Tag Archives: my writings

FEED ME TO THE WOLVES – celebration + teaser

13 Jul

I finished the first draft of my new YA fantasy, folks. And then I took a break. And now I’m editing.

In celebration I’m going to put the first chapter up here on the blog, but first I want to share the first bit of inspiration that brought the book about and guided it all the way through to completion:

therewasalittlegirlThis didn’t bring me the world or the storyline, but it did deliver me the main character. Heck, it practically birthed her, stuck a bow on her head, and said, “Here you go. Just wait until your hear her voice!” And Sky’s voice is what’s driven this story from day one.

Okay, let me try to sum this up briefly:

The Conchans are a traditional people group (think Romani meets Vikings) trying to live in a modern world (think 1920s America or Europe). I know that sounds nuts, but stay with me. The men have been leaving in longboats for the last century to fight the shrev wolves, monsters who have plagued the continents. In their wars against the shrev they’ve taken the clans from slaves to honored warriors, and their war is almost at an end.

Sky is a Conchan girl with a secret: among a people group with a fierce hatred for shrev wolves and regular wolves alike, she’s become something of a wolf sympathizer… and she can communicate with canines. Sky’s never fit in to begin with, but things get a whole lot worse when all of the men come back from across the sea and her wolves won’t stay safely North like she’s told them. Something is pushing them down. And Sky thinks the men may be wrong about the shrev being wiped out.

Still sound nuts? I know, it’s a doosey. In my defense, Maggie Stiefvater wrote a book about man-eating horses that come up out of the ocean and the people who try to capture them and race them without getting their throats ripped open. And it was awesome!

Here is the Pinterest board for anyone who wants to take a gander.

And here is [a very unedited] start to FEED ME TO THE WOLVES:

Chapter One

I was seven when we were married. I was seven and he was ten.

During the ceremony, he took my hand when the elder instructed him too, and I found that his was slick with sweat. When I glanced up at his face, I saw him swallow, and it was then that I realized we were doing something awfully serious. Still, I went along with it, bewildered and naive.

My own mother had never been married so it was no wonder I didn’t understand all the fuss.

Then they sent him away. Off on the longboats with all of the other men and the boys pretending to be men. And that was the end of it.

I thought.

Turns out being married has little to do with the ceremony and everything to do with the years that follow, till the day they fill your nostrils with dirt.

I’ve come to loath the goddy tradition.

I make my way down the muddied path to my mother-in-law’s wagon. It’s raining out today, which is no different from all of the other days we’ve had lately, and I try to keep my boots from the deep stuff. Still, they are caked by the time I reach her yellow door.

Freak hides himself away under the stairs as I walk up them. I hear him give a humph as he lays down on what I hope is dry ground and I frown. My own wagon is a mess from all of his fur and dirt, and I don’t need him bringing in anymore. I also can’t bear to leave him outside and he knows it.

Before I can knock, the door swings open. I hurry in and close it behind me. Rahv is already back among her jars and bags and brushes, rummaging around with her back towards me. I look around while I wait, my floppy hat dripping water onto her floor.

I’ve always loved Rahv’s wagon. While I’ve never much liked having to show up and do her bidding each day while the other girls my age get to do their own bidding, I admit, it could be worse. Rahv is what I like to think of as a light soul. She doesn’t fuss or dwell or worry, and I think her wagon is proof of that. It’s a bit messy in here. Her tea cup is still dirty on the table, books lay haphazardly under and around it, and the floor hasn’t been swept yet today. There is a decent sack full of dirty laundry back in the far corner that I can see, but she won’t be pulling it over for me to wash. There are things she cares more about than clothes.

That’s when my eyes dart up to her oak-hewn beams. She’s painted each one with a stunning sprawl of yellows, every shade of yellow you could imagine, in intricate layers and detail.

My eyes go to where they always go: the far corner where I can just make out the pack of canines, wolves maybe, from where I stand. They run so close to each other that it is hard to tell where one wolf ends and the other begins. They are like a blur, a wisp, a breath of wind moving across my mother-in-law’s ceiling.

And I can’t help but wonder by what stroke of madness she painted them there.

When she clears her throat, I flinch. The golden masterpiece above us is difficult to catch the details of, given it’s all painted in the same hue, and I don’t want her knowing that I’ve discovered her wolves. I’m too afraid that they’re a secret and that she’ll paint over them if she knows I know, but she is looking down at the bags in her hands.

“A few colors today,” she says as she hands me three small bags. There is powder in each of them. It’s my job to make them into paint for her, and it beats scrubbing her underwear.

I take them and fish out the jar from the shoulder purse I have tucked under my shawl, kept safe from the rain. It’s the paint I made for her last night, a blue that reminds me of the delicate bell-like flowers I sometimes come across in the old-growth forests, and she takes it without meeting my eyes.

I watch her as she studies the paint, bringing it over to her small window to get a better look. I think she likes it. Her brows haven’t knit together and her lips stay straight, not bunching off to one side. If I had to guess, I’d say her thoughts are already on her next painting.

She waves her hand towards the door and I turn to go.

This is the life early marriage has brought me: a mother-in-law to tell me what to do, a wagon of my own, and the laughter of the other girls. It’s not so bad, so long as the boy they married me off to never comes back. I smirk at the idea and reach for the handle.

That’s when we hear the yelling. My smile falls and my mind fills with things that could be wrong. Someone’s died, or maybe a band of rouge riders are making an attack. I fling the door open, but can’t see who’s hollering through the rain and resting wagons. Freak is out from under the stairs, looking in the same direction that I am, and I can feel every bit of his tension.

Something is wrong, very wrong, and I wish I could hear the woman’s words. I lean out the door, aware that Rahv has come to stand behind me, and listen hard. I only hear what she’s saying as she comes around the wagon up ahead, a bent up figure with her skirt pulled high.

“Boats!” she’s yelling. “Boats have come, and the men are livid. Get up. Get up and get going you pack of rovers!”

My shoulders slump forward. Boats? Oh, let the men figure out life in the village for themselves. Livid. I roll my eyes and wish I had a wooden spoon to cram down the back of my throat in a gesture of how much I care. It’s the same every time. Some lousy boats make their way back, and we women have to drop everything.

The woman bringing the news is Beckra, and I think she will turn around when she sees that Rahv and I have heard her message, but she only smiles and hobbles nearer. As she draws to the side of the wagon, I move down the stairs to make way for Rahv in the door way.

“Boats, Rahv, and news with them,” says Beckra. I move to walk by her, but the woman grabs my arm. “Not so fast, Mute. You’ll want to hear this.”

She says it like it’s my name; most of them do.

“Your husband,” she tells Rahv, “he’s dead.”

My eyes flash to my mother-in-law’s. I’m not sure what I expected to see, but the folding of her arms and nothing more than her lips drawing to a frown isn’t it.

“Oh,” she says. She lets out a sharp sigh. “Okay. We’ll thanks for letting me know, Beckra.”

I try not to gape at her. I admit, I’ve never liked that man. Not since he picked me out from all the other girls and sized me up to be his first-born’s wife. It’s no secret why he picked me: I don’t talk.

He thought that made for a good wife.

He had watched me ever since then, too, every time he came back on one of the boats. It’s also no secret that, each time, his favor of me dropped considerably. I bite my lip when I think of the incident with my hair. I’m a bit relived to hear of his death, and rightfully so, but Rahv is his wife. What will her five daughters think?

“That’s not all,” Beckra says. A smile floods her face. “You’re boy is home.”

My first thought is that Rahv has no boys, only girls. When it hits me that she does have a boy, that he’s been off on the long boats for the past ten years, and that he is also my husband, it’s as if the whole world closes in.

My knees are weak. My mind gives out on me.

It is Rahv’s sobs that pull me back. She is hanging on the old woman now, as if her knees are weaker even than mine, and she is smiling into Beckra’s face. They cry and bounce and laugh as the nausea in me grows. I’m close but it feels like I’m watching them from a mile out.

Now Beckra looks at me.

“Ha ha! And look at her!” she gawks, pointing at me. “White as a damn Pink!”

Rahv looks back at me and her smile drops. She straightens up and stares me in the face like she never has before.

“You should have taught her more, Rahv. She’s going to have to do his washing, not you.”

The old woman laughs, oblivious to the tension rising between Rahv and me.

“Now let’s go you two,” she cackles. “It’s a five day trip back to the village and I wasn’t kidding when I said the men were livid.”

She grabs my wrist and pulls me down the path. “Get your girls, Rahv,” she yells back.


My life is over now. I might as well find a lake to drown myself in. Or lay in front of my wagon’s wheel and hope to the gods the whole thing’s heavy enough to crush me good and hard. Because I am not cut out to be anyone’s wife, and I’m pretty sure I’ve proved that over the past ten years since they married me off.

I burst into my own wagon and don’t even pull the door behind me. Freak darts by and I hear him shaking out his sopping pelt all over my walls and mattress, but I’m too caught up in my own thoughts to care. I throw my dripping hat onto the table and when my curls fall into my eyes, I brush them away hastily.

I can’t be a wife; I won’t. And no one can make me.

Can they?

The thought causes me to halt my mindless pacing, and when the curls fall back in front of my eyes, I snap. I retrieve my scissors from where they lay out on the table and give my hair a good hacking. I start in the front and move my way back until all the hairs are two inches long or less and bits of dark curls litter the ground around me.

It feels good to be reckless while, at the same time, exercising control. And if anything is a reminder of the control I maintain for myself then it’s my hair, short and wild for the past two years to remind everyone here that I am my own person.

I can’t be a wife.

I look around my disastrous wagon and get the heavy sense that it mirrors my insides. I could try to clean it up, but what would be the point? There is no making sense of me.

Just then, I get a feeling from Freak. He is worried about me and sends me an image: my hand coming down to rest on his head.

He means well. He wants reassurance that things are okay.

But it only reminds me of just how messed up I really am.

Chapter Two

Men who leave their families for years on end ought to come home with spoils of some kind. I’m not picky. Gold and rubies would be nice, but, hell, I’d take exotic pickles and cotton linens.

But that’s not how it works when you’re Conchan. Our men come back with nothing but a string of demondog ears hung around their necks.

It’s gross and I remain thoroughly unimpressed.

Now it’s been five days of travel through mud and high waters to get a neck full of ears I’m disgusted by and a husband I do not want. I’m exhausted from the thoughts I’ve battled while holding too tightly to dripping reins, and if I don’t find a cliff to steer my donkey off of soon it will be too bad…



pardon me while i celebrate – CSSW TEASER

26 Sep

Yesterday I finished the 1st draft of the book I’ve been writing all summer. And I was thrilled. And I still am.

This is my 5th novel, and my 1st that fits better into the middle grade (MG) age group instead of young adult (YA). I’m a bit frustrated about this because my main characters age doesn’t quite line up with MG, but that is a post for another day.

As soon as I finished the story I sat down with a blank word document and listed out everything that I know needs editing. I quickly filled a whole page. Now I’m going to put the story aside until after NaNoWriMo and let my mind move on to other things. Like fixing the 80,000 word mess I made with my previous book (which I am utterly in love with).

Anyway, for those of you who would like a little sampling, here is the teaser for the book I just finished, Crow and the Secrets of the Spirit Woods, plus the 1st chapter. Keep in mind that this is a 1st draft. I did not clean it up or fill it out for you (and it needs lots of filling out). But it’s a good start. For me. Enjoy!


There’s my girl, Crow!


No one ventures into the haunted forest north of the village. Not unless they’re an orphan girl taken in by Crow and her band of motherless misfits. Here they have made a home for themselves among the dancing trees, the horses made by the light of the moon, the mudmaids that come with the rain, and all of the secrets which the forest keeps safe from the outside world. But their home is threatened when the townspeople become more hostile towards their way of life and a group of boys invades the woods. A white bear is stalking their camp leaving behind eerie piles of teeth, and Crow has to question if their beloved home will keep them… or kill them.

Chapter One:

They were the children of the trees, and on the nights they were lucky, the moon would shine down on them.

And it had been many nights since they’d seen the moon.

Crow snapped twigs between her fingers. Last night’s fire had ceased to nothing more than smoldering logs, and she watched the grey smoke move through the camp. None of the other girls were up yet, and Crow wished she could say the same for herself. When her hand got to the end of the twig, she dropped the pieces and chewed her thumb nail.

A dog whined at her feet, reminding her that there were things she needed to do. Like finish packing the donkey for starters. She let out a ragged breath and looked up through the tops of the trees.

Clouds. Nothing but clouds. This was why she hated spring.

Crow set to wrapping up the rabbit furs. They’d managed a few dozen of them over the winter and she imagined they’d fetch a fair price. But it was the two deer hides and the fox fur that would bring in the most. Besides the skins, she packed the bundles of herbs, the healing salve Goss had made, bones they’d carved into beads on the days their hands could get warm, and three sacks of brec that had been roasted and ground.

Crow scold at the brec and looked back to the fire pit. On a decent day, she’d still be in bed like the other girls. Leelah would be up in two or three hours, and she would get the fire going again. By the time the sun was high past the trees and Crow was staggering out from her bed, a pot of brec would have been brewed and a cup delivered into her hands.

Not today. And she hadn’t seen the moon all week.

She grumbled to herself as loudly as she dared. There was no sense in waking the others, but still she felt someone ought to know about her suffering this morning. The donkey was the only one to hear her, and his ear only twitched.

“Come on, This.” She took hold of the donkey’s lead. “Let’s get Bell.”

The horse was back in the fields, well- field. One field, even a small one, was hard to come by in this forest. When Crow had found it it was barely more than a clearing, and it had taken her weeks to get it to what it was now, dull ax in hand. That was two years ago when she was 13.

Now she was 15, and her ax was sharp.

She saddled and bridled the horse, went over the list in her head one more time, and double-checked the sacks on the donkey. Then she stood and chewed her thumb nail. The donkey was content to stand, but Bell was an impatient horse. She fidgeted, made nervous by Crows own nerves, and her ears flicked back and forth.  When she stamped a hoof, Crow shook her head at herself and climbed into the saddle on Bell’s back. They turned away from the small huts nestled in the trees and headed south.

So, this was what the forest looked like in the morning. Crow tried to remember the last time she’d been up so early. Last summer, she supposed, on one of her trips to town. She’d picked up little Jovi that day. It seemed like longer ago than it was.

Crow smiled, remembering Jovi’s curiosity, how it’d gotten the better of her. It had gotten the better of all the girls Crow had brought out into the woods; if they didn’t have enough of it, they stayed at the Mission in town.

“But those woods are haunted,” Jovi had said.

Crow remembered smiling. “Yes, but she’ll take care of you.”


“The woods. She takes care of all the orphan girls. It’s the riff-raff she keeps out.” Crow had winked when she said that. She was sure of it.

“But the orphans are the riff-raff.”

Jovi had seemed so small huddled against the wood shed that used to be her fathers. Crow had knelt down. “Not in the woods they aren’t.”

She could still see the look on Jovi’s face. Fear, sadness, loss… curiosity.

No girl ever made it into the woods who wasn’t curious.

The woods were sleeping now, just like the girls back in their huts. One groggy oak seemed to notice Crow on her quiet trek towards town and its branches reached out, stroking the top of her head.

“Just me,” Crow said, lifting her fingers to meet the new leaves that had recently pressed though. “Back to sleep with you.”

In a little over an hour, she was at the forest’s edge. Staggering black spruce went up on all sides around her, a blunt fortress against the empty field she looked out across. She could just make out the dirt road from her spot atop Bell. After another long breath, she left the safety of the trees.

The donkey perked up at the sight of so much grass, and Crow had to fight to get him down the road. When she spied the smoke that rose up above a stand of trees further ahead, she smiled. It surprised her a little. But then, she’d made it to the cabin. That was reason to be glad. She’d forget what waited for her after that.

Past the stand of trees, she took the path back to the house. The black hound was outside stretched out on the porch, telling Crow that they must be awake. Of course they’d be awake; they weren’t like the girls.

The hound caught the sound of hooves and looked up from her post. In an instant, she was bawling, and yelping, and clamoring for her footing on the old wooden boards, leaping the stairs and sprinting for Crow and her animals. Crow cringed. Was their nothing noisier than a hound?

Moments later, the front door cracked and a head looked out across the yard.

“Gwen!” he cried. “Come and look!”

The door flung wide, and the man headed down the stairs. He clapped his hands together, and smiled broad at Crow.

“Well, well,” he said as he neared her. “You’ve made it another winter. Thank our lucky stars.”

An odd expression, Crow thought, since the stars seemed to do little good other than shed their dull light. Why did no one thank the moon? Crow didn’t exactly thank anything, but if she were going to start then she would start with the moon. But then, it’s easier to thank the moon when you live in the Sprit Woods.

“Alive and well,” she said.

“And the others?”

“All good. We even got two deer.”

“Two deer?”

“And a fox.”

“Well, now! Hides whole?”

“Is there another way?”

The man laughed and slapped Bell on the neck a few times. “Very well.” He turned back to the house. “Gwen! Stop fussing and get out here!” He winked at Crow. “I’m sure she’s cleaning the house for ya. As if you’d care, ha!”

“Do you mind if I let the animals graze? Thistle is aching for some decent grass.”

“Of course, of course. C’mon, I’ll help ya.”

When the animals were settled in a grassy corral, the man lead Crow into the little cabin. Gwen was stoking the fire in her wood stove to a roar, and her checks were flush with excitement.

“Corra,” she said. “Look at you. How you’ve grown!” She grabbed Crow by the arm and pulled her to her chest. Crow was not one for hugs, but fighting Gwen was hopeless. The women had maybe a hundred pounds on her, plus she was relentless.

“Crow,” she managed to say. She was being pressed too hard to fill her lungs properly. “You know I go by Crow.”

“Oh, nonsense.” Gwen pushed back and started fussing over Crow’s hair. “Your mother named ya Corra.”

Crow batted her hands away. “Yeah, but Dad called me Crow.”

Gwen gave a humph. “You’re skinny. I’ve already stared the batter for the cookies. John, milk the cow, will ya?”

Crow smiled. “The girls are as eager for them as ever.”

This was just was Gwen wanted to hear. “Good.”

Soon Crow was stuffed on Gwen’s hash, the best she’d ever had, and two mugs full of brec, her saving grace. The cookies were just emerging from the big cast iron oven, and dozens were set to cool on various counter tops. The girls would rip their guts with them later, that Crow was sure of.

“Now, don’t let the girls eat them too quickly,” Gwen said as she slid another tray in on the rack.

“ ‘Course,” Crow lied. Her fidgeting had returned. “I suppose I should get a move on before the morning gets away from me.”

John looked up from wood piece he was carving. “I suppose you should. Listen, Crow, I have to tell ya. The villagers aren’t happy with ya taking the little one out there.”

Crow nodded and watched the dregs of brec she swirled at the bottom of her mug. “Jovi.”

“That’s the one. They’re bound to give you a bad time.”

Crow gritted her teeth and thought about Kip. Kip was not even a full year older than Jovi, yet no one had cared a lick when she’d brought her out. She almost said something about it to John but fought it back. That was different, and she knew it. She kicked back the grounds in her mug and stood up. “So long as they buy my skins.”


storytelling through haikus

10 Feb

Chuck Wendig over at Terrible Minds issued a little haiku competition last week that I had to get in on. You know I love my haikus. The challenge was to tell a story weaving three haikus together.

Normally when I write a haiku I stay flexible with the syllables, not getting religious about the 5-7-5 pattern, but Chuck wanted us to keep to it, so I did. Supposing I can count.

Here’s my story:

Evil moves eastward
And the farmers who love peace
Become warriors

She hides among them
A girl with the heart of ten
To fight alongside

And though she dies, pierced,
On a field green and crimson
Her nation lives on

*Side note : this haiku says nothing about the book I’m working on. It’s a different story entirely.*

writing plans

10 Oct

Every few months I sit dow and make a writing plan. This is about as organized as I get. I look at my last plan, see where I hit the mark and where I didn’t, pin point what I feel was realistic and what wasn’t, yada, yada, yada.

It’s really pretty fun.

Last night I wrote up a new plan, and decided to put it up here. That way I have a record of it (I lost my last plan) and some accountability. This is what I have so far:

October > Continue revising The Warrior (book one) and get it to the best possible place before November. Send Oliver’s Idea (my children’s book) to 20 publishers. Write up and outline for The Prince (book two).

November > NANOWRIMO! Write the 1st draft of The Prince (book two).

December > Breath. Go back to The Warrior, spend one week revising, then print it. Work like mad getting it to next draft stage. Send Oliver’s Idea out to 40 publishers.

January > Start sending The Warrior out to a select few for feedback.

February, March, April > Get The Warrior to final draft stage (or at least FIRST final draft stage).

May… send The Warrior out to agents.

So, there it is. I don’t know how well I’ll stick to it. I’m all for plans until they start getting in the way. For example, I’m not sure I want to send The Warrior out to agents until I have a good outline made up for The Prophesy (book three). I’m also not sure it I can write The Prince over November and then not touch it all winter. The thing is, I’ve never done this before. I’m learning as I go and staying flexible. I just also need to stay focused and keep things moving forward. What a balance it is.

Any writers out there know what I’m talking about? How do you get your stuff done?



haiku – sanctuary for the weary wordsmith

14 Jun

With my pocket knife / I cut a haiku open / and shake out the words   (Roary at CoyoteSings)

Maybe it’s because I’m in the middle of a novel. A fat, sloppy, greasy novel that boasts of 236 pages in desperate need of fixing, rewriting, hacking back, and filling in. And I feel like I’ve been working on it forever. And the end is no where in sight…

Maybe that’s why I’ve taken such a liking to haikus.

When my brain is mush, and I feel like all my endless word spinning may be in vain, and what am I even doing working with words? Maybe words aren’t even my thing! Maybe I suck at words! – That’s when it’s nice to take a break. Clear my mind. And focus on 17 syllables.

17 syllables, and I’m done. Finished. One whole piece. Born. Completed. Something that wasn’t there before, now created.

It’s a breath of fresh air.

To my husband, it’s a crock of crap. He thinks they suck. Not just mine. All of them. He thinks they’re stupid. Still, I made him write one, and he doesn’t know it, but I’m going to share it here:


Heat is sweltering

The soft flesh is now melting

My mind is at sea


I think it’s pretty great. He says it’s total BS and means nothing at all.

Now it’s my turn:



Black sky, quiet house.

I ignore the day’s messes.

My mind wants to roam.




Small seed, it seems dead.

Pushed into vast earth, swallowed-

This must be it’s end…




I’m a butterfly-

Wings like paper, yet strong to fly

Thousands of miles.



I really like those last two. Okay, your turn. Leave a haiku in the comments! 5 syllables in the first line, 7 in the next, then 5 again in the last. And you can give or take a few if you’re writing in English. For some reason, this is okay. But if you’re going to put it down in Japanese, sorry, you’ve got to stick to the rules.

Dad, you’re gonna take me up on this, right?


weave for me a dandelion ring – haikus

6 Jun

I wore a wedding ring once.

It wasn’t something Clayton gave me when we said our vows. No, instead we had exchanged hemp bracelets we made for each other the night before our wedding. Wait, that’s not right. I wanted to make my own bracelet, so he made his. Either way, they rotted off our wrists within a month. I wonder where the remnants are? You would think I would have saved something like that…

About a year after we were married, still brimming with love and affection for one another, we walked into a mall and came out an hour later wearing matching sterling silver bands. Each had cost around seventy five dollars.

I know, I know. I’m one classy girl, what can I say.

Four years later, I lost mine. It’s somewhere down at the park, maybe in the lake or under the sands of the volleyball court. That had been a fun day…

My finger has been bare for a year now. I have no wedding band to symbolize my love and commitment for my husband.

But, the thing is, you don’t need a band to symbolize that, when you wear it on you, like a permanent-marker-message to the forehead, everywhere you go.

My five-year-old daughter was wondering about dandelion necklaces today. She had seen the idea in a book and asked me if I knew how to make them. I told her that of course I did, and sat down with a fresh pile of dandelions to prove it to her. Our yard is generous in her production of them. I could try to my hearts content. But I failed. It was harder than I remembered. Finally I asked her if a ring would do, and I wrapped it around her little finger and tucked in the end so that it stayed.

Beautiful. I kept looking at it. That dandelion made a gorgeous ring.

And I thought about my lost wedding ring. And I thought about my bare finger. And I thought about the gold and the white gold and the karats and the princess cuts and the blue diamonds. And I found in my mind a young couple, something like the lovers in Braveheart, poor in wealth, but rich in love, and I saw him weaving her a ring from a dandelion and her cherishing it because she cherished him. And even after it was rotted and gone, she still cherished it, because she still cherished him, ring or no ring.

And I realized I had to write about it. Because some things just need to get out.

I’m hoping to write a lot of poetry about dandelion rings, but today I started with haikus. I’ve never written any before today, but I’ve been seeing them around and thought it would be a good place to start. They keep a 5-7-5 syllable pattern, like the traditional japanese haikus, but I slipped in a 6 syllable line on one. From what I understand, haikus don’t work in the English language the same way they do in Japanese, so it’s okay to bend the rules a little.


A gold band means this-

Not a single thing to me.

I only want love.



Gold band, I need not.

Give me all your love and a

dandelion ring.



I lost my wedding ring

but not my love for my groom,

so I have it all.



Money, no, but love abounds,

and so let my ring be a

dandelion ring.



I love you, but you

are poor, so weave for me a

dandelion ring.


Which one is your favorite? Do you think they are all ridiculous and haikus are stupid? You wouldn’t be alone!

I like 2, 4 and 5 the best. If I had to pick one, I’d pick… 2? I’ll try to post more dandelion ring poems as I come up with them.


story teasers

28 May

I’ve been obsessing over the same story since December and thought it time I share some little teasers. I’ve been calling it The Warrior

A prophesy is made. Enemies are rooted. Hope seems like a frail seed destined to die.
But what happens when hatred falters and it’s opposite creeps in?
The stage is set. The players are in place. But the game is not what anyone expected.


Mild, meek, and timid. Yet they call her Warrior.

Prophesied at the age of two to one day bring Challdor great victory over their enemy, Kaia has grown up in the Queen’s palace, a slave to the art of combat. But she does not fit her role in size nor spirit, much to the Queen’s dismay. When Kaia is captured by the very people she’s been training to defeat, everyone holds their breath.

With the fate of two kingdoms resting in her shy hands, all eyes are on Kaia.

And she is going to surprise them all.


And here is my one-liner:

The Kingdom of Challdor’s prophesied Warrior has her world turned upside down when she finds herself deep in the enemy’s kingdom.


Hopefully all that was interesting and not confusing. Input is welcomed.

I’m trying to salvage a third draft at the moment, but, I’ll be honest, my first drafts are so messy it physically hurts. My poor father and husband have taken up the chore of wading through my second draft for me now, and I’m hoping to send the next draft out to a few others. For now I’m fleshing it out, adding more scenes, smoothing over the cracks (sometimes gaping crevasses), and deleting the heck out of things.

Funny. I always pictured writing novels as this easy, clean task.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Easy reading is damn hard writing. -Nathaniel Hawthorne

But it’s so worth it.