This is just a brief announcement to let everyone who has been so kindly inquiring as to the status of my books know:

I received word today that, after the death of my dear friend Judith Simpson, who was also senior partner of Lost Bard Books, the surviving partners have decided to dissolve the company.  All rights of contracted work are being reverted to the authors and artists.  My thoughts and thanks are with them, I know this has been a difficult time for all of Judy’s friends.

As of this time, my Junior Handlers Mystery Series, and the trilogy of short stories, The Dragon’s Hound Tales, have been orphaned by the publisher.  I will be seeking other homes for both projects, and will update the website when a new home is found.

Thank you again, everyone, for asking.

Related posts:

1. Lost Bard Books and My Novel
2. A Little Background on ‘Corpse’
3. The Corpse That Wasn’t There, Coming Soon!

On the first of November, the 2009 round of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) launches, and I leap into frantic first-draft mode.  My story will be a sequel to a mid-grade mystery novel which was written a number of years ago.  It made a feeble attempt at being an e-book, and now a new publisher has decided they want it in their line up.  Not only that, they want to make it a series.

A series.  Thus, when I actually found out about NaNo in time to enter this year, it seemed like synchronicity was striking again.  My recent return to the Artist’s Way has reminded me to always listen when coincidences like that happen because, of course, there is no such thing as coincidence.

I’m excited.  Can you tell?

The countdown to NaNo has done something else for me.  The same new publisher has shown interest in a pair of short stories I wrote in the late 1990s, and has asked for a third, as a mini-collection.  The pressing date of November 1st spurred me into getting that story out of the way before diving into the novel.  This morning, I sent the whole set of three, final edits complete, in to the editor.  Done!  That story has been sitting for several months, partly done, on my hard drive.  Once I set a focus on the writing, which I totally enjoyed, it was finished in no time at all.

It’s been a long time since I did any serious fiction writing.  Although I write blog posts all the time, it’s not quite the same thing.  Now, between The Artist’s Way‘s reminders about allowing the inner child out to play, and trusting the Universe to help with the magic of creation, and finally signing up with a writing challenge that I’ve watched from the sideline for years, I’m back in the swing.

… and loving it.

Although those who believe in the Law of Attraction know that it’s primarily thought that brings our realities into manifestation, it’s also important to do little things to act as if your dreams are already achieved.  Setting little goals, and finding the inspiration to step toward them, is a key component to creation.  For me, it was opening the book, and signing on to NaNoWriMo, that opened the floodgates.  The magic has just started to flow, and I am excited to see what the future brings my way.

Have you taken little actions, only to find that things just start to flow together for you?  I’d love to hear your story!

Related Posts:

• NaNoWriMo (or What have I gotten myself into?)
• What I’m Reading: The Artist’s Way

Links of interest:

• NaNoWriMo Official Website

Related posts:

1. Creative Overload: Knitting and NaNo!
2. NaNoWriMo (Or What Have I Gotten Myself Into?)
3. Announcement: Lost Bard Books dissolved

Some people equate hell with an eternity of fire–that bottomless lake of flame and torture reserved for the minions of the devil. Personally, I think going to hell is like drowning in rice pudding. You think everything is sweet and creamy until you try to take a breath and suck a raisin up your nose. Everything just goes downhill from there.

Another misconception about hell is its sense of place. Hell isn’t a place at all, but a state of being. It’s the ancient Hebrew SHEOL– translated hell, translated death. Eternal death. Sounds awful, doesn’t it? A pitiless state of unbeing. Yeah, awful–but as bad as it sounds I’m still in a quandary over which I’d prefer: “sheol”, or what I am–have always been–shall always be.

I spoke ancient Hebrew once. And Mesopotamian and Sanskrit; Germanic; Gallic; Latin. . . . I’m sure some day I shall speak Venutian or Alpha Centauran–it’s all the same. I’m getting pretty sick of it all, really–not that I have a choice.

I’ve never had a choice. It’s been this way for as long as I can recall. One persona after another, going on and on and on. Sounds like a chipper existence, doesn’t it?

Eternal life? Oh–I see I’ve misled you. Sorry. No, hardly that. That would be too simple–like “Insert Tab A into Slot B”, you know? No, my existence doesn’t piece together quite so easily. Oh, don’t get me wrong–there are plenty of those wandering this earth. What, you didn’t know that? Why, sure–the eternal lifers, the ones who come back again and again to set things right for mankind. They’re the ones who make all the wonderful new discoveries, cure the diseases, benefit the human race over and over. There are legends about them, statues erected in communities that range from Atlantis to Manhattan. Of course, nobody realizes all those statues are of the same guy.

My kind don’t get the statues and honorary places in history. Oh no–instead of statues we get entire communities bent on destroying us forever. They burn our abodes around us and hang garlic on their front doors. Instead of carving our names in stone, they want to gouge out our hearts with sharpened sticks.

Eternal death–eternal life; neither label fits our kind. Undead? No, that doesn’t work, either. I’ve been dead plenty of times. I just don’t seem to stay that way for very long.

You know what the worst part of this is, though? The food. The same old thing meal after meal. Matter of fact, my stomach’s growling right now, so I’m going to have to cut our conversation short and hit the streets. Wonder who’s on the menu tonight?

Related posts:

1. Kids’ Story: Twinklestar
2. Essay: Yoda’s Story

The first day of pixie-school was a disaster. Twinklestar’s father had been transferred from the far side of the forest, and she and her parents had just moved in. Twink kicked at the fluff of a dandelion, and a shower of tiny white umbrellas danced on the wind.

“I hate it here–all the other kids just stared at me.” The corners of her lips pulled her whole pixie face into a frown. The sight of her wing-tips caught her eye.

“Why did I have to be born with blue wings, anyway?” she grumbled to the dragonfly that buzzed toward her. It hovered in front of her and looked sympathetic, although it didn’t seem to have any answers. “Why can’t mine be clear and normal like everyone else’s?”

The insect’s beautiful clear wings carried it away. Twink sighed, and tears clouded her vision.

Crying and flying don’t mix very well in a busy forest. Twinklestar didn’t see the web until it was too late. She tried to back-wing but she was too close. Twang! Her tiny body was stuck fast.

Fear replaced the sorrow in Twink’s round blue eyes. She held her breath. If she struggled, the spider would feel the vibrations and the pixie would wind up as someone’s lunch.

It was a matter of moments before the strands began to move. The spider had felt her hit its trap. She could see its long, jointed legs as they moved closer. Twink was in big trouble.

* * *

The first day of second grade was a disaster. Mickie gave a disgusted sigh as the doors of the school bus closed behind him. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, and didn’t turn to wave as the big yellow bus pulled away. There was nobody to wave to.

“I hate being the new kid,” he complained to the dragonfly that buzzed around his head. He raised a hand to give it a swat, but changed his mind. “Hey, I’ll take any company I can get.” The dragonfly flew away.

“You, too, huh?” He watched it disappear in the direction of the pond.

Mom had promised that this was their last move. Dad had a great job in a town not too far away, and the family was happy with their little plot of country land. All summer long things had gone great. Their vegetable garden had been a huge success. For the first time in his life, Mickie enjoyed eating broccoli–after all, he had grown it himself.

School was another story. Being the new kid in school was bad enough, but his small size and large glasses made him stand out. He always had a hard time making friends.

Mickie could have walked up the lane from the bus stop, but the forest was cooler. He had explored its paths all summer and knew every twist and turn. He decided to check on the huge spider web near the old stone wall. Mickie had watched it grow from a tiny silver circle to the size of a wagon wheel. The spider that spun it was huge and brown and hairy, but Mickie wasn’t afraid of spiders.

“Oh, wow! A butterfly!” The boy pushed his glasses up his nose again and took a step toward the web. “What beautiful blue wings!”

The delicate creature was caught in the spider’s trap, and the web’s hungry owner was approaching. Mickie knew all about the balance of nature and that spiders had to eat–but there was something special about this butterfly. He decided to rescue it–let the spider feast on flies. There certainly were enough of them to go around.

How could he free the pretty insect without destroying the spider’s summer-long work? He reached out a cautious hand–and stopped.

“Whoa! That’s no butterfly!” Mickie bent over the web and stared.

The butterfly had the body of a tiny girl! Her eyes were filled with fear. “Get me out of here! Quick!”

Mickie had no idea what he had found, but he didn’t hesitate. He plucked the miniature human from the web, and the tattered strands floated to the forest floor. She sat in his palm, breathing hard, and he brushed the sticky stuff from her brilliant blue wings.

“Who . . . what are you?”

“Thanks! My name’s Twinklestar.” Her musical voice was almost too small to hear. “I’m a pixie–and I’m new around here. Otherwise I’d have known about that web.” She pouted, angry at herself.

Mickie grinned at the look on her face.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. I just think you’re . . . cute. I never met a pixie before.” He lifted her closer to get a better look. “I’m new, too. My name’s Mickie.”

Twinklestar reached out a tiny little hand, and Mickie stretched the tip of his forefinger toward her. Her fingers tickled as they shook, and both faces lit up with beaming smiles.

“Hey, Mickie,” the pixie said, her head tilted hopefully to one side. “I don’t suppose you need a friend. . . . ”

Related posts:

1. Short Story: Monologue
2. Essay: Yoda’s Story
3. Poem: Faerie Snow