Thoughts

For the longest time, I couldn't write anything. Anxiety had me quite firmly in its wretched, unrelenting grip. I felt like my mind was trapped in a prison of its own making. It is a scary, tortuous thing, to be contained in that way. Life was not what it once was. It was hardly life at all, some days.

When I'm ready, I'll write about it, tell you more about the journey, how I got from that place of fear and loneliness to the place where I am today, once again comfortable in my own skin. I'm not there yet.

Today, I want to talk about writing. I missed it so very much, missed the feel of keys underneath my fingers, the feel of a pen touching paper, the stories that had always freely flowed through my mind and in my dreams. It took time, quite a bit of it, but I finally clawed my way out of that black hole.

If I can do it, so can you. That applies whether writing is your thing or not. Whatever your thing IS, you can and will get it back. You just have to want it badly enough. 

I can always tell when I haven’t written in awhile. My fingers, like my mind, are just a bit rusty. I have to sit down and somehow convince my brain to shake off the cobwebs, to wake up. I can sit, staring, at a blank page, for what sometimes seems like hours. Not lost, simply caught inside myself; stuck in an anxious pause where I don’t know what to say next.

But I’m the writer. I can’t be at a loss for words. And yet, when I haven’t written in awhile, somehow I am.

Words are a writer’s best friend and nemesis all rolled up into one. And I actually believe that’s a good thing. Though it’s hard to see it sometimes, the words that I want are actually there; like the lump that forms in the back of my throat when I’m overcome with emotion, the one I try to swallow down, force away (to no avail, of course). They are there, building up in the space inside my head where creativity lies, swelling like a wave just on the verge of breaking. I just have to remember how to harness them, to grasp those thoughts and ideas and present them properly.

So I write. I write about anything. I write about clouds. I write about ghosts. I write about the past, the future, the here and now, the never again and the never will be. I write about random objects and people I’ve never met and nature and God. The thing is, if I am writing, I am writing about something, and it doesn't matter if it will ever hold meaning to anyone but myself. 

Fellow writers, I'll tell you this: It doesn’t matter what the words are, simply that they are there, that they are held within your grasp and that you are the one in control. You have the power within you, to tell whatever story you want to tell. Don't let anything stop you.

Time Out

In so many ways, I don't want to write this blog. I don't want to say what I'm about to say. Unfortunately, we don't always get what we want. I'll go ahead and tell you my news, and then I'm going to tell you the reason why. I hope you'll stick around for that.

I've made the decision to postpone my work on the Nightfire trilogy indefinitely. It's the last thing in the entire world that I want to do, but I'm at a place right now where I simply cannot complete the project in the way I had always envisioned it. I am quite literally unable to tell the story, at least not right now.

Right now, I am in the thick of a difficult battle with postpartum depression and anxiety. To put it bluntly, I'm in hell. It is all I can do to wake up in the morning and talk myself into getting out of bed and doing what I must to take care of my children and get through the day.

A few short weeks after Ivy was born, my family and I went through what may have been the most stressful sequence of events that we've ever been through together, and perhaps what I've ever been through in my life. Since then, I've been living in darkness.

I know that this is and will be temporary, but right now I feel like I'm suffocating. This feeling is unlike anything I've ever felt in my entire life. I'm not sad; I'm in utter despair. I'm not worried; I'm in a state of fear so debilitating that I can't function. It is an isolation that feels pretty damn impossible to ever break. Like I've stepped in quicksand with nothing to grasp or keep me from drowning.

I am always a "strong" person, but right now I feel broken.

I'm getting help, but I know this will be a process. I don't know how much time it will take, and that's why I can't keep giving readers hope that Phoenix will be released any time soon because I just don't know if that's the case. I promise I'll finish it when I can, but I can't say when that time will come.

To the people I love, I'm sorry if I've been distant lately. I'm sorry if I've let you down. I'm trying, so hard, to keep myself together. Some days are easier than others, but they are all hard right now. I love you, and I need you. Thank you for your love, support and understanding. Don't stop believing in me.

The Huntress

I've gotten a good bit of writing done today, and, while my focus is on Nightfire right now, that doesn't mean I don't have plenty of other ideas spinning around in my head. Tonight, I just wanted to share one of those ideas with you. I've got a couple front runners for my post-trilogy projects, and I can only hope to get to all of them eventually. Let me know what you think. Cheers!

Avalon was full of beautiful creatures, but Trinity was by far the most enchanting of them all.

One of a kind, she stood tall and majestic above the tree sprites and lesser fairies who clung to her side; they, like the rest of us, were drawn to her beauty, to the power she held within her. Her stark white coat shone in the sun, a light that could not be shadowed by even the darkest parts of this forest. Threads of elegant silver flowed through her mane and tail, glistening with every subtle move she made. Flowers strung by her admirers adorned her shoulders and fell to the forest floor like a gown.

Above all else, the single horn on her head set her apart from all of the others. It shone with its own light, an ivory beacon that established her immortality. A thing of beauty, and a formidable weapon at the same time.

They say, if you tame her, you can rule these woods.

They also say you’d be stupid to try, that you’d have to have a death wish to even consider it.

But see, that’s the thing about death. For it to have any power, you have to be afraid of it.

And, well…I’m not.

Inspiration

The art of creation is a fascinating thing. I think every artist will tell you that they have a certain creative "method" that works best for them, and I also think it's possible that each and every one of those methods is different from all of the others. There are some common themes, of course, but at the end of the day, we all have our very own, very unique ways of designing and executing our creative visions.

I have personally always been inspired by music. It's been a big part of my life for as long as I can remember, whether I've been the one making it (I've played the oboe since I was 11, and honestly believe it's one of the most beautiful instruments on the entire planet), listening to it live as a member of the audience or from the comfort of my own home. There's so much power to it - it's ability to evoke emotions of all kinds, to provide comfort, to somehow create an entirely intangible yet relatable entity to its listener. I have the utmost respect and admiration for songwriters and musicians.

There are several different types of music that I listen to when I sit down to write. It all depends on what's appropriate at the time, but I'm generally working on some sort of fantasy fiction. As a result, I tend to drift towards some "darker" genres/styles, but honestly that's mostly what I stick to in my every day music choices anyway. I love listening to scores from movies and video games and generally keep to those when I'm really on a roll because sometimes lyrics can be distracting. Other times, however, lyrics fit in perfectly with what I'm doing and I kind of let those songs become the "soundtrack" to a scene or chapter. It's not weird for me to hear a song playing when I'm out somewhere and instantly think about a character or scene that I've recently written. Again - music and it's power are truly awesome.

Nightfire, Forsaken and Phoenix (at least so far) have all been set to several different movie and video game scores, as well as songs by bands that I love. For example, Breaking Benjamin (one of my all-time favorite bands) always makes me think of Sam. There are so many songs by that band in particular that apply to Sam's character and the trials he has gone through/will go through, and I love listening to them while I'm writing his scenes. The scores to movies like Inception and games like Mass Effect have inspired the books as well. Hell, a song by Bullet For My Valentine actually sparked my original idea for the entire trilogy.

I honestly believe that music not only inspires me, but that it improves my writing, too. It allows me to get in touch with the emotions that I need to reach in order to accurately and realistically portray the actions, reactions, and thought processes of my characters. It helps me to develop a certain depth to my characters and to my stories, to make them more than just words printed on a piece of paper.

Tell me...what inspires you?

Until next time... 

Challenge

Do you ever find yourself looking desperately for an answer only to realize that it's been right in front of you all along? Praying for God to show you some sort of sign, to give you some sort of help, but you've been too blind to see His work until it practically hits you over the head because it's finally THAT blunt? That's me right about now.

Over the past month and a half or so, I've really been dealing with an internal struggle that I just couldn't seem to resolve. I've finally found some clarity (I feel like I'm jinxing myself for even saying that), and, after getting some serious work done today, I'm feeling refreshed and invigorated. Looking back on it, though, I honestly feel a little...silly, for lack of a better word.

At the risk of being too candid, I have to admit that, on a rather regular basis, part of me feels like an absolute fraud, like a complete and total failure. Here I am, saying that I want to be a writer, or an author, even, preaching about following dreams and never giving up on them no matter what...and yet, that's what I'm doing, day in and day out. I'm giving up. Every day that goes by where I make the decision, conscious or otherwise, not to put forth any effort into pursuing my passion, I'm failing. Dreams don't just magically come true. I am responsible for making that happen.

Back in June, when my husband and I were on a family vacation with our daughter, we had several conversations about life in general - it's just one of those things that we do when we're able to take a few steps back from the "real" world and enjoy some time to ourselves and with each other. In one such conversation, we were discussing an article that we'd both recently read. In short, the article suggested that since no one sees your thoughts (rather, they see your actions), your thoughts cannot, will not and do not define who you are to other people in the world; instead, only your actions do so, because you actions are all that others can see. One particular passage in particular addressed writers, saying that you cannot call yourself a writer if you do not, in fact, write things. Ideas in one's head, even with the intention of writing those ideas down, does not a writer make. It's true.

It struck a chord with me, that's for sure, especially with the part of me that feels I'm failing in my pursuit of this dream, a dream I've been vocal about for some time now and yet have hardly anything to show for it.

Since then, I've seen a similar quote on the TV series Gossip Girl (of all places), and on Pinterest. More recently, I've followed several friends through social media as they find their inspiration and accomplish things while I sit back and, well, do nothing.

Through all of this, the part of me that has lost faith in myself tends to forget that I've published two books; as a matter of fact, she even trivializes that fact, condemning it as "not good enough." She kinda sounds like a bitch, doesn't she? But she has a point. A good one, at that.

There are a thousand and one excuses that I or anyone else could come up with as to why we've given up. Heck, right now I've got not one but TWO completely "legit" excuses - some might even say reasons - already built in: 1) I'm almost 7 months pregnant, and 2) I'm a mom. The thing is, though, that those two facts really make me feel even worse about giving up. There is a certain example that I want to set for my children. I want them to know that they can and SHOULD always follow their dreams, no matter what, but that it will take work to do so. Of course, I am in no way saying that pursuing writing should ever take priority over my family; what I am saying, however, is that, for me, continuing to pursue a life as a writer even further makes my family the priority...by allowing me to be my best and to motivate and influence my kids to do the same in their own lives.

At the end of the day, I'm sure we all feel like there's never enough time to get everything done. There isn't. Honestly. There isn't ever enough time to get EVERYTHING done. But...if writing is a priority for me, it's something that I need to give myself time to do. Recently, when I asked myself why I don't write every day, I didn't have a good answer. I have a million excuses, sure. I'm tired. I'm not inspired. I can't think straight (thanks, pregnancy brain). I have to do the dishes. I have to, I can't, the list goes on and on.

I want to be done with that list. I want to rip it up and throw it in the trash and never, ever look at it again. There is NO reason why I cannot sit down for an hour, or even TEN MINUTES a day and do the thing I love. Ironically, the longer I DON'T write, the harder it is to get motivated to do it - and vice versa. The more I write, the more I WANT to write, because I remember how much I love doing it.

I'm going to start small, but at this point I'm taking it a day - okay, a week - at a time. I'm challenging myself to write every single day - whether for 10 minutes or for 2 hours or however long - for the next week. Today was day one, and I'm already looking forward to tomorrow.

Once I get myself back into the habit of doing what I love, maybe I'll finally start holding myself accountable to some real deadlines and get this trilogy finished once and for all. Baby steps, right?

Until next time...thanks for listening.

For your reading pleasure...

After working on Phoenix for a good couple hours today, I am feeling a renewed sense of excitement about the novel...and for whatever reason, I just feel like sharing a small snippet (sorry, beta readers...you've already seen this).

All I ask is that you remember I'm still working with a draft here...so it's quite possible that there are (potentially several) mistakes. Enjoy!

Silver eyes are glowing back at me, but there’s something familiar about them. I blink, taking in the light, freckled skin of his face, the sandy blonde hair that’s styled differently from the last time I saw him.
Time stops, and my heart shatters into a million pieces.
I stop fighting.
He puts a finger to his lips, asking for silence. I nod slowly, and he takes his hand away from my mouth.
I can’t stop staring at him. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes, blurring out the edges of the world around me.
“Sam?” The word falls out of my mouth, delicate and fragile and so quiet it hardly makes a sound.
The muscles in his jaw tighten as he clenches his teeth.  I know he can hear me.
“You know you’re being followed?” he asks. I narrow my eyes.
“Of course,” I tell him, keeping my voice low. “I can take care of myself.”
He frowns, but says nothing more.
“Sam, what are you doing here?”
He lets out a sigh. Without a response, he leans towards me and looks around the corner of the building.
I can’t help but notice how much he’s changed. His body, once skin and bones, is now quite substantial, well-toned muscles outlined by the blue t-shirt he’s wearing. He seems so strong now. Intimidating, almost.
“Damn,” he mutters, almost inaudibly.
“What is it?” I demand, my voice louder now, a harsh whisper that snaps his head back in my direction so quickly it startles me. He moves close, eyes bleeding an urgency that I don’t understand until I hear their footsteps, too late. Too late to run away, too late to hide.
“Don’t move,” Sam whispers.
Blood is pulsing in my ears. He is so close to me, his new scent filling my nostrils, his skin almost touching mine. We are breathing the same air and I feel broken and elated and terrified all at once.
The footsteps are getting closer. In seconds, they will round the corner and find us here. What will happen then? I look at Sam. Nerves kick in, scattering across my body like spiders on my skin. Fire surges through my veins, the imminent danger kicking my Nyiathan senses into full gear.
Sam is Siek now. How do I know he’s not the enemy?
Almost as if he sees the change in me, Sam shakes his head. His eyes search mine, silver discs shining into my flickering honey-brown irises. There is an innocence there that makes me pause.
In the last possible shred of time before the Sieks are upon us, the splinter of a second that held me there, he closes the small gap between us and kisses me, his lips touching mine at exactly the right moment.
A pit of emotion swirls inside of me, and I am falling, fast and hard and completely out of control.
I don’t know this Sam.
The footsteps behind us pause and then continue, chasing the Nyiathan who has just slipped from their grasp.

Promotion Time!

Hey guys! This weekend only, get Forsaken: A Nightfire Novella for FREE on Kindle! Don't miss out!

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00IP212GG

Stay tuned for some upcoming updates about Phoenix, as well as some giveaways that we have in the works!

Until next time...