Some time during the night of July 16-17, 2023, four cats escaped from my house.
(For the record, we have five cats. One of them is allowed to go outside. She’s the only one who stayed in.)
It was a daring prison break involving both luck (someone left a basement window open and unattended) and skill (one of the cats has figured out how to hook a claw into the screen and pop it out).
I can only imagine their excitement. What I can know for sure is that I was VERY groggy when my husband woke me up at 3 AM with his report, and I was still half asleep when the hunt began.
Two of the convicts—er, cats—returned with little fuss. Rorschach (pictured below on a quieter day) turned himself in and George let me catch him easily.
Minnie and Fred, however, were nowhere to be seen.
So this is the story of how I camped out in a backyard gazebo overnight because cats.
It wasn’t too shabby, actually. I dragged my mattress out, brought pillows and blankets (I mean, I like camping, but if you’re within mattress-dragging distance why would you not?), and settled in to…
…to definitely not sleep. The air was pleasantly cool, but I had cats to worry about and the mosquitoes are pretty relentless when your back yard is a part-time swamp.
Fred fell for the bait and I had the poor gentleman in custody within the hour.
Minnie was less cooperative. I dozed for an hour and then spent my morning coaxing her out of a tangle of trees, then reminding her that she’s a tame creature who didn’t actually have to run away every time I approached her.
Some of my time was also spent making the gazebo a comfortable, shady place to sit when I wasn’t busy scrambling up a steep hill hauling cat food and water to leave as offerings outside of Minnie’s hideout. This involved a very loud floral bedsheet that’s probably older than me. Surprise glamping trips with spider roommates demand attention to the details.
I may have been a little sleep deprived when I made my decor decisions, but I stand by them.
Pictured: luxury. And also the recycling I just remembered should have gone out this morning. Whoops.
The whole thing ended with a belly rub and me carrying Minnie back into the house like a wee baby, which I assume is how most wayward criminals are apprehended.
The cats are all recovering from their adventures in the most dramatic fashion, and all is well.
As for me, I kind of think the “galzebo” could be the new “she shed.” Definitely will not be pondering this idea when I should be working. *cough*
I’m not usually good at making friends, but I think I’ve figured out a really good life hack in this area.
Peanuts.
This may only work if you’re making friends with a blue jay, though.
I’ve always found blue jays a little annoying. I mean, they’re beautiful birds (even if a certain baseball team has given their image a horribly commercial feel), but their voices are a little harsh. Jarring. Screechy. If you get a bunch of them in your yard together you’re probably going to end up with a headache.
The Canada jay is more my speed. I fell in love the first time I met one, a cheeky little thing on at a wildlife park who was observing the humans as we looked at the more captive animals. Absolutely the cutest little thing, but we don’t see them in our yard.
We do have blue jays, though. One pair, though I usually only see one of them out. Going out on a limb with an assumption here (and knowing that the bird absolutely does not care), I call it “he” because I read that his lady-friend is probably spending more time on the nest these days. Over the past few weeks the little fellow and I have been interacting in tiny ways.
And the thing is, this bird I thought I didn’t like much became really interesting when I started paying attention.
We met on a day when I was reading outside. He was flying around the front yard, and I realized after a while that he was watching me. He came as close as the lamp just a few metres from where I was sitting to get a closer look.
Very sneaky!
So obviously, being a good neighbour, I tossed a few peanuts out for him. He accepted, and a good time was had by all (I assume).
After that I saw him when I was out reading on a few other days, or I’d spot him sitting in the tree letting the cats watch him through the window.
Pictured: what the birds see.
Over the past few days my friend has grown bolder, and I’ve caught him watching me through the kitchen window when I’m cooking or making coffee. He flies away as soon as I look, but I hear his wings and catch the dark shape of him as he makes his unnecessary escape.
And then I take a peanut out, of course. He’s training me very nicely.
Today, another step: I took a treat out to leave on the back deck and saw him watching from a nearby tree. I said hello and left the peanut, and as soon as I turned my back I heard him swooping down to take it, not waiting until I went back in the house. It felt a little like trust.
That, or his observations have led him to believe that I’m too slow and dull to turn and catch him, which is also valid.
Either way, I’m having fun with this, and I count it as one of the lovely things that came out of me taking a few weeks to decompress, be more present and observant, and spend more time away from my desk.
I guess it’s a strange thing to be happy about. It’s just a wild bird doing what wild birds do when it comes to delicious treats.
But now that I’m paying attention, I’m seeing how cool these birds are. They’re as curious and cheeky as their cousin the Canada jay, they’re fierce defenders of their territory (you should see them going after the local crow family!), and I believe everything I read about them being intelligent creatures.
Things can become fascinating when you start to learn about them.
Anyway, I’m pretty sure making friends with a wild bird has put me on the path to being a Disney Princess. If anyone knows where I go to sign up for those squirrels that will help me do the dishes, please let me know.
I did my month of trying to cut down on distractions. It was not what I expected.
Also, I may have stumbled into some sort of midlife crisis. Whoops.
I mean, in some ways it was what I thought it would be. Getting off social media was hard at first, but not because I missed the content. I just missed having something to distract me every time I was un-entertained 30 seconds. But after a month away I think it’s going to be hard to go back, and I’m going to take some time to decide if/where/how I want to be online in that way.
Should I go back enough to use it as a tool for connection and as a way of remembering birthdays? Probably. But I don’t think anyone has missed my little contributions to the noise, so it won’t hurt them if I don’t get back on the notifications hamster wheel just yet.
Quiet mornings were (and continue to be) just as hard as I thought they’d be. I’ve slipped up many times, justifying listening to podcasts or putting on a YouTube video to fill the silence. It’s genuinely painful sometimes to be alone with myself.
And it’s not just in the morning.
Because as it turns out, being alone with your thoughts can be…a lot.
June wasn’t as productive as I’d hoped. I thought that when I had fewer distractions I’d get more work done, and that was true at first.
But a side-effect of not being able to drown my thoughts and numb my feelings with endless TikTok scrolling was that I had to listen to those thoughts and actually feel those feelings. And it turns out that what was hiding under my frantic distraction cravings was a lot of anxiety, depression, and major burnout that I’d been ignoring because it hurt too much to do otherwise.
I realized that I’m tired of forcing myself to do hard mental labour that doesn’t offer much incentive to get it done.
I realized that I’m not enjoying writing anymore, and I need to figure out how to get back to that. I want to be motivated by joy, not negative pressure, and the joy left me a long time ago. This might mean that going forward I take a break from trying to make money from writing and make space for other stuff so I have room to keep creating amazing stories that make my heart sing.
Or whatever my heart used to do when I enjoyed anything, I can’t remember.
And (here’s where the midlife crisis might come in) I realized that the life I’m living doesn’t look much like the one I long for—or maybe that I’m not the person I want to be—and being away from social media with all its temptations to comparison and all its voices telling me what I should want has been helpful in getting a little clarity there.
My thoughts, when I listen to them, pull me in weird directions. Not bad ones, but toward something that aligns better with the me I bump into when I get away from the noise.
No, it’s not a convertible.
But it might be a garden. And learning to be handier around the house. And cooking more mindfully, because as it turns out I enjoy cooking when I’m not just rushing to slap something on the table. And getting more offline. And following inspiration to short stories and books that aren’t “marketable” but that tickle my mind. And possibly evolving into some form of swamp witch, but that’s a “someday” dream.
So no, my “distraction detox” wasn’t the miracle cure I’d hoped for my lack of productivity. I have not finished revisions on Princes & Pawns… haven’t looked at my computer in about two weeks, actually, out of respect for the aforementioned anxiety, depression, and burnout.
But it’s been useful in a very different way.
It’s made me listen to myself, forced me to acknowledge things I wasn’t letting myself feel, and allowed me a bit of space to start exploring how my life (at work and at home) could look a bit more like what I need and a bit less like… well, like me trying to “prove myself” and doing what I keep hearing I should be doing to reach someone else’s idea of success.
That could mean some scary changes, and some exciting ones.
It already means me getting sick enough of my brain fog and headaches (which are another thing I’ve been experiencing more fully for the past month) that I’ve taken two big steps to getting them under control: quitting video games entirely* and overhauling my eating habits to see whether that helps me feel any better.
I still feel stuck, but I feel like it’s a more productive stuck now. I don’t have a map, but it feels like I’m going somewhere.
What a weird adventure.
*after a disastrous experiment that proved to me that they do, unfortunately, trigger migraines and multiple days of mental fog.
I thought my next post here would be a week one recap of my so-called distraction detox, but no.
It’s the story of my newest addition to my office decor.
Have we talked about dolls before? How I find them creepy, especially when they’re realistic and are supposed to be pretty or cute? I know I’ve made my feelings on Elf on the Shelf clear, and most “realistic” dolls aren’t much different for me.
I have a small collection of Living Dead Dolls. They don’t scare me. They’re supposed to be scary, and that just makes them fun.
But porcelain dolls? Nuh-uh. No, thanks.
But then this past weekend I had a few hours to kill, and instead of driving all over town on a rainy day I spent them at Value Village, taking time to look at pretty much everything to see what I was missing on quicker visits.
And I found dolls. Tiny dolls, first, that made me think it would be funny to buy them and start placing them randomly around the house to creep my husband out.
It would have been hilarious, and I now regret not buying them.
But then I turned to the larger dolls and I found Betty.
And like… to me, personally, she looked like she might be haunted. Or like what Living Dead Dolls aspire to be (as my brother pointed out, her backstory would probably involve drowning).
I had to have her. At first I planned to just place her in the man cave, either on April Fool’s Day or when the aforementioned husband pissed me off—he watches horror movies, it would have gotten a fun reaction.
Long story short, that’s not happening.
I started to feel bad for Betty. She clearly wasn’t an antique—her synthetic hair was the first giveaway, even to someone who very intentionally knows nothing about dolls.
I looked her up and she seems to be a variation on what are currently known as “Walda dolls,” which were mass-produced in Taiwan in the seventies and early eighties and advertised in places like TV Guide*. Very cheap, very common, very creepy. She’s not wearing the calico pioneer dress they were usually sold with, but I’ve seen one other photo of one wearing her little sailor dress, so who knows?
Anyway, she’s common. She’s not sought after by collectors. Her hair is thinly rooted and one leg was falling off.
So OBVIOUSLY she got a spa day.
Clean hair, clean dress, a few minor repairs, and now she’s sitting on a shelf with my more intentionally creepy dolls.
See? Much better. Still looks haunted, but at least she’s presentable.
…but Betty isn’t the only scary doll I found.
The other is a different case. A numbered collector’s item that presumably cost some money, and which, more shockingly, was apparently supposed to be adorable.
Demonic Debbie (as I’m calling her) came home with me but will not be staying. Some things are too much for even me.
Thoughts and prayers to the person who asked me to pick her up and the person they’re passing her along to.
Terrifying.
*any information here is based on me googling. I’m doing my best, but info is scarce. Apparently they’re called Waldas as a reference to “Where’s Waldo?” Like Waldo, she’s everywhere if you look hard enough. Can’t say I’ve ever seen one myself, but there you go.
DISCLAIMER: you are excused from reading this long-ass post about my personal project/attempt to change my habits and get revisions done. If you’re into things like books about year-long shopping bans and happiness projects, you are of course welcome to stay.
If not, please enjoy this cat photo as thanks for stopping by, and I hope you have a lovely day 💕
June should be interesting.
Note that I didn’t say “fun.” It’s going to be interesting because I’ve reached a point where I can no longer explain why I’m not getting important work done. I’m losing hours—days, even—to my desperate need for the kind of mental stimulation I don’t get from the challenging yet unrewarding work of novel revisions. It feels like I must either give in to my distraction attraction or do something drastic in an attempt to wrangle my habits into something that serves me.
…you can probably guess which one I’m choosing, especially if you were around for my productivity experiment back in 2017.
This is a whole other thing. Less experimental, narrower scope, far less record-keeping.
For one month I’m getting off social media, minimizing multitasking (and what I call “distraction layering” because I don’t know what else to call it), setting my phone out of reach, and ruthlessly eliminating options for my brain when it wants to wander away from revisions and editing.
(I will be here occasionally to record progress and insights, but if it becomes a crutch or an obstacle I’m out. You can hold me to that.)
Big gestures like this have a mixed reputation, with good reason. For a lot of people there’s a solid argument to be made for changing habits gradually, cutting back slowly, and restricting as needed. It’s far more sustainable in the long run, and the adjustment is less painful.
AMAZING if that works for you. For me, it doesn’t. I’ve tried. If the (social media, bingeable show, game, sweets, whatever) is available to me, I struggle with setting self-imposed limits to the point where they become useless.
…unless I’ve first broken the cycle by going cold turkey, adjusting to not having The Thing, and then decided whether to bring it back in a more limited way.
So here we are. If anyone is still reading, please note that this is in no way a suggestion that you or anyone else should try this with me. This is not a fun new productivity trend. It is me charging into battle, unarmed but scrappy and, above all, desperate.
So it’s not a how-to.
It’s also not a “dopamine detox.” I’m not minimizing pleasure for the sake of becoming more sensitive to it.
I will still watch TV with my husband in the evening—after my work is done, and without my phone in hand.
I will still have gaming time—on Sundays and maybe as a reward after I’ve finished all of my work on a focused day (especially if I’m too mentally drained to do any reading).
I will still read—hopefully more than I manage to when other things are on the table as alternate options.
I will do online drawing lessons (again, at appropriate times). I will go for walks and hikes. I will cook and bake (but I will no longer be bingeing Justified on my iPad while I’m in the kitchen).
There will be photos, but they will be for me, not for posting in places that keep pulling me back to see who liked or commented.
There will be joy. There will be glorious consumption of other people’s creative output.
But there will be limits, structure, and rules—things my brain needs, yet consistently rebels against.
Still with me? Weird, but cool. Let’s move on.
THE RULES:
-no social media. The need to check notifications is too strong, and that leads to scrolling for stimulation. No one is going to suffer for the loss of my silly observations and cat photos for a month, and I don’t do much book promo these days, anyway. It can wait.
-minimal morning distractions. I suspect this will be one of the hardest parts, but I’ve learned that my morning truly does set the tone for my day. If I’m starting my day with high-reward, low-effort activities like watching YouTube videos while I make breakfast it’s really hard to switch gears to high-effort, low-reward work. I haven’t figured out the exact limits here (can I listen to a podcast even if that starts its own distraction cycle, or will that have to be part of the re-introduction process? Can I read even if that tends to turn into “one more chapter” and often cuts into work time?), but ideally my mornings will be quiet and painfully present.
And I do mean painful. Boredom HURTS. I’ll do what I can to relieve it—exercise, DuoLingo, journaling, and whatever else helps prepare me for the day—but it will be a challenge to not have someone else’s voice in my ear as I go about my business.
-limit multitasking and distraction layering. This is one of my worst habits these days (in terms of my own goals, not objectively or morally). I’m rarely doing just one thing. There’s always something else pulling me out of being present and focused. If I’m cooking, I’ve got Netflix on in the background. If I’m watching a movie I also have my phone in my hands to scroll social media or play a mobile game.
Sometimes this layering is beneficial. I genuinely focus better on writing if part of my mind is engaged with music. I get more exercise if I can listen to music or a podcast while I’m walking.
But I think, for me, I’d like to cut back and return to a place where I either enjoy what I’m doing in off-hours or go find something I like better rather than layering distractions on top of entertainment (or whatever).
Again, I need to explore a bit to define limits. Can I try learning cross-stitch or practice drawing while my family watches a movie we’ve seen ten times? That feels fine in a way scrolling Instagram or reading a book doesn’t. TBD. Again, the point isn’t to torture myself with boredom, but to explore.
-work time is for work. Simple rule, and probably the most important. I’ve had it for ages, but it doesn’t work without the other rules to support it. From 9:30 to 2:30 on weekdays (barring appointments) my butt will be in my chair and my fingers on my keyboard. If I’m stuck, I’ll write about why I’m stuck and figure things out that way instead of wandering off to do something else. No posting to social media because “it’s for work.” No other business tasks coming before revisions. Coffee breaks and lunch break, yes, but scheduled and with time limits.
Most importantly, no other options. No phone. No distracting websites. No Kobo packed with tempting books at my side.
Music, yes. And a notepad where I can write down whatever other chore or activity my mind suggests we could be doing (to be saved for a more appropriate time). Also a journal for observations and for writing through the hard parts when necessary. And cats. Always cats in the office, and visually appealing clutter, but they help more than they hold me back.
(Side note: the danger of burnout is real, and accommodations for things like migraine days and mental exhaustion will be necessary. This is just the goal.)
-stay accountable. My brother has generously offered to let me send him chapters as they’re finished so I’ll feel pressure to get work done. That’s my book accountability. For this project I also have a friend who understands my struggles and has agreed to let me check in with her so I feel the pressure to stay on track. One for the tasks, one for the habits.
-get off your damn phone. Pretty self-explanatory. I hate how I reach for my phone as a way to fill every quiet moment of my day. I need it within ear-shot for phone calls (I can’t pick up messages at the moment), but I don’t need it in my hands.
-choose whenever possible. This one sounds a bit silly and obvious, but I’m keeping it. My biggest problem isn’t the things I do, it’s that I do them without conscious thought or choice. I have never consciously thought yes, I’d like to lose an hour to scrolling posts about ridiculous baby names on Facebook, but it happens. There’s nothing wrong with spending three hours reading about architecture, but when I did that instead of editing it wasn’t because I decided it was more important, and I wish I’d chosen it at a better time instead of letting it pull me away from my intentions. I want to practice choosing what’s best for me in the moment rather than acting out of habit. Deciding to crash in front of the TV at the end of the day because I’m mentally done is TOTALLY fine. I just want to make sure it’s my choice.
THE REWARDS
As this is not a process of punishment and deprivation, there will be rewards and celebration along the way. If I start work on time and get a chapter done in the morning there’s a treat with my name on it to go with my lunch. Revising 10 chapters in a week earns me a night off from cooking. Each chapter over that buys me an extra hour of gaming on Sunday (if I want it).
There will be others, but you get the idea. When the work isn’t intrinsically or immediately rewarding we can try to make it feel like it is.
So that’s about it.
Not tackling anything other than getting my habits in order and facing down my craving for mental stimulation (and trying to get my work done).
Not experimenting with other productivity strategies like changing my schedule or recording hourly time use.
No dietary changes, though eating healthier would definitely not hurt.
Just me trying to get comfortable with discomfort and helping my brain get back to doing what it does best.
Not OLD old. She’s not working with floppy disks, we’re not distracting ourselves with games of Oregon Trail.
But she is the MacBook Pro I bought in 2014 with my first book income. She’s been fantastic—reliable, problem-free, endlessly useful.
But the world is moving on. There are new and updated programs I might not be able to put on her because she doesn’t have the memory for them (very relatable).
I can’t get a new computer just yet, but as a nod toward pretending to acknowledge the problem I just deleted a ton of old files to clear the old girl’s mind a little.
Screenshots.
Word files that were just single chapters of drafts I have compiled (and better yet, updated) elsewhere.
Photos.
More screenshots.
Outdated promo images.
It’s weirdly hard to declutter all of this stuff that I haven’t used in years. Not just digitally, either—I have a plastic bin under my bed that’s stuffed full of the notebooks I planned my first books in.
On some deep, survival-oriented level my brain seems to think I need to have proof that my books are mine from every stage, concept to publication.
But why?
Am I scared that someone is going to come at me like a creationist demanding that every gap in the evolutionary timeline be filled in before they’ll believe I wrote Bound or Vines and Vices? That if I’m missing “pre-beta version 3” of chapter six that this missing link will be my downfall in spite of the fact that I alone did, in fact, write my books?
I might have thought at one time that it was good to keep these things in case I decided to go back to an earlier draft, but after publication it’s all just flotsam and jetsam and clutter that burdens my poor old computer.
So hooray for me. I deleted a lot of crap.
Yes, I should have been editing at the time, and yes, I’m still keeping those old notebooks.
But it’s a thing I did. Somewhere north of a hundred files, all gone.
If you’ll excuse me, I am now going to stare at a wall now while I wait for the draft police to arrive.
I mean, it actually has. Look at that sidebar–not a sign of my current series anywhere (and at this point I genuinely have no idea how to update it). I’ve popped in and posted a thing or two, but I haven’t really been using this space for years.
I guess there are reasons for that. I got busy. My brain moved on to other things. Social media was a quicker and more reliable way of getting my words in front of people. My website is a more efficient place to post news and links, and my newsletter is where I’m supposed to talk about writing and new releases and everything else.
A lot has changed since I last posted here. The dashboard is different, which is always confusing. I don’t know what this un-turn-offable “newsletter access” is and I just hope I’m not bothering anyone who signed up for updates way back when and has forgotten this blog existed (same, honestly). I’m out of touch with everyone I used to follow and interact with in this corner of the world.
But I think I miss this whole blog thing. I miss having a quiet place to lay down thoughts and share whatever bright, shiny trinkets come to mind without considering whether it’s “on brand” or whether it will help or harm my standing in the mysterious algorithms that decide whether anyone will actually see my Facebook posts or TikTok videos.
There are other places I could do this. Maybe one of these days I’ll get my act together and start up a Patreon account or something, but then it will be work. I think for now it could maybe be… not work. Not a thing I do for views or likes or sales or validation, but for the sake of remembering that I like turning thoughts into sentences.
Because honestly? Sometimes I forget.
I’m in the process of working through post-editor revisions on Princes and Pawns, book four of the All the Queen’s Knaves series, and it’s hard. I love the story, but by this stage I’m overly familiar with it, the ideas I have for creating the best possible version of this particular book are overwhelming, and the whole revision process feels like trying to change the pattern of a sweater by unravelling and re-creating stitches and rows after all the knitting is done.
It will be worth all of the teeth-pulling agony when it’s done (creatively, if not so much financially these days), but it’s hard.
But this, what I’m doing right now?
Easy. Kind of fun.
So let’s try this. No deadlines, no posting schedule, just a relaxed little dumping-ground for whatever wants to be shared.
Behind-the-scenes looks at what goes into making my books.
Flash fiction, should I feel inspired to do some more “just for fun” writing.
Links to whatever beautiful, shiny things are distracting me on any given day so you can come along for the ride if you choose to do so.
Maybe we’ll even get back to posting early teasers and work-in-progress snippets one of these days, who can say?
The world returned to life with every step Gale put between herself and the dead witch’s cabin.
Two years of blight and famine had left her village and the mountain forests that surrounded it starving. Dying. Now the curse was broken, and as she and her brother Hawk walked home, ferns had sprouted around their feet, leaves had burst forth on the trees, and the woods had filled with birdsong that had been absent for too long.
But Gale walked with her head down, focusing on the squish of newly fertile soil beneath her too-large boots as she and her big brother crossed Mister Coldstream’s wheat field.
Almost home. Mama. Papa. Home.
Home.
It was all her seven-year-old mind could handle, so it was all she allowed herself to think. Even questioning why her heart didn’t leap at the thought of seeing her parents again was too much.
Hawk took her hand and pulled her forward. “Almost there, little bird. We’re going to be heroes for killing that witch, you know.”
Gale glanced up at him. He was still skeleton thin and too pale, just as he’d been when Father took them into the woods and left them there. Though Gale had been just as gaunt when they’d left home, she’d gained back every stolen ounce as she’d eaten at the witch’s table, and her skin glowed tan and healthy from long days in a bountiful garden that hadn’t been touched by the curse.
A flash of laughing eyes came into Gale’s mind.
Don’t think of her.
She focused instead on Hawk’s words and tried to make the word hero in her mouth, just to try it on and see how it fit her.
It tasted bad.
Hawk deserved to be called a hero. Not her.
The shocking green of the fields, the riot of life and noise and God-given goodness that had sprouted around them since the witch’s death were all the proof Gale needed that he’d been right to want to kill the witch.
And Gale had been wrong to trust her. To eat at her table. To embrace her as guardian after their own parents had placed the siblings in God’s hands when there was no food left for them at home.
Her throat closed at the thought, choking her.
I’m glad to go home, she told herself, desperate to believe it. Mother and Father will be pleased.
The curse is broken. God’s will has been done. We are heroes.
Bright Hollow would be in view soon, past these sprawling fields, cradled in its sheltered space on the mountainside.
It had been a sour, dull place when they’d left. No snow forts this past winter, no dances, no candies and songs, no candles in the windows to chase the darkness away on the longest night of the year. But maybe now, if enough folks had survived, it would be like before. Classes in the big schoolhouse. Harvest festivals. Friends playing in the streets.
Gale’s chin trembled as she forced herself to take in everything around her, to make it all fit what she remembered from before the curse.
For Gale, the world had changed. Her time with the witch, with magic, had made it different. Where once she’d seen and heard and felt and tasted and smelled, now there was something else that she experienced beyond those natural senses.
Magic. Not everywhere. Not here. But it had been present in patches of the land as she and Hawk walked home, in the new forest plants and the animals that fed on them. She was glad to find there wasn’t any magic near Bright Hollow, though its loss made her feel strangely empty. In the woods near the witch’s home it had sung, called, teased, beckoned.
Sinful. Corrupting. Vile. The words Hawk had whispered to her when they lay in the loft at the witch’s cabin echoed in her mind. He’d tried to warn her. She hadn’t listened.
It hurt to remember magic flowing through her body, a river of warmth and light.
It hurt to think something so lovely could be so bad.
She cursed the land and Bright Hollow. The curse ended when she died. I was wrong. Wrong.
Someone shouted—a man’s voice, high and reedy. Across the field a thin figure in a grey shirt and bib overalls ran toward them, waving his straw hat in one hand. Mister Coldstream. One of Bright Hollow’s farmers.
Someone had survived. There would be others. Mother and Father, if God had willed that they live out the curse. The Luminary, surely, waiting to hear the story of their victory over evil.
Gale fought the urge to turn and run away. It wasn’t sensible, and Mister Coldstream would think it odd if she was afraid to go home.
Besides, there was nowhere to run back to anymore, even if she’d wanted to go. The witch was dead, the cabin burned.
Hawk slowed and turned her to face him. “We need to get our story straight. I swear I won’t tell anyone what you did.” He crouched slightly, placing his eyes at her level. “I’ll protect you, Nightingale. No one needs to know.”
Gale scrunched up her face to keep tears back as Hawk’s words broke through the dam she’d built around her memories.
The sleeping potion, perfectly made. Madrigal would have been so pleased to know how her student had used proper magic, but it had to be a secret.
Madrigal collapsing to the floor, her golden curls spread out around her as the potion subdued her magical protections enough to make her fall asleep.
Hawk’s knife, hidden in his belt, then pressed to her throat.
Gale’s breath hitched, and she pinched herself to call her mind back to the present.
She tried to answer Hawk, but words wouldn’t come no matter how badly she wanted to speak.
Hawk nodded. “Probably better if you just let me talk for the both of us. I’ll say we worked together, that we both defeated the witch and ended the curse, that it was our plan. The two of us, all along.”
Gale wanted to ask what would happen if anyone found out about her sin, but it didn’t matter. Hawk knew best. He’d proved it, and he’d keep his word. All she had to do now was follow him back to town, learn how to be a better girl, and forget.
The garden. The cabin. The warm fire. Secret lessons. Fresh rosemary bread.
The knife. The blood po v coling on the floor, staining it the colour of death.
“Ready to go home, little bird?” Hawk asked, raising an arm to wave back to Mister Coldstream.
The farmer continued toward them, calling their names.
Gale’s legs trembled. She sank to her knees and sobbed as though she would never stop, telling herself it was because she was so happy to be home.
I know. I neglect this blog. I spend too much time on TikTok with its one minute videos and on Instagram where pretty much everything is said in a photo.
The long wordy things are… well, they’re books. I don’t often think to spend more words here.
But just in case anyone is still getting updates and still reading here, here’s the new release news:
I wrote another book.
TA-DA!
Details? You got ’em.
“Are you a wolf, Jesamyn? Or are you a lamb I should have slaughtered the moment you drew your first breath?”
Jes has spent nearly two decades with those words in her ear as her mother, Mav, taught her how to lie, steal, and con her way through life. She’s ready to claim her independence, but Mav won’t give up control of her greatest asset without a fight.
When Mav demands the unthinkable, Jes is at a loss as to how to beat the queen of criminals at her own game—that is, until a magical beanstalk, a charming prince, and an impossible land lost in the clouds come together to offer Jes the opportunity she’s been dreaming of.
With her future, her heart, and her freedom on the line, Jes will need to do the impossible, risking her life to pull off a scam of gigantic proportions. The danger will be enormous, but so will the payoff…
If she can make it back alive.
Vines and Vices (All the Queen’s Knaves book one) is available now through most ebook retailers, in paperback and gorgeous hardcover, and by request through libraries.
Perfect gift for any lover of Fantasy and fairy tales. Just saying.
Hey! Long time no type (here, at least). Over in my Facebook reader group we’re playing with writing prompts while so many of us are stuck at home so much of the time. It’s been fun, and I thought it might be interesting to share my results from yesterday’s prompt here. I had a lot of fun writing it (when I definitely should have been writing something else). Hope you enjoy it!
And hey, feel free to drop your own response to the prompt in the comments if you feel inspired (or post in your own space and let me know where I can find it).
PROMPT: Begin a story with the line “It was never meant to last.”
That’s what he tells me every night when we’re lying in a tangle of bare limbs and bedsheets, as he places a kiss on my brow. It used to bother me, this reminder of the temporary nature of our relationship. These days I just nod, close my eyes, and hold him tighter.
He was honest about everything right from the start, so I can’t complain about that. He’s not human. He’s something else, something that comes with great power and great strength, but also with a destiny that’s tied to that of another of his kind. Fated love, fated mate, whatever. I never have cared about the details, not when I was focused on having him all to myself. Better to have loved and lost, I told myself. And who could regret a love like ours, even if fate says it can’t last?
It was hard at the beginning. He’d disappear for weeks and months at a time, carried away by the duties that come with all that power, and I always thought I’d lost him. But years passed and he kept coming home. This temporary thing that was never meant to last has become my life, and him my world—and I let myself think I’d become his.
It was stupid of me to let it happen, and I guess I have no one but myself to blame as he packs his bags for the last time.
“Is she nice?” I ask.
“She’s fine.” He removes his shirt and reaches for another, but doesn’t put it on. For a moment I can see the glowing swirl on his wrist. It used to be a black mark like a tattoo. It only lit up when he finally met her.
“Is she beautiful?” I feel stupid and shallow for asking, but I’m proud of not asking the real question of whether she’s prettier than me.
His brow furrows. “She’s… very attractive.”
Of course she is. They all are. That’s what drew me to him in the first place. I mean, I stayed for the laughs, the tangled sheets, and the fierce got-your-back loyalty, but it was his face, his body, and his devilish smile that started all this trouble.
I haven’t seen that smile since he came home tonight.
He turns away, but I catch the tear that slips from his eye. I wrap my arms around his waist from behind, the only way I know how to give him comfort and privacy at the same time. I kiss the unnaturally warm skin of his back. I can’t help it. He’s been mine-but-not-forever for so long that it’s the natural course of action.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, though it’s not. “It was never meant to last. We knew fate would step in one day to end this.”
He turns and buries his face in my hair. “I’m sorry. I kept telling myself to walk away before someone got hurt. I left and I tried to stay away, but…”
“I know.” I pull away and force a smile. “Maybe knowing it would end has made it better. I’m still the luckiest human alive. I have no regrets.”
“Nor do I.” Suddenly his eyes—those glorious, golden-green eyes that I fell so hard for so long ago—light up. He opens his suitcase again, but instead of packing the rest of his clothes he goes to my side of the closet and begins tossing in clothes, underwear, and his old t-shirt that I wear to bed when he’s away.
“What are you doing?” I step closer, my heart pounding. “You can’t run from your destiny.”
With a manic grin he slams the suitcase shut and takes me by the hand. “I’m willing to try if you are.”
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disregard the prologue 