The Lusty Month

It’s May. Peach tree blossoms, long walks, warm weather, grilled seafood, ice cream cones, and cake. Of the literary variety that is. My new book, Cake, a fun-filled fantasy romance about a woman who lands in the Land of Cake releases today from Wings ePress. To celebrate, I’ve posted a yummy contest on my website. Hope you stop by to enter it and read more about the book. In the meantime, here’s a quick excerpt for your May Day pleasure:

A slight smile played at Rune’s lips and he seemed relaxed. He acted as though they strolled through Brickbottom and that reassured her somewhat. Still, Breena’s gaze skittered to the edge of the wetlands, where something rustled in the cattails. She began to hum.

They entered the swamp with its towering trees, dead giants choked in webs of gray-green. Splashes of blue, will o’ the wisp, fired along the path and in the bracken. Thoughts of Dracula flit through her mind. She hummed louder.

“You’re going to start babbling in a minute, aren’t you?” Rune asked. “If you start singing, I will throw you in the swamp.”

“There are alligators in swamps, Rune, with big teeth and they move really fast. My parents took me to Louisiana when I was a kid and we went on a canoe ride through the swamps and they just sit there like fat lumps and grin and then they slither and there’s this thing called the loup-garou, probably a relative of Luke’s, but not so nice. I didn’t see one of course but it felt like it was out there waiting and--”

He stopped walking. “Fox cub?”

“Yeah?”

He took her by the shoulders and very slowly, leaned forward to touch her nose with his. He drew back and said, “I assure you that there are no alligators, swamp werewolves, or any evil creatures in Scar Burrow.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, looking over his shoulder at the horde of zombies advancing on them. “Then what about them?”

On Hibernation

Struggling author. I’m starting to realize it’s not a clichéd phrase, after all. One envisions a scrawny male with unkempt hair in a tattered duster wearing fingerless gloves. One glove has a moth-eaten hole near the thumb. Perhaps he has a cough. He is shy. In love with the rich whale-oil heiress from across town. He writes late at night, by candlelight, after his day job hauling nets at the docks. He is published. No-one notices. He considers giving up. Maybe the merchant’s life isn’t so bad after all. Depressed, he goes to bed, only to wake from a fitful sleep with a new plot idea in his head. He scrambles to his three-legged desk, strikes a match to light the candle, and begins to scribble. There is no giving up, for good or ill. It’s in his blood. He is crazy. After all, he is a writer.

But once in a while, the writer has to eave the garret and take a break from his confinement within musty walls and long shadows, inhale the sun-filled, clean air, do some Pilates, maybe wash the dishes and pet the dogs, kiss the husband, and watch bad television, preferably reality television because well-written dramas are just too creative for a brain that needs a break.

For me, it's "Grease: You’re the One That I Want?” Who will win? I’m not sure I really care. Still, I watch it faithfully every week. Sometimes, I vote.

Haven't done much writing lately. I've lost the nerve, the verve, fell off the learning curve. (See? This is what television does to you brain.) Truthfully, I've been lazy. I've been too lazy to even read a book. But all this will change soon. My target day is May 1 -- Beltane, a time for new beginnings, the lusty month, a celebration of birth and growth. Until then, I'm working on promotion for my upcoming fantasy, Cake, as well as eating some of the gingerbread variety. With whipped cream. Homemade.

Then the Pilates.