​Standing near the communal bonfire, twisted tendrils of acrid smoke surrounded me, irritating my throat, stinging my eyes, and making me cough.

​My heart raced as I watched the elders change their places. Soon, they encircled me. All the while they clapped their hands to their thighs in a steady rhythm. The eerie wailing of a wooden flute joined their percussive mix.

​Earlier, I had begged mother to tell me about the ritual event, but she just spouted the same word she used whenever she didn’t want to discuss something with me: “Throwback.” Although I’d tried, repeatedly, to get her to explain, she’d refused. Each time she struggled to hold back tears and then changed the subject, behaving as though she’d already said too much. 

But I’m pretty sure I know what she meant.

Mother used the word to describe me because I am like those of our clan’s long ago days. I know that much from paintings on the walls of our village buildings. I look like those ancients—but I differ from everyone around me. My skin is darker. Across one cheek and the bridge of my nose, runs what appears to be a jagged scar—although Mother insists it, and a similar circular marking on my left cheek just below my eye, is a birthmark. Self-conscious, I wear a bandana over that part of my face to cover the area as best I can. A bronze tattoo runs from my chin down my neck. I have a vague memory, like a dream, of getting it. I don’t suppose I was even three summers old at the time . . . Also, my eyes are a deep walnut color—not the warmer tones of a spring fawn like the other villagers. And . . . I see things—unexplainable things—that they do not. Then of course, my body type is— Well, Mother calls me “sturdy.”

In short, I am different. And everyone knows it.

I remained standing, motionless, my eyes downcast, when quite unexpectedly, the cadenced clapping and odd melancholy fluting, ceased. Only the crackling fire sounded out.

Not a soul moved.   

​The smoke, having settled closer to the earth, leveled out at about knee-height. It swirled and billowed around me.

​Gasping with anticipation—or perhaps it was fear—I looked up as the ring of adults suddenly broke open. Then from outside of it, a single hooded figure approached. I couldn’t tell by its body size, the width of its stance, or the length of its stride, whether it was a man or a woman, but soon enough his—or her—gloved hand stretched my way, palm up. 

After the figure guided me outside the circle of adults, we walked on, leaving the gathering behind. Soon we reached a building at the edge of the river. As directed, I stepped inside first. Then I turned back just as my guide removed the hood that had covered her face. Yes, I could see her now for what she was. But the surprise was not in discovering her gender. Rather, it was in observing that she looked so very like me. 

Dropping hard into a nearby chair, I gasped, staring.

“What?” she asked.

“Ahhh—”

“I am Aytama,” she said.

Still, I stared. Never before had I seen anyone I resembled. Then, “I’m Codee,” I muttered.

“Yes.”

“What is this all about? Who are you? Why am I here?” I threw questions out without pausing for answers.

“I have come for you. As a Throwback, it is time you took your place.”

My head cocked, I repeated her. “A Throwback.”

“Yes. You understand.”

“Ahhh . . . no, I’m afraid I do not.”

Staring at me, her eyes narrowed.

“My mother has used the term, but she’s never explained it to me.”

Aytama sighed. “Yes, I suppose I might have expected that of Damira. I think she never came to grips with your situation.” She shook her head. “Well then, what do you think it means?”

“Well . . . I assume it means that I’m somehow cursed, that I’m to be some sort of outcast—that I’m unworthy of—”

Aytama rapped her knuckles against the side of my head and scoffed.

“Ouch!” I cried.

“Be not daft,” she scolded.

I glared at her, wincing, rubbing the spot she’d struck. “Well, what am I to think? I know I look like our village ancestors, but I’m different from all those around me—and they avoid me. So, I assume I am something lesser, or something—”

“Tssssk!” Once more, she knuckled the side of my head, this time more forcefully. “What is the matter with you? Do you think that one’s likeness to others makes them equal? Better? Superior, even? Goodness, I would have expected Damira to have taught you better than that!”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said, scowling.

​Aytama watched me carefully, as though assessing the veracity of my words. Then, “Codee,” she said, “our people have suffered over the past generations, following war, famine and disease. Along the way, they lost their strength. But you— You are not cursed, you are blessed. You are a Throwback. That mark you bear identified you as one, at birth. You have the physical, mental, and spiritual powers of our forebears. Like other Throwback children, you were raised in your village so you could learn the ways of our people.” 

Aytama sat in the chair opposite mine, folded her hands, and set them in her lap. “You are not inferior to those around you, Codee,” she continued. “If anything, you have a superior calling. Our people have great need of you.” She patted her chest. “I have need of you, for I am old, as you can see.”

It was true. Aytama was old. Even the birthmark across her cheek that so resembled mine, and the copper tattoo at her chin—again, like mine—drooped with her wrinkled skin.

“I have waited for you to come of age,” she said. “I have not much time left and if you are to be of any value to our people, you have a great deal to learn before taking my place. So together, we will journey to the forest home of the Throwbacks. There, all your questions will be answered. There, you will learn all you need to know so that you may be of service to our people.” Pausing, she took in a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and then continued. “But first, you must agree to put childish things aside.”

“Leave here!” I cried. “B—but what of Mother?”

“What of her?”

I pulled back. “Well . . . I didn’t get to tell her any of this.”

“Your mother has known from the moment of your birth, child. I assume it is why she never told you. She could not face that I would return one day to take you from her.”

“Return? When—”

“Was I here last? On your naming day, of course.”

Aytama picked up a carafe of water from the table at her side. She poured two cups. Handing one to me, she said, “Codee, you were born to help your people, to bring them wisdom in the years to come. A great force will aid you in your endeavor. But you will not be able to perform your duties faithfully if you cannot leave some things behind. Do you think you can you do that?”

“What must I leave?”

“Your home. Your mother. Your . . . immature and fruitless thoughts—first among which is that you are lacking in some way. You, girl, are exactly as your Maker intended you to be. You would be incapable of seeing to your calling if you were anything else.” She paused for effect. Then, “Can you do that?” she asked again. “Can you leave your childish beliefs behind?”

Somehow I knew as I gazed deeply into Aytama’s eyes, that everything she told me was true. I had a purpose—and it was one I was anxious to pursue.

“Well?” she prodded.

​A faint flash of a possible future danced before my eyes. Then, “Yes, Aytama,” I said, nodding, “I am ready.”

Josmund tied the stained apron around his waist as the back door of the pub swung open, pouring warm light into the dark evening. 

“Hurry up! Yer late,” the cook called.

As soon as Josmund stepped inside, he reached for the tankards of ale and pitcher on the back counter. 

​“Thirteen,” the cook said groggily, having tested the ale himself one too many times. 

“Thanks Briggs, you’re a life saver.” Josmund grinned over his shoulder as he left the kitchen for the front counter.

In his fourteen years of work in the pub, Josmund had only been late twice, once when he forgot his apron, the other when his mother caught the bird fever. Had he known that was her last day under the sky’s eye, he would have stayed home, but he was only eleven then.

“What held ya today?” Ryan, a bus boy, called.

​“There’s a new ship on the dock,” said Josmund amusedly. “One I ain’t ever seen before.”  

​Ryan grinned, “That’s what’s got everybody buzzing. She’s here!”

Before Josmund could ask who or what, Ryan disappeared in the swells of thirsty sailors, thieves, and mongrels, but Josmund wasn’t concerned. He knew he would have all the information he needed soon enough. 

Taking three tankards to a table of old, sea-weathered fishermen, he heard one croak, “Aye, ’olds only 23 men and the cap’n. ’S why she’s so swift on the seas. No man e’er saw ’er comin’.” 

It was the ship Josmund had found himself gazing at for a time too long. She was sleek and tall with four pale, folded sails. But what caught his attention was the wood, dark as tar in the torchlight of the pier. 

“Midnight Marauder,” a grizzly-haired drunkard called out from table fourteen. “Ne’er saw ’n quite like ’er,” he mumbled to his slumped companion. Josmund topped off the man’s tankard and removed the empty plates before moving on.

“A dangerous ’n, that cap’n is,” a raspy voice whispered as Josmund grabbed more finished plates from the next table. “…Soiled three merchant ships in a fortnight. ’Course they couldn’t hold it all—just let ’em sink.” 

“’S a shame,” a gruff voice replied. 

Upon returning to the kitchen, Josmund threw the scraps out the back door for the hounds before grabbing the soups and bread for tables six and seven. 

“Ya ’ear ’bout the cap’n?” the cook called.

“Not yet,” Josmund replied, “only that his vessel’s called The Midnight Marauder.”

The fat, grease covered cook grinned. “Careful, boy. Cap’n’s a she.” 

​Refusing to believe the cook’s outlandish claim, and wanting to hear the truth from the sailors for himself, Josmund hurried back out to the floor. Listening more carefully, he ignored the crooning of the sailors’ songs, their cacophonous laughter, and the bettors’ cajoling for “more time.” Finally, a low and speculating tone sounded out. 

“I heard she’s a half-breed,” a wiry cabin boy in tattered clothes murmured. “Mum was a West Indies slave on some French ship.” 

Josmund’s ears perked up at this as the boy’s older drinking mate replied, “Aye boy, you ought know yer ships better.  The Adelaide was the best of its kind, ’til it was caught in the storm and dashed to pieces on the reef!”

After dishing out soup and bread to the men at tables six and seven, Josmund began clearing the long tables where a crew of eight had just been sitting. Nearby, six men sat huddled, as though trading secrets, though their drunkenness made them loud.

Among them, a bald man with a stump for a leg cried, “’Er father was the cap’n hisself! When they wrecked on that craggy island, only ’e and the babe survived—they ’adn’t chained ’er up yet—” 

’Er wrists were too small, woulda slip’d right through!” a dimwitted looking oaf interjected to the irritation of the first man.

“I woulda kil’t ’er,” a scrawny sailor sneered in a nasally voice. “Let ’er drown like ’er mother!” 

“He woulda!” the bald man exclaimed. “But she was the only heir ’e ever sired. ’Course, ’e didn’t really want ’er, but ’e thought God might spare ’im if ’e spared the child. Swore ’e’d even raise the mutt if ’e got off that blasted island.” 

“How’d they survive?” a young lad with wide eyes asked the storyteller. 

​“They say the babe’s cry was ’eard. ’S why the cap’n—” 

“Josmund!” Ryan called, “Table three needs refills!”

“Got it!” he replied. He abandoned his eavesdropping and grabbed a nearby pitcher to fill at the cask in the corner. 

While there, a sniveling, common thief whispered to his companion, “…Scar’s up half ’er face from a fight with three crewmen. They say she lost an eye, but they lost their lives—all three throats slit by the same blade.”  

Josmund wanted to listen longer but knew he had to get back to the kitchen. He quickly refilled the men’s drinks, snatched straggling dishes and empty tankards strewn across the floor along the way, and collected his next orders. 

“Eleven and nine!” the cook called. 

Josmund left the kitchen with his new orders and swung by the bar. As he was grabbing the specialty drinks, the bartender called after him, “No more for table two ’til Eric pays his tabs! I don’t wanna hear any more of that scum’s excuses!” 

Simply nodding, Josmund went on his way, light on his feet among the traipsing and staggering guests, careful to step over the snoring man on the ground. Rowdy laughter and a string of curses filled the air, but he focused on the conversations of those who had only drunk half their ale.

One man drawled “…Tattooed herself with the symbols of her people, snake lookin’ marks, but only half of ’em. Can’t imagine why…” 

​At table five, an ancient fisherman missing all his teeth gummed, “Killed the captain herself and took the ship. O’ course a few crewmen mutinied, but she finished ’em off like some sort of siren.”

Refraining from chuckling so as not to start a fight, Josmund could only shake his head at the sailors’ tales. After years of practice, he had learned to sift myth from truth, but tonight seemed especially full of fishermen fantasies. Indeed, as the evening progressed, the rumors only grew stronger, with each story building off the one before. 

In the wee hours of morning, the gossip dwindled to a murmur. By the fireplace, one pirate played a worn fiddle, while another sang of a heartbroken sailor and his lover. The flickering lights of the fireplace and lanterns danced on the walls, mesmerizing watchers. While most of the pub’s inhabitants had been lulled into a drunken stupor, Josmund still heard the occasional whisper of the mysterious captain.

“Eh, boy,” the bartender gestured, “Come ’ere.” 

Curious as to why he didn’t call out like usual, Josmund drew near the counter, ready for his instructions. 

“There’s a guest in twenty-three—didn’t want to be disturbed ’til now. See to ’em,” he said gruffly. “And be careful,” he added.

​Josmund glanced at the back end of the room, a place people went to for privacy. Bringing a pitcher with him, he stood outside the curtains, thick layers of sheer that allowed guests to see out without allowing for onlookers to see in. The inhabitant pulled back the curtain, a signal for him to enter.

A single candle lit the room, so all Josmund could make out was a lone figure leaning on the table. As his eyes adjusted, he sucked in a sharp breath. Before him sat the rumored captain of The Midnight Marauder.True to the tales, she was a half-breed with scars on her face and a snakelike tattoo twisting from her chin to her throat. Wrapped around her dreadlocks and across her face, an ornate strip of cloth hid her left eye.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she smirked, her voice low and melodic. “All the tales are true. Well…except the one about the mutiny—” 

​Pausing, she set her gaze on Josmund, candlelight glinting in her eye, “There were four men.”

​Some years ago, I designed a new front to my home with steps down to the lawn and tiers for gardens. From time to time, I revise the space. It is quite lovely. Here are a couple of different looks from over the years:

​Having arrived at the port in Corsair, the largest city in Metzphlat, Kira and her mother stepped off the ship’s deck and onto the wharf, then shuffled through the bustling crowd. Signs all around, in assorted sizes, shapes, and colors, directed folks, informed them—and no doubt warned them—of numerous matters.
 
Suddenly, came a jostling from behind. Kira’s grip loosened and a second later, she found herself quite alone.
 
Quickly she looked ahead, but could not catch sight of her mother in the still growing crowd. Unsure whether the gangs hurrying both directions had swept her beloved parent back the way from whence they’d come, or had caught her up and whisked her forward, Kira choked back a cry.
 
Mother had warned her not to appear weak—to do so would make her a ready target of the pirates and criminal riff-raff that bandied about. Taking that advice to heart, Kira stepped to the side, away from the center of activity. Catching the eye of a nearby pickpocket as he masterfully performed his unique version of prestidigitation, lightening the financial wherewithal of his latest victim, she squared her shoulders, gritted her teeth, and tipped her chin up into an “I-double-dare-you-to-try-to-mess-with-me” expression.
 
That’s when movement from above caught her attention. Her jaw dropped at the marvel of the sight. Flying machines! First came one in the shape of a fish. Behind it prowled another looking very much like a cat. It gained speed quickly, as though it meant to gobble up the first—as felines are wont to do with seafood. Kira had never seen such machines before, but she’d heard of them, and she knew that magic powered them. Word of their existence had made it to her provincial little town shortly before she and her mother had set out on their venture.
 
She thought back to the night that Jack-the-peddler had stopped in Pauperton. Whenever he made his way through, the townsfolk gathered to see his wares. But this time things differed. This time instead of trying to outbid one another for the most unusual and therefore coveted of the peddler’s fare, the townsfolk spent the evening discussing the loss some months back, of their resident magician. Without a person of magic to tend to the weather, they’d soon also experienced the inevitable failure of their annual crop. The town’s stored goods wouldn’t last much longer. Indeed, hunger had already set in.
 
Jack had suggested that someone set out for the grand city of Corsair. There, “ships the size of mountains come to port,” he’d claimed, and “flying machines that deliver people and equipment from place to place, fill the air!” Magicians ran those machines, so surely, one could be found one in the city, Jack had reasoned. Moreover, Corsair boasted its own training grounds for young witches and wizards. 
 
And so, without further ado, Kira and her mother—whom the Pauperton residents valued as one of their wisest—set out.
 
Kira leaned against a wood pillar around which hung ropes that held the ship close, while water slapped its sides. Fear visited her as hunger pangs gripped her.
 
She had to think. Perhaps mother went straight to the school of magic, intending to meet back up with Kira there. Yes, that made sense. So, she should set out to do the same.
 
Something caught her eye. A steel bar held at the end of some rope from a hook was being hoisted up into the air, although by whom, or for what purpose, Kira could not tell. Still, she ran to it. If she could get a good look at the city, she might get her bearings. Then, perhaps she’d find what she sought.
 
Quickly, before it was too late, she jumped. Teetering on the edge of the bar, she steadied herself as it rose jerkily into the air. Cautious, fearing she might lose her balance, Kira didn’t even consider reaching for the orange drink she found at her side. Better she just concentrate, she reasoned.
 
Slowly, the bar rose, higher and higher. Then, quite suddenly, it ceased its ascent, although it did wobble a bit from side to side for a minute or so. Kira held on tightly. Then, shortly, the bar went still.
 
She looked out at the glorious city before her, and that’s when she noticed—really noticed for the first time—all the signs. There were signs everywhere! And that’s also when Kira came to grips with the immensity of her difficulties. For the signs provided all the information she could possibly need—information that could point her in the direction she sought. There was just one problem. Unfortunately for Kira, it was a big one. A really, very, monstrously, outrageously, big problem.
 
Kira couldn’t read Metzphlatish.

Twelve-year-old Zee Anderson liked straight lines and right angles. Unfortunately for her, the city of Morrowsky had very few straight lines and no right angles. Instead it had sails and balloons, walkways and cupolas, turrets and towers—all built on top of each other with little reason or rhyme—except to reach higher into the sky.

When Toady says they’re to paint the Widow Grayling’s house, Akasha stares along with everyone else. 

“Orange.” Uneven teeth make his smile particularly fiendish. The gang erupts into hoots and shouts of laughter at that. The widow’s a quiet woman of modest means. Her house used to be brown, but most of the color’s chipped off now. It would no more willingly wear orange than would the widow.

“She needs some brightening.” Zekan always backs up Toady. If their illustrious leader decided they should all become acolytes at the local temple, Zekan would hand out the cassocks and thump anyone who questioned the choice. Same if Toady resolved to filch grub down in the Bellows—Royal Ghost territory, where Toady’s Azure Fang Gang would swiftly find their end. Hopefully not a permanent one… Did the Ghosts kill children?

Do I finish books that I start, but hate? I can answer this question with a single title: Moby Dick. I found it utterly incomprehensibly, annoyingly, mind-bogglingly boring, and odd—and downright awful. I hated it. Nothing anyone could say about a color or its significance, or what the author may have intended that color may have symbolized, could resurrect this title for me. I found a solid 70% of the work to be complete nonsense. Lest I be mistaken, let me put it simply: I truly and completely abhor this work. Perhaps more than any other I’ve ever read. So, I think the early readers of Moby Dick—those who considered it a total flop when it was first published—were spot-on. 
 
So . . . yes, I hated Moby Dick. But you’ll notice from my comments above that I read it. From front to back, from beginning to end, I read it. Why, you ask? Excellent question! Unfortunately, I’ve not an excellent answer, except to say that before I felt I’d be justified in concluding that Moby Dick is/was an “utterly incomprehensibly, annoyingly, mind-bogglingly” horrible read, I had to give it every conceivable chance to prove to me that it was something else. Sadly, it did not. It was not. It is awful.

​Another book I truly did not like but read front to back, was War and Peace. As I’ve read a great deal of Russian literature—and for the most part, have found the works quite worth my time and effort—my problem with this 1000-plus page work was simply the plodding slowness of it. But I read it.
 
In the past, I rarely if ever put a book down that I didn’t like. However, I’m more prone to do so today. Perhaps that’s because I’m starting to measure my life (or what’s left of it!) a bit differently. That is, I know I no longer have all the time in the world. Another reason is because, whether the work is Indie or traditionally published, there’s a lot in the market that is not well conceived, written, edited, or presented—and too many times I find stories that . . . well, that I've read before. This is unfortunate, as I genuinely appreciate a new story with unique creatures and characters, freshly told.

So, today when asked whether I read to the bitter end, works that I hate, I can no longer say, “Yes. Always. I always complete a work I start.” Today, I’d have to say something more like: “Most often.” I really try to give a work every chance possible. That said, now when I find that I dread picking up my current read, I won’t necessarily deny myself the ability to choose something else. If I emphatically despise the one before me, I won't necessarily complete it just because I had the bad sense—or misfortune—to have picked it up in the first place. Of course, had I lived by this rule back in the day when I read Moby Dick, I would have dropped it, as a consequence of which I'd not now be able to emphatically say that it is an “utterly incomprehensibly, annoyingly, mind-bogglingly" awful read.

WHAT’S that you say???? What’s wrong? Don’t you read Mezphlatish? No problem, just check the glossary at the back . . .

I love language and the nuances communicated through highly similar but different words. I think it is fair to say that the work I do in both of my lives (as attorney and as author) depends on a keen sense of words and of the manipulation of them. For these reasons among others,  I truly admire anyone able and willing to make up a language for a story and then to stick with the system religiously—which is necessary if the language is to work. If even a single instance occurs where it is not used but perhaps should have been—or perhaps could have been—then that failure could make a mockery of the entire system. But concerns over this issue present only one small reason for why I have created terms for people, places and things in my stories, but have not created new full-blown language(s).

My works include fantasy creatures that have their own peculiar features and names. For my ongoing fantasy series, The Oathtaker Series, I also created a world-order, and governmental, religious, and magic, systems. In many cases, words needed to be coined for those things because they do no exist in our world. But I’ve not gone further. I haven’t even made up names or words for the times of the day or for the days of the week or for the seasons of the year. Why?

I think it’s safe to say that no one knows my works as well as I know them. Yet I know that if I created an all-out new language for my stories, I’d have to refer back to the rules of that language every time I intended to put it to use. I’d have to keep track of all the words I created along the way, and I’d have to be certain that my every use of any of those new words was correct and consistent so as to maintain continuity (and thereby, credibility). But if I—the author—would have check back to the rules and terms already created whenever I put the language I created, to use, then what of my readers?
​ 
There are features typical of what I call the "quintessential traditional fantasy." Such features are one reason that some people love fantasy—and they are also the reasons why others avoid it completely. One feature of these stories is that in many cases, the characters’ names are . . . odd. There have been times, however, when I’ve refused to read a work (no matter how fantastic others have said that work is) upon discovering that I couldn't even read the characters’ names. Because I feel that way, I’ve chosen not to do that to my readers. Thus, the names I use are mostly common names, although occasionally, I’ve made one up. But even when I might pronounce a name that I’ve used differently than another person might pronounce that name, those names that I’ve chosen to use are easy to “sound out.” Thus, readers won’t stumble on them every time they come upon them. For a similar reason, I’ve not created full-blown new languages for my stories.

For me, there is probably nothing worse while reading, that forgetting what something is. In those cases, I have to page backward to find when the thing was first introduced so as to refresh myself on the details about that thing or, if there is one, I must check the glossary. At least with a glossary, there’s an easy place to find the answers I require. However, stopping to check a glossary interrupts my flow as a reader. Thus, I’ve often chosen to skip stories that follow this pattern. Moreover, I’ve chosen not to create so many things in my stories that my readers must resort to the use of a glossary. In my experience, some fantasy stories require one because the primary focus of those stories is the world that the author has created. By contrast, my stories are first and foremost about the people who inhabit the world of my tales.
​
In short, I read to enjoy—not to make more work for myself. I expect my readers do the same. Thus, I choose not to go too far, thereby scaring away potential readers who might pass on my work because they do not speak Mezphlatish (or whatever other language I might have chosen to write my tale in).

What do you think? ​

They call me stealth. No, not that kind of stealth. Let’s see . . . How can I make this easy to understand?

Oh, I know!

Imagine the largest man you’ve ever seen. You know the one. He has legs the size of a cathedral’s pillars, and biceps like boulders. His neck is reminiscent of a bull’s. He might be a bit—yes, all right, quite a bit—overweight. His middle hangs over his beltline . . . And don’t even start me on what happens when he bends over. Honestly, that is a sight I do not want to think about.

There. Can you picture him? That’s right. He’s the guy the others call, “Tiny.” So . . . that should give you an idea of what I mean when I say they call me “Stealth.” In short, I earned the nickname because I’m anything but.

I stood in the open window frame and looked out. Thanks to the noise I’d made earlier, the guards on duty had quickly lit all the torches and then run off to what they thought was the source of the trouble. Meanwhile, the rest of the gang and I all spread out, each to find his own way out of this fix. In any case, the place is lit up brightly now. So what should have been a quick nighttime entry and snatching of the goods, followed by an equally hasty departure, might as well have been planned for midday.

I looked below and caught sight, off to the castle’s far west end, of a horse and rider galloping off. I recognized them instantly as Rusty and his trusted steed, Vellum.

Thank goodness our fearless leader got away!

Finding myself up too high, unable to jump to the ground safely, I shielded my eyes from the direct light of the torch’s flames, and then surveyed the grounds below.

Seconds later, I shook my head in frustration, unable to conceive of an escape route.

I pulled back into the recess of the window, took in a deep breath, and then peeked out again past the edge.

This time, I noted to my right, a tree reaching toward the castle. If I could balance myself and walk along the ledge to the next window, I might be able to jump into its branches. From there I’d be just a few long strides, a somersault, and a jump away from escaping into the night.

From nearby came the sounds of another horse and rider as they took off. I couldn’t tell if it was one of our own.

Until now, the leaders have been willing to give me a little space. They seem to like my youthful enthusiasm and know I have much to learn. But tonight I might have fixed all that. You see, tonight, I wore my new leathers for the first time—and likely, tonight was the last mission they’ll ever allow me to join.

Honestly, I’m not sure what I’d been thinking. I knew I needed dark clothing to remain largely unseen at night. After all, that’s when we of the Resistance do most of our work. But what I hadn’t figured on was the sound that leather makes. You know what I mean, right? That crunchy, squeaky sound that comes when you turn in your saddle? Or in my case a short while ago, the sound it made when potential danger entered the room and I pulled back my bow . . .

Yes, that sound.

So now, on account of my vanity—in wanting not just any dark suit, but rather, a smart new outfit to wear—my comrades and I are in deep trouble. Or to be more blunt, if caught, we’ll face the gallows.

“Blast!” I muttered.

Assuming I make it back safely, I expect Rusty will relegate me to some duties at our hideout. As it is, I’d had to beg him to allow me to go along tonight—which he was not wont to do given the catastrophe that followed me the last time . . .

I can see it now. Rusty will have me divvying up the spoils when the gang returns. The very prospect makes my head spin. I’m really not that good with numbers and of course, it’s not like everyone gets an equal share. Oh, no no no! Nothing so easy as that! No . . . shares are determined by a member’s age, rank, experience—and most important of all, on the level of threat each individual assumes on any given mission.

Uuugggh.

Of course, if Rusty doesn’t have me doing that, he’s sure to find some other dreadfully unpleasant duties to assign to me, like . . . running errands, cleaning up behind the gang, doing the laundry, or better yet, emptying the spittoons and keeping the privies in respectable order. You get the picture.

I glanced down as a wagon pulled up almost directly below me.

“That’s it!” I whispered to myself.

That wagon was my salvation—and lucky for me it was a filled with . . .

Oh no. Say it isn’t so.

Manure?

No . . . it can’t be. Surely, that’s just food. Maybe rotting food . . .

I took in a long, deep breath.

No, I was right the first time. Papa says that’s the smell of money because where there’s manure, there are animals, and where there are animals, there are well-fed folk. But if that’s the smell of money, then I think I might prefer to live destitute.

The operative word here, of course, is the word, “live.”

​Recognizing I needed to move if I intended to do that going forward, I prepared to take a leap of faith.

“Steady, Stealth,” I cautioned myself, as I stepped to the ledge. With my toes hanging over, I crouched, swung my arms back and then forward as I followed through with the rest of me . . .

​My taste in poetry is questionable.

I gravitate toward freeform (usually only my own—how arrogant!), the unusual (sample below), or limericks and “revised” song lyrics (for which I blame my husband).

In my teens I went through an angsty period where I wrote reams of freeform poetry, 98% of which were terrible. Wrist to forehead dramatically, I determined I would make my living as a moody poet. Until I discovered…

Poetry pushes us to the limit of our understanding – to the edge of ourselves. That’s why it can be so chaotic and disorienting, but it can also be where we learn something new. Something that we couldn’t have known before, had we not been challenged. 

But the challenge of poetry is a soft one. A gentle breeze that carries us beyond, to a new place, and then brings us back, changed. Because when you learn something, you change. You become something new. The old has died...

​These days, as I’m wrapping up my latest work, I’m realizing how much of what I write is intended for—is directed specifically at and to—young women. While I’m certainly old enough, I have no grandchildren of my own. I’m finding, however, that the grandmother in me is coming out anyway. She comes via my life as an author, and my granddaughters include any young women who’ll listen. So, I guess you might say that I’m doing a bit of “spiritual grandmothering.” I think this is reflected in my spine poetry today.
 
Here goes:

If I had to add punctuation to this, I guess it would look something like this:
 

What do you think?

Now it's your turn to share your spine poetry!

Interacting with criticism is never easy as an author. There's opportunity to grow, to shape our stories, and do better, but it still isn't easy. 

From the reader's point of view, reviews can provide a wonderfully unvarnished perspective on what to expect. I read reviews on everything from books, computers, a new lawn mower or a plastic doodad to organize junk. Just how well does this doodad organize? How well does a this mower mow? How well does this computer compute, and how well does this book read?​

The more I thought about this particular can of worms, the more I wanted to put a lid on it! Yes, people have the right to express their opinion. No, it’s not always kind, helpful, or even necessary. Yes, the person under the glaring light of criticism might learn something valuable. No, that doesn’t give Everyone Else the right or the duty to shred someone’s work to pieces.
Did it just get really foggy in here? 

​I believe that in general, the more reviews, the better. When I see a book with few reviews and those posted are all 5-stars, I tend to think that the author got a few friends to post positive ratings in an effort to promote sales for the book. By contrast, when I see a book with quite a number of reviews, I expect that I will find that some highly praised the work, while others were considerably less flattering.
 
When I review a work, I try to put myself in the shoes of the its average intended reader. If it is geared to children, I consider how they might receive it and what their parents will think. Likewise when I review something for school-grade readers. I try to give reasons for why I liked a story and/or what did or did not work for me. I have found that this is quite an unusual approach. For many, a book they like is an automatic “5”—even if it has serious issues, while one that didn’t speak to them personally is an automatic “1” or “2”—even if it was extremely well written or at least presented a unique story not told before. 

All that said, even while I know that people look at reviews of my books, and even while I know they can be helpful—especially if there are a wide range of differing opinions—I rarely look at the reviews of others to determine whether to purchase a book for myself. Why?  Because I’ve found that a review doesn’t have to have any connection to the book at all. I’ve read reviews that left me fairly certain that the person never read the work. Since many sites allow people to leave reviews even if there is no record that those people purchased the item or items in question, it is entirely possible that a particular reviewer may not have read the book for which he/she left a review. 

Taking a short hiatus from writing my fantasy series (The Oathtaker Series) over the past few months, I’ve been working instead on a non-fantasy story entitled, So I Opened My Mouth and Screamed. It will be published in 2018.
 
This story is near and dear to my heart, as being aware of a real-life story with which this one shares features, I felt I had to write it. It opens when a young man breaks and enters into the home of a family and, armed with a knife, sexually assaults the youngest family member (a young woman just turned 16) and threatens her not to call for help.  I don’t want to give away the details, but the young woman in question is/was not your typical 16-year old.  Rather than being a victim to the demands of her unknown assailant, she did precisely what he demanded she not do. That is, she screamed. She screamed loud and long and strong. Of course, help came running. But the story did not end after the assailant fled the scene. The young woman and all of her family were then left to deal with the aftermath of such an invasion of their place of refuge, and the assault, itself.
 
While based loosely on real-life events, the particulars have changed sufficiently such that this would not be deemed a work of non-fiction. The family is different, the family member characters are different, and the setting is different. But I used one crucial fact from the real-life story. Specifically, the young woman proved to be her own hero. But she also became a hero to other women (including me!). You see, this young woman’s story makes me appreciate the power of my own voice in a new way. How did that come about? Well, the girl in my story (as in real life), explained to the police what had transpired. She said that once she was fully awake, she realized that events were real and not part of a dream, and that the person who was demanding she do certain things and who threatened her with a knife against calling for help, was real. In telling her story, she said that in her panic, she thought about what she should do. Upon recollecting that her mother had told her to scream should such a thing occur, she said, “So, I opened my mouth . . . and screamed.” Once she was able to do that, help came.
 
The  young hero in my story doesn’t always feel like a hero. Often she feels like a victim. But as time has passed since that dark summer night, and as she has come to look at the events now through the help of a counselor and in other ways, she has grown better able to appreciate that she is not just a victim. She is not even “just” a survivor. Her life wasn’t over the night someone tried to harm her—and the event did not “ruin” her future. You see, she is a fighter. She is a winner. And as such, she is a model for us all.
 
I discovered something in her story that I though worthy of sharing with others. Specifically, I discovered that sometimes, in the midst of horror and danger, we have but to find our voices.

You're a reader. You have friends who are readers. You have family who are readers. As Christmas comes galloping toward us, you've finally cast your thoughts toward that annual tradition of giving a gift that says you know and appreciate them, even if they are often lost in other worlds. But what to give? Here are some ideas I've found that made me laugh and snort my eggnog ~ with a couple of them making it to my shopping cart.

First up, for your reader who is also the coffee drinking family member. Here's a way to honor that love, while still subtly saying, "You've ignored the rest of us for too long. . ."

Thank you, Parker!

Next up is Robin Lythgoe. I'm anxious to learn more, Robin. What have you got for me? 

Bookish gift ideas are nice to have any time of the year, right? We all know people who love to read and write, and there are many gifting occasions throughout the year.

But it's December already, and although we have the same twelve months every year in which to prepare ourselves, we're running behind again. And if you are one of those Miracle Early Shoppers, you're probably still looking for a few last minute ideas for stockings, or office parties, or . . . all that jazz.

​So put on your party hats, queue up the holiday tunes, and let's do this!

I couldn't help but chuckle when I read Parker's opening. Then I got to Robin's and laughed out loud. Why? Because she mentioned early shopping. I find the concept more than a little amusing. You see, I tried that early shopping routine some years back. I discovered it wasn't for me. Here are my reasons: (1) I buy things I like so well and am so excited about that I give them to the person right away, thereby leaving myself in the position of having to shop again for the actual holiday; (2) I buy things I like so well, I keep them (and yes, that leaves me having to shop again); and (3) I just keep buying things! I never seem to think it's enough, I forget what I already have, and really, let's be honest: the gift-giving impulse builds as the holiday approaches.

With that, needless to say, I did not buy early this year. And now I'm up against the clock, as I lost the last week with my husband in an ICU unit in an area hospital. Fortunately, things are looking up and he is now home. So . . . I now turn my attention to gift-giving.

Of course, it goes without saying that some of the most perfect gift ideas for the readers on your list, are the books we three Quills have penned. You might even get some good holiday pricing on them. But before I share more ideas for those readers, let's chat about the writers on your list.

A few years back, I started using a new service, called “Bublish.” While Bublish offers a beginner-level service for authors for no fee, there is also an option for a service with added features.
 
Bublish is unique in that it gives authors an opportunity to share excerpts from their works along with their thoughts, purposes, memories, and more, with readers. With each post—which can be daily, weekly, or otherwise—the author takes an excerpt from her work and adds commentary about it.
 
Here are a few examples of things I’ve done:
 
Unexpected Events – This Book bubble discusses how I created suspense in the opening scene of Oathtaker.
 
Scent – Here I mention the importance of scent in my stories. An oft-forgotten sense for authors, it is "key" in The Oathtaker Series. In fact, the gift of smell is so important to the storyline, that I did another Bubble on the subject in this one, entitled Fragrance. Yet another is found in a Bubble I entitled Signs and Scents. 
 
Research is a subject I addressed so as to share a part of my writing process and some tools I use—including Visual Thesaurus—which, incidentally, would make another great gift for the author on your list. (And, lucky you, it is quite inexpensive!)
 
Doorways is a Bubble I published to discuss the literary device of inviting the reader to wonder what is behind that next door, or down that next path, or around that next corner . . .
 
For more of these, I invite you to follow me on Bublish. Oh yes, that brings up another great feature of Bublish. It provides a means for authors to stay in touch with readers on a regular basis!
 
As to readers—well, suffice it to say that Bublish would be a great gift for them, as well. That said, the service is entirely free for all readers. All they have to do is sign up. But you could lead them that way! 
 
For the reader on your list who already has everything—and, yes, we all have someone on our list like that—I suggest you provide a gift of books to a local shelter. You might arrange with the entity in advance to provide for their specific needs. Alternatively, you could provide a gift certificate for books so that they may choose whatever works they most need.
 
For the reader on your list who doesn’t already have everything—(which covers more people, don’t you agree?), how about some classics with some crazy-beautiful book spines? Like this Jane Austen set. Or  check out Juniper Books. Too rich for your blood?  Yes, mine too. So, how about some fun stationery, including gift wrapping paper. Here’s one of my favorites from Ideal Book Shelf. I know I’d love to receive this either as a gift or as the wrapping for something more, and especially, if that "something more" is a book!

​How about you? What is on your holiday list?