The migraine, that terrible shadow that makes you believe your body is at war with itself. The migraine literally feels as if your brain is punishing the rest of your head for transgressions unknown despite your pleas for forgiveness. The migraine takes you on a trip to Pity Town, Population You, only half way there, you get car sick.
Of every novel I have written (or started to write), except my very first fanatic try-out novel, printed and hidden under the bed. Literally.
Leave a comment on which paragraph is your favorite!
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Ezekiel did not lead a normal existence for a sixteen-year-old. He understood this only when Sister Lucinda made an unusual and quite uncommon announcement at dinner.
—The Baby Dancers, 1/2 of an outline. But it’s a great 1/2!
Reading a book in his right hand while holding his sword in the ready position in his left, the Gaterunner prepared himself for a rude interruption. At any moment, a Reader could burst through the door and interrupt his reading. Hence the sharp metal pokey thing, poised, ready to take umbrage at a disruption.
–Untitled, uncompleted, outlined
The alien felt sex with humans was addictive as it was necessary, bringing to mind the quaint human expression “having your cake and eating it too.” Humans used sex for fun and reproduction. She thought it funny she occasionally added “food” into the mix. Sometimes, she wondered if some other species in the galaxy took it a step further by adding some other basic function to sex like “breathing.”
—Bunny Trouble, 2 drafts completed, book needs work
I should have known it was time to leave the nest at the age of three-and-a half when the human females, my father included, started driving me crazy.
–Untitled, uncompleted, outlined
The man wearing two swords coming through the door was dripping with water, and when the door closed behind him, he stood there, letting the water drip off his travel cloak on the flagstones provided just for that purpose.
–Untitled, ten pages of farting around.
“Andy, you’re in my tree again. People will talk,” Tabitha said.
–Untitled novella, uncompleted, outlined
Wisteria Heights High School students Jerry, Courtney, Davis, and Will, led by Cheerleader Captain Miranda, were putting the final touches on their plan to kill Alexander, the varsity wide receiver, and his girlfriend, Taylor.
–Starflame Pilot, uncompleted, outlined
Cadence Prosper was counting down the days to her sixteenth birthday where she could finally free herself from her body and integrate herself into society.
–The Rat Princess, uncompleted, outlined
When she was three, Anathae came to understand Momma was not like the other village wives when Momma tried to kill Papa with a broom.
—Dragonsong, uncompleted, outlined (although that opening paragraph is rough, it makes me giggle)
Commodore Philip Connery eyed the sish in front of him, looking for a hint of weakness as Captain Natalie Belton tossed her cards down in disgust. Natalie was the reigning poker champion, but Heisa, the vampiric sish, was kicking their asses.
—The First Casualty of War, completed
Queen Oneesha found the Huntress she meant to kill in a hammock on one of the countless tropical islands on her own planet. Sish throughout known space liked to visit for a romp—their endless white sandy beaches on the bluer-than-blue tropical sea were, in onto themselves, a signature attraction. The Islands of Jephinae also had one other feature sish loved, and that was a preponderance of dangerous predators.
–Children of the Goddess, uncompleted, outlined at one point, but recently tossed. Also: ick.
When Jeanne Flanders came downstairs to leave for school in her ceremonial Pledge dress, her mother dropped her cell phone, placed her head in her hands, and sobbed.
–Startforged Maiden, uncompleted, outlined
“Lexus, your husband is an unmitigated pain in the ass,” says Mitchell, the other husband, as soon as I take the call.
—Armageddon’s Princes, completed. Book 1 of the Lexus Toulouse Mysteries
My PTSD therapist told me, before he died and broke my heart, that, despite my aggressive desire for justice and a physiological and pathological need for constant sex, I was a caring, nurturing woman.
—The Wælcyries Murders, completed. Book 2 of the Lexus Toulouse Mysteries
Ender, my lover I had a fling with seven months ago, just told me she was pregnant with my child, a pretty neat trick considering I’m a woman.
–Death by Lingerie, work in progress. Book 3 of the Lexus Toulouse Mysteries
While driving to pick up her freshman photographer boyfriend so he could take pictures of her prancing around the Colorado farmlands, Sarah was certain she won the kissing lotto.
—The Lightning Giver, completed
Sometimes our bodies betray us and work against our nature, but for many sorrow is an addiction.
Like happiness, it fills a void. Feeling empty is the opposite of sorrow and happiness. Passion takes on many forms, and a passionate woman full of sorrow is everything but an empty space.
Thus, depression sometimes is a form of self-defense, but, insidious that it is, it is more an abusive lover who is the only one to pay attention. It’s like alcoholism: feeling drunk is better than not feeling anything at all.
There are many ways into addiction, and half as many ways getting out. Sadness may be better than the bottomless pit, but the mountain of life is there for a reason.
Climb it or sit around at the bottom looking at the clouds. Happiness is not a choice or an obligation.
Happiness is an addiction, and the end result of looking up at the top, rather looking into the abyss.
It’s that simple.
A quick drive by to say Im on a new contract. You know the drill—posting light as I come up to speed on the piles of work that need to be done.
Cause you all don’t want my actual writing to suffer, right? Right!
In order to gain focus, one must often lose focus.
A person at any given time is in a state defined both by who she is and who she wants to be.
This definition is everything. We can either let other people and actions or even the actions that we cause that we do not wish, define us. In order to move to where we want to be, we must let go of the things that currently define us that are negative in nature.
Losing focus is one way to do this. Growing up, the wise told us to not let others define us. The hard slog, however, is to recognize when our definition of who and what we are is the wrong one. We often focus on the wrong things. Perhaps this thing consumes us because it is painful and needs attention. Perhaps it is unavoidable. Perhaps it is a habit.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t deserve focus. It may need attention, sometimes lots of attention, but it’s not who we are.
We are not pain.
We are not heartache.
We are not loneliness.
We have felt all these things. Sometimes we can’t let them go, but we can turn from them. Adversity is either a cup to hold the raindrop or the raindrop that falls into the lake. Focus is our choice.
Violence exercised merely in self-defense, all societies, from the most primitive to the most cultured and civilized, accept as moral and legal. The principle of self-defense, even involving weapons and bloodshed, has never been condemned, even by Gandhi … . When the Negro uses force in self-defense, he does not forfeit support; he may even win it, by the courage and self-respect it reflects.
— Dr. Martin Luther King
There are men who simply never leave.
It never occurs to them. They stand in the eye of the storm for so long they become the eye. They will always be there, it is a quantum certainty, their resolve woven directly in their reality.
A friend disappears. Sometimes another. They leave on clouds of bleak or simply fade away. It does not matter, though, as a man reaches out his hand and plunges it into the maelstrom. Grab on, friend. Grab on.
Sometimes a hand claps his. It is usually a feminine hand.
The man pulls. Sometimes the hand lets go in fear of the eye, but he never will. Sometimes he pulls and draws the person into his calm existence.
“I’m sorry I went away,” her eyes will say.
The man will smile, for the wind apologizing to the rock for blowing is amusing to him.
Sometimes, her eyes are bittersweet.
The man will still smile.
Here, in the center, there is the now, never the past, only the future. Regrets are for the wind.