which wraps its tentacles around you and doesn’t let go. Fear is that thing which reminds us we have no hope. Fear is mistaken for it doesn’t recognize there is a more powerful person in my life—God. And through God all things are possible.

 When combing my hair before leaving for the appointment, I had a sudden attack of panic. I felt what the fear was doing in my body, that fight or flight scenario where you feel like passing out, your limbs go cold because blood is rushing to your organs to save you, and you gasp for air like a dying fish. I looked in the mirror to see a grayed replica of me staring back. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

 My sister convinced me to take her with me to the appointment stating I didn’t have to be the big girl and bear the news alone. After the biopsy she told me I looked ragged. Yeah, we don’t spare each other at times, and really what did she expect after 45 minutes with needles being stuck in your neck? I felt ragged, and as the day unwound so did the anxiety level, which left me exhausted, a reminder why none of us is built to live in constant stress.

 watch face w moon and PNow I wait for the news of my biopsy. For the next appointment with the specialist to give me the word, whatever that would will be. I say the word cancer to offset the shock of hearing the bad news. Possibly not the best thing but I’d rather be prepared than be in a fantasy state and fall to pieces. My idea is plan for the worst, accept the good news when it comes.

 

Life is so uncertain at times. Through the situations in my life I’ve learned to trust God more, to give Him the problems to deal with and try not to take them back. That’s the key, not taking the problems back, but learning to lean on His understanding even when it is foreign to us.

 I pray I don’t have cancer. I pray the lump in my throat will someday disappear, and if it doesn’t I pray that the right surgeon will be there when I need him.

 Everything has a season, and as we travel through each cycle we learn more about the season we are living through and our place in it and are allowed to cherish the experiences those seasons have to offer. To not acknowledge the dismal season in favor of a brighter one does us a disservice. We don’t grow, but remain static. We become weak. Our roots don’t take hold in fertile soil and grow deep enough to withstand the onslaught of life’s storms.

 I want to be brave. I am a warrior. And one day I hope to sing again.

 Ta and peace,

 

P

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first step and my string has broken

 

string-ferferferI suppose I should begin the personal portion of my blog with a little background regarding where I’ve been in my head during the past umpteen years. I’ll write more about current thoughts, misadventures, and actions in future blogs. Right now, I’ll just state I’ve been ill for several years, hence the inward journey to find out what I’m really made of. Did I really want to unearth all the warts and demons lying in wait when I struck my spade into uneven inner ground? Not really, but if I wanted to heal mentally and physically I had to be willing to do hard work on myself, thereby allowing myself the freedom to seek something different and worthwhile.

 You cannot change what you aren’t willing to acknowledge … no matter what the personal cost. At times the cost has been brutal, other times there have been personal rewards, just depends on the day and circumstance. This has been a daunting task, one I thought made easier since I thought I knew me. Au contraire mon amis, this journey has been one of the hardest adventures I’ve encountered, but no matter the outcome I will be glad I ventured into the unknown recesses of my brain and dealt with life head on.

 Am I afraid? Yes, in fact, there are times I’m greatly afraid. However one of the things I’m learning to conquer is a lifetime of fear.  So, as I walk through life, I am reminded I do not walk alone. God holds me in His hand, and has never let me go. A friend checks on my mental and physical health, and, at my request tells me if I’m off track with some of my emotions and ramblings. Both God and my friend are my lifeline in, what at times, is a very tenuous grasp on life.

 But thither onward I must, so let us begin the walk through the labyrinth. I must remind you my string often breaks and I begin my journey anew, never wanting to get truly lost inside the darkened passages of my mind. church_tower_stairs_276976_l2One day I will meet the Minotaur and do battle. Until then, my sword swings a wide swath, enabling me to walk where many fear to tread. It sings to me alone, of health and mercy, of longing and passion, of conquering fear and death, of relishing the day when I walk into the sun and proclaim the task complete.

 Years ago I suffered a bad fall and ended up with loads of physical therapy filling my days. Lots of time in bed, lots of time for depression to thoroughly embed its tentacles of darkness deep inside my psyche. Pain and the separation from life as I knew it altered my days. To save myself, I read. Nothing new there, I’ve been an avid reader most of my life Midway through the recovery, after reading six or seven books a week, I somehow got the notion I could write. Yeah, I know, how deluded is that? I’d like to say I blamed it on the drugs, however there weren’t enough of those around to really alter my lame reality.

Silly me, as I read I thought hey, I can write as well as these authors. I’ve had this story claiming my dreams and daily daydreams for years. I know the characters inside and out, know the scenes, have seen them all in my mind’s eye and know what to do. I didn’t really know what to do, nor did I completely understand what lay ahead. All I saw was a way to try to save my mind, to get outside of what I was going through, to begin to find me again amid all the pain and trauma.

 I began what I now call the Shamrock series. I wrote in bed, wrote at doctor’s appointments, wrote while I sat while being iced at physical therapy. Everywhere I went I wrote something on the story. I remember the day I wrote The End on the lined page of a Mead notebook. (I write longhand) I put the date alongside the words, and then cried. Cried that I had completed the work, and cried that I had lived through the time to write hundreds of thousands of words. Needless to say the book was far too long so I’ve divided it and began writing the third book in the series.

 It was then I realized I really didn’t know how to write. Let me rephrase that. I wasn’t secure in my writing abilities, nor how to approach anything to do with writing or publishing, or what leads to any of the aspects of getting something published. I took a major step back and joined a writing site in hopes of learning the trade.

 I learned a lot, not only about writing, but about people in general. Yeah, another passage in the labyrinth we’ll be going through in the future. I know, you can’t wait!

 Now, as I decide what to do with the Myth to Life: The Rise of Riley McCabe series, I’ve been taking a look at my other writing, trying to decide what I’d like to work on next in hope of getting published again.

 Right now writing isn’t happening. I’m working around 55 to 60 hours a week. Nothing is happening except sleep and the illness thing. I know this happens every year, but nonetheless it’s still disheartening when I dry up mentally for stories or edits on future projects.

 However, amid all the doom and gloom of work and illness, the characters of the Shamrock series have come to the forefront once again. I hear them nudging me to look at what I’ve written. I see them walking around in my mind’s eye, waiting for me to go back to my original loves whose stories ultimately spawned the Riley series. In fact, both these series, as well as a few shorts, are all under the umbrella of cross-over writing for the Shamrock series. Apparently I like things complicated in my life.

 So today I sat down at the computer, something I dreaded since I spend ten hours a day at one, and opened the Shamrock files and began another edit of the first chapter. This was something I could do which didn’t require too much rewriting at the moment when life is dead inside my head. I don’t have to create, I just have to rearrange and press the delete key if need be. I edited two chapters and told myself that was good work whether it reads as well as I’d like or not. It was something I accomplished in this unsure time of non-accomplishments. It felt good to go back and read what I’d let simmer for several years. It was like coming home and the characters welcomed me back with only a modicum of resentment after all my time away.

 I guess the point of this rambling post is that sometimes life gets in the way of our hopes and dreams. But the hopes and dreams never vanish despite our blinded sight. They live on with or without us.

Which is harder? Seeking your dream and never having it fulfilled or never trying to fulfill your dream because you gave up seeking? Another difficult question I ask as I pursue the path inside my head. hope-by-george-frederic-watts-coutesy-renascence-images

 Can you answer that question honestly?

 Ta and peace,

 

P