I Did Something Right

He stretched out his legs and stared at the bulky farmer boots. Thirty years ago he had ridden into this land with the slim black boots of a far rider, silver spurs at his heels and a song on his lips. His hair was longer then; unbound and spread like molten copper across his forest green cloak. His muscles were hardened and lean from riding and fighting since he was old enough to sit a horse.

"Wild people," these city dwellers who had never roamed the plains free, following the herds, called them. "Wild people" welcomed as heroes after helping the king defeat the demon armies. A place deep in his soul longed to be unfettered once again. He ached to abandon the homespun for leather.

This is a description of Gentyl's father. I've been told it's the right way to describe a character without leaving their POV. It warms my heart to know I did something right. Unfortunately, I have no idea how or why I did it. It just came out.

I have to confess I'm about to go bonkers. I guess I'm going to have to buy an antenna for the television. With the move, I refuse to pay the cable to set up an account and all that goes with it. Even if I weren't protesting it since it was part of the rent when I moved in. Now they have stopped that and raised the rent $125. Yes, petty I know, but it's the principle of the thing. It's not so much I watch tv to any large extent, it's just the noise in the apartment. This apartment is very dark anyway, so no noise and no light tend to make me feel like I am in a tomb.

On the plus side, I think I finally have five opening pages that might entice an agent to ask for more. It meant cutting out the barn scene, but I can add those bits in later.

I'm going to have to read through Paladin again and get back to stitching. October will be here before we know it. I will probably start critiquing stuff in the writers workshop on Books and Writers and start posting chapters so I can get the edit done and start shipping to Kiersten for the final edit.

I ran down to get the mail last night before I went to work out. Sifting through the mail and not paying attention to where I was going, led to me stepping off the sidewalk wrong. My knee is badly swollen and apparently I twisted the hip out also. I just want to go wrap up in a giant heating pad. My gp wants to take a look at it before he recommends a specialist. Now I just need to wait for the insurance company to decide they will actually cover me after I have been paying premiums for nine months. If I can't prove I had insurance prior to being covered with them I apparently might have all kinds of pre-existing conditions they won't cover. *rolls eyes*

So, in the meantime I take lots of Aleve and hot baths. Hopefully, it will be calmed down enough so I can start working out again Monday. I used to have a fairly high pain threshold, but I think that disappeared somewhere. Now I just want it to stop.

I also have discovered I have a very bad relationship with commas. Almost lethal and certainly immoral at the least. I use them like an addict uses drugs, frequently with little regard to what is good for me. Worst of all, I don't use them where I should be using them. It sounds like a very bad relationship to me. I may have to join Commas Anonymous to kick the habit.

July Is Upon Us

It's nearly July and that's an odd month for me. My anniversary is July 12. I've spent many, many anniversaries alone, so that isn't a big deal, but with the divorce looming large it seems particularly sad this year. I've been separated for nearly a year, but it still takes some getting used to. My daughter's birthday is the 18th. The anniversary of her death is the 19th. I am always in a foul mood this time of year and this year is no different. Will returns July 2nd or 3rd. He will be home until the 28th and then they ship to Georgia and will deploy to Iraq from there. And, I have started packing for the move. It will be good in some ways, but I dread moving and putting most of my possessions in storage.

When the dust settles I am going to Garland to buy a new hat and maybe a new pair of boots.

For those of you who haven't checked out the Surrey conference, click on it in the sidebar. Luscious is the only word to describe it.

Excerpt from Paladin. Lucine is trying to gather the remainder of the poisoned herb she had sent to the alchemist for the prince's wetnurse.

"What is it used for?" she asked, still stroking the bottle with a finger.

"Some people believe it helps a man . . ." he tugged at his shirt collar and blushed profusely, "well, become more interested. If you know what I mean."

The young woman giggled and winked at the man who waited for her at the door. He stood almost at attention, watching the passing people and the shopkeeper. Clearly a bodyguard who was not interested in a lady’s shopping and less interested in anything to help something else stand at attention.

"I think I’ll take it. I’ve just given birth to our first child and I fear my husband, Lord Girtram Arelawe, might lose interest in me." She placed her hands on her tiny waist, accentuating the curve of her hip under the brocade gown and tossed her hair over her shoulder. It fell in lush blonde waves like a silken mantle across her shoulders as she leaned forward. Her lowcut bodice shelved milky white breasts, lightly veined with blue, leading the shopkeeper’s gaze to the lace barely covering her. "I’m afraid I’m getting fat," she pouted.

"Oh, no, madam. You’re not fat at all. I would venture a guess you are quite perfect." He brushed his brow with his handkerchief and smiled nervously.

"Lord Arelawe is also concerned the wetnurse isn’t producing enough milk for our son. I heard the prince’s nurse buys some formula here, which helps her." She straightened, running her delicate hands across the top of her gown. "I don’t want saggy, baggy breasts like some old milk cow," she whimpered. "If the nurse doesn’t produce enough milk he’ll make me nurse the next child myself. I’m sure you can see what a disaster that would be?"

"Oh, yes," Thomland stammered. "Not that I can imagine you with saggy—"

His wife strode through the curtains into the back part of the shop. A pack of stair-step children tagged along behind her, tugging at her skirt and apron. She stooped to pick up the toddler who was now holding up his hands and threatening to break out in a wail at being ignored. "Some men like saggy and baggy, don’t they?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," he agreed almost too quickly. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and ran his tongue over his lips, glancing nervously at his wife much like a child caught with his hand in the sweets might. "Not that you are saggy and baggy, of course, dear."

"Of course." She handed the toddler to her husband. "Why don’t you take the children to the back and finish feeding them and I will help Lady Arlow."

Captain Dorion

Well, once again the weekend is nearly over.

I spent most of it writing and didn't get nearly enough done.

We're working on characterization and POV in the workshop. I messed up the assignment, but I was glad to see most of my characters are fairly developed and multi-dimensional. That's a good sign. I was dismayed to realize some had no descriptions to speak of. I must rectify that immediately.

My biggest frustration is wanting to write fulltime. I don't even want to be rich and famous, just let me write for a living. Someday.

Here is one of the scenes that describes Captain Dorion.

Captain Dorion Description. (He is questioning Avriel, one of the female recruits, about a brawl in their barracks the night before. The women have banded together to hide the truth and keep Gen safe. )

"You see, sir, it was a matter of honor," Avriel said. "We were discussing who was the most handsome man in the compound and I, of course, said it had to be you."

Dorion dropped his arm from her shoulders. There were more than a few muffled giggles. "Of course, you did, Blackstone."

Captain Dorion had never been a handsome man, even when the bloom of youth was upon him. Now, after years of fighting, he was as craggy as the mountains to the north. His thinning hair was a deep, smoky gray shot with silver. His hands were large and wide, calloused from wielding the sword he loved and ink-stained from wielding the quill he hated. His chest was barrel-shape as were his bowed legs. He resembled, for the most part, one of the wild, shaggy little mountain bulls, who were nearly as wide as they were tall and always mad. The personality especially suited him.

She looked at him with some remorse. "Unfortunately, some of the others felt others were more handsome and I had to defend your honor."

Benning almost smiled. Jeremy choked on a barely swallowed laugh.

Dorion resumed his pacing. After a long, uncomfortable silence, he stopped once again and turned to face them. "Blackstone, that has to be the most audacious lie I have ever heard in my life and I'm not swallowing it for one moment."

"Oh, sir, I assure you, I wouldn't lie to you."

"Of course, you would. I don't believe there is a woman among you who thinks anyone is more handsome than me. But, your gallantry earned you all breakfast before you get the stuffing beat out of you."

The Book Roast

You will notice in the Friends and Colleagues section I have added The Book Roast. This is a fun place promoting books and authors, but also just a good place to hang out.

Be sure and check it out.

Revising

We've been trying to incorporate the suggestions made for our work in the workshop. For me, the task has been to show more tension. Make the reader feel like something important is about to happen. Mainly, I needed to give Gen a little more spunk early on. On top of that, Donald Maass highly recommends getting rid of kitchen scenes and bath scenes as they slow down the tension.

Ah, guess what I have in my opening chapter? Not one, but both of the no-noes.

So, I had to try and incorporate the missing items and up the stakes enough to keep the settings. In this scene, her mother is fixing breakfast and has just mentioned she's fixing oatmeal because it is good for them and settles the stomach.



Gentyl flopped against the wall and fiddled with an herb bouquet, idly picking at the dried flowers as she watched her mother hover over the cooking fire. She didn't mention they had oatmeal every morning. "Why would our stomachs need settling?"

Her mother smiled when she walked by with the warmed bread. "We’re going into town today."

"Going into town doesn’t usually upset our stomachs. Why would it today?"

"We have important business," her mother said as if that explained everything.

She looked across the room at her father, who had that helpless and resigned look on his face he always got when her mother had set her mind on something. "We’re farmers. What kind of important business could we have?"

"Just business," her mother said with a finality that meant this conversation was ended.

Gentyl walked around their small cottage, touching things, smelling various herbs, gazing at her mother's small harp. She pulled her lute off the wall and sat down in the corner. Her fingers plucked out an old M'eiryn marching song, without thought.

"There were lines of marching men
Brave and true, and handsome then
As they carried banners bright
So few of them lived through the night

"Died there on the bloody--"

"Do you have to sing that horrible thing, Gentyl?"

The last chord vibrated under her hand. "What would you like me to sing, Mother? A fair love ballad?"

"Something besides that gruesome song."

She strummed idly, trying to think of an appropriate song.

"Molly dearest, love of mine, just say yes
Kiss me quick and lift your dress--"

Her father choked on the bread he had pilfered from the platter.

"Gentyl Diarmand! Where did you hear that?"

She raised an eyebrow at her mother, who was now an unusual shade of red. This, apparently, wasn't the love song she had in mind. "I heard some men singing."

Her mother whirled around to face the table where her father sat. "The only men who have been singing around here were Aegis' men last month. See what these soldiers are teaching your daughter?"

The bench scraped against the plank floor as he stood up. He thumped her on the head, when he stopped in front of her and leaned down to her level. "Do you have to antagonize your mother?" he whispered.

"She started it."

EPIPHANY!

I was working on a scene for Paladin today and something popped into my head. That, of course, is wonder enough, but this was something good.

Barbara and most of the people who have read the opening scene of Paladin have encouraged me to up the stakes. I've been a little hesitant because I didn't see how to do it without having some extraneous disaster happen.

Barbara is patiently nudging me in the right direction like she thinks I am part Charolais. They are beautiful cattle, but they do have a very bad habit of jumping the fence like a deer if you crowd them. So, Barbara of Infinite Patience, has been encouraging me to show more immediately the heroic traits of my mc.

Lo and behold, Donald Maass has some very good advice in his book WRITING THE BREAKOUT NOVEL. Guess what some of the first advice is? Who are your heroes? What attributes do they have? How do they apply to your character? Do you demonstrate that or hint at that in the opening pages?

EPIPHANY!

Yes, it finally soaks in what Barbara has been trying to tell me. Don't kill the opening chapter; strengthen the tension.

So my opening lines go from:

Papa adored Mama, and normally he gave her whatever she desired. Mama didn't ask for much, but when she did, he made it happen. He was resisting this time, however. They'd been arguing, discussing as Mama said, since the far rider stopped by with a message three weeks before.

To this:

In her nearly sixteen years, Gentyl had never seen her parents fight, and yet that's all they had done since the far rider came by three weeks before.

The internal monologue in the first scene becomes a skirmish between Gen and her mother.

The relaxing bath becomes her daydreaming about being a far rider (courier for the Horse Guards) and how happy and content she is just to be part of the cavalry. Her happy reverie is shattered by her mother's complaints about her dawdling when they have important business.

With just a few changes, the tension is heightened dramatically. By the time I finish going over the whole chapter with a magnifying glass to look for more opportunities, I think I will finally have the chapter I need.

Yes, I am happy.

Of course, just fiddling with the scene about Gen riding; makes me miss my horses terribly. One of these days…

I made the hotel reservations for Surrey. I'll be flying in Wednesday if all goes well and staying through Sunday.

New Endings

I'm too lazy to write anything interesting now, so I'll put up an ending I'm playing with. I'm not sure if this will stay or not. I'm so far over word count, I may have to drop back ten chapters.

/Gentyl, you must convince them to leave. The mountain will collapse under us./

Gentyl strode towards the Sylvan captain, who sat on his destrier, overlooking the carnage. He was determined the Wendts would be wiped out to the last person. The sounds of fighting were gone. Now, only the sounds of dying remained. Groans of the wounded wrapped around them, only occasionally pierced by the scream of someone being put to sword or awakening to the agony.

"Commander," she said, clutching at his stirrup, "we must leave."

He continued to look over the keep with his glass. "Why? Had all the war you can handle, girl?"

"We earned more respect than that, sir." She fought to maintain composure she didn't feel.

/How the hell much do we have to do to be considered soldiers?/

The metal scraped against itself as he collapsed the looking glass and shoved it in his pocket. "Yes, I suppose you're right. You fought well. Far better than I expected." He smiled at her like an indulgent schoolmaster might a slightly backwards student, who had just spelled their name correctly. "Now, why must we leave, when victory is ours?"

"The mountain under the keep is collapsing. We have to get out of here."

His laugh rumbled from deep inside. He was genuinely amused. "And how do you know the mountain is collapsing, horse girl?"

/Tell that ass because your people have a bond with the earth and tunnels beneath the keep are being collapsed. You can feel it./

Gentyl struggled not to gasp or speak aloud to the sword. /Is that true?/

/They are getting ready to collapse tunnels now. That's why the fighting stopped./

"Sir, I am Eponian, we have a special earth magic. The Wendts are collapsing tunnels under the keep to trap us. That's why the fighting stopped."

He looked toward his captain. "Is what she says true?"

"I don’t know about the magic, but it did seem that we just ran out of fighting men. Like they disappeared. All that was left was a few pockets and the wounded."

"Bloody hell!" He motioned to the soldiers driving carts with the wounded. "Get those carts across the bridge. NOW!" He spurred his horse forward to a young man sitting on a bay mare near the gate. "Sound retreat now. Three times. Do it!"

The commander and his two captains raced into the keep. "Get out! Get out, now!" He continued to bellow at the men streaming out of the doorways. The captains whipped their horses to the other side, screaming at men as they went.

The trumpet was a sharp sound, building to a high, quick note. Three times the call to retreat echoed across near empty keep and the canyon around it. A flock of ravens lifted from their grisly feast. The trumpet wouldn't have bothered them. Only the shifting earth would affect them. Goats and sheep clattered across the courtyard towards the bridge. Men stumbled over some of them as they all raced to safety. In the stables, Gentyl could hear the terrified horses. She drove her spurs into her horse.

There was no time to untie lead ropes so she took out her dagger and sliced them frantically. Behind her, someone was dropping planks from across stalls. Horses bounded over the planks almost before they fell.

"Get out of here," a young soldier shouted at her. He whipped an arrow out and nocked it. She followed his gaze to where Martin was freeing the last of the horses. "Damned Wendt trash."

"He's a friend," she said, driving the bow down.

He shoved her out of the way and raised his bow again. "He's a dead friend then, traitor."

Gentyl picked up a bucket and hit him beside the head. "Not today."

She untied her horse and waved to Martin. "We have to get out. The mountain is going down. Can you lift him up to me?"

Martin grunted as he picked up the soldier and shoved him across her lap. "Hang on to him, I'm not stopping to get him again."

She nodded and kicked Travail into a lope. Martin swung up on the last horse and followed her out of the stables. They clattered across the stone courtyard towards the gate as the ground trembled beneath them like an old woman shivering with chill. A sharp crack inside the sanctuary was accented by a man's scream, cut short as stone pillars collapsed. They flew past the sanctuary and the armory. The gate loomed before them with the stone bridge protruding like a pale gray ribbon. Men and horses screamed in terror as it waved beneath them and then settled back.

"We're not going to make it," Martin shouted.

"Yes, we are." /I didn't come this far to die now./

The army was almost across when the courtyard started to sink in a massive cloud of dust that roiled through the mouth of the gate. Somewhere in the haze, Gentyl and Martin sped towards the bridge. The man in her lap groaned and began to struggle. She drove the fist she was clutching his belt with into his back. "Be still. I don't have time to mess with you."

The portcullis screeched as they passed beneath it. Moments later it crashed to the ground along with one of the gate towers. The clanging reverberated through the bridge like a massive bell ringing the death knell of Ravenholdt. Even through their horses they could feel the bridge shudder.

/We're not going to make it./

/Yes, you are. You are my champion./ The sword was always so calm and matter-of-fact.

The sword's declaration shocked her so much she nearly lost her grip on the soldier. She, and everyone else, assumed she was just the caretaker until the champion appeared.

/I will be a dead champion if we don't make it across this bridge./

As if in confirmation, the bridge started to collapse. Like a hound it nipped at their heels, hurrying them on. Martin's horse went down to one knee when the stones shifted. He grabbed at the saddle to stay on the horse and pulled her back up.

A few soldiers had stopped their flight and turned to cheer them. "Hurry!" someone shouted. They could go no faster than the terrified horses were already running. Stones crashed into the river far below as the arches disintegrated behind them, falling like children's blocks caught in a willful child's temper tantrum. Martin was on solid ground at last. She started to pull her horse up when he lurched into the air, and then she released the reins. He knew what he was doing. The bridge gave way before them. It felt like they were flying. Time slowed until each heartbeat seemed minutes apart.

Travail stretched towards the bank, his front feet landing solid. A huge cheer rose, but was cut short as the edge gave way beneath them. The soldier draped across her saddle pushed himself free and crawled to safety. Someone grabbed the reins and pulled forward, trying to drag the horse to safety. More hands joined, snatching at the saddle, mane and breast collar. Travail continued to thrash, struggling for firm ground beneath his hind legs. At last he lurched forward and bolted away from the brink.

Gentyl slipped from the saddle and collapsed near a tree. Her muscles quivered in exhaustion. She sprawled against the tree trunk; arms and legs akimbo like a broken doll. Martin slid down the tree trunk beside her.

Travail stood near her, his head down, nostrils distended and red as he sucked in air. Blood trailed down his lip from his left nostril. Sweat traced through the lather on his roan coat and dripped to the ground. He trembled like a newborn foal.

If she had the energy, she would have reached out to him. Instead they simply gazed at each other, one survivor to another.

"Diarmand," the commander said as he approached with his two captains in tow.

She struggled to her feet, but he waved her down.

"Don't get up." He stopped in front of her. "I'm not familiar with this earth magic of yours."

"Neither is she," Martin muttered.

She was too tried to hit him, so she turned her attention back to the commander. "What do you want to know, sir?"

/Divine One, please nothing. I don't want to lie to him. A good deed pledged for three months if I don't have to answer questions about magic I don't know./

"I wouldn't understand if you told me how you knew. I just want to thank you for insisting I listen." He rubbed the side of his face, making a faint scritch-like sound across the stubbled cheek. A moment later he rubbed his eye as he always did, when he was nervous or bothered. At last he took a deep breath. "You said in the keep your unit deserved more respect than I gave you."

She nodded, curious about where this was leading. Was he going to disband them after all or integrate them with other units?

He squatted down so they were eye level. "You have to understand we are not accustomed to women warriors. Even after your people joined us in the demon wars, it was hard to accept this." He looked around at the soldiers, who were gradually closing into a circle around them. "I should have taken my father's tales to heart, but I treated the idea as a romantic myth and little more. I, we, owe you…what do you call yourselves?"

Gentyl turned around to look at Martin, searching for an answer. The commander knew their unit, why was he asking her? "We're the Fifth Stag, sir."

"No, ladies something."

She blushed. How had her heard of that name? "Lormar's Ladies, sir. The river priestess."

He smiled. "Yes, that's it. The priestess who was turned to a silver mare to hide her nakedness and shame."

Her face was even redder now. Did he know how they gained that name?

He stood up and stretched. "Well, horse girl, your Lormar's Ladies have earned their way. The unit will be permanent and none of you will be removed or transferred."

A wave of excitement ran through the troops until someone in the back began cheering. The entire army seemed to join in the chant.

The only thing Gentyl heard was the Siren Song.

/I told you, champion. All is well./

The sword began to sing Lormar's song to her. The notes exquisite and beautiful; rang in her mind.

Off To Ft. Polk

Will shipped to Ft. Polk this morning. I took him to the armory since his car has some mechanical problems. Well, he drove my car anyway. They spend three weeks in Louisiana and then come home and leave again July 28 for Georgia. They will deploy from Georgia.

Thursday night there was a concert for them at the armory. A country band played, but they tossed in some blues and rock. I have to say they were quite good. Of course, I am addicted to good guitar music. Another of the things on my to do list, learn to play.

A woman I guess to be in her forties or fifties stood next to me as the men were forming up for pictures. She was very classy looking and pretty. I glanced at her occasionally and she had this burning look of pride on her face. She looked at me and smiled. "Aren't they just the most gorgeous young men? So, very, very handsome." She smiled again. "Gorgeous collection of men."

Her husband is a vet. I wondered which of the young men there was her son or grandson. There is a special bond between family members and you recognize the loved ones as opposed to the ones just attending.

She was right. Of course, I was seeing it from another perspective. When Will puts his uniform on, he ages instantly. He's been in the Guards since he was seventeen and he will most likely turn twenty-two in Iraq this fall. I should be accustomed to it, but I'm not. I want to say he's just a kid, but he isn't. I want to act stupid and break down and cry, but I can't.

I watched the other families there. Wives and girlfriends smiled and held hands with their men. Parents visit and smile a lot. A few, like me, ducked their heads to wipe away tears from time to time.

One woman was holding a baby who can't be more than a week or two old. Her husband proudly showed off the baby to the other men. A few of the other women were pregnant. Will's girlfriend is pregnant.

It occurred to me women have been sending their loved ones off to war for thousands of years. This scene was no different emotionally than untold others. Pride, fear, love, courage…dread. We dread the goodbye in July. All of us do. And yet we know it's coming.

Henderson, Will's best friend was sitting with us. A very attractive lady and her husband brought chairs and asked if they could sit next to us. They visited a lot with Henderson. Especially the lady. Her husband was up, moving around a lot so she spent a lot of time just chatting. Will and his girlfriend teased him about hitting on an older lady. Henderson grinned a lot. He always does. Toward the end of the program, the singer asked the mayor to come up and say a few words. The woman who had been visiting with the guys stood up. Hmmm, Henderson's been schmoozing it up with the mayor. That got even more mileage.

The Confederate Air Force (now the Commemorative Air Force because confederate is automatically associated with racism and not just a confederated effort) did a fly over with vintage planes. That was stirring to see those old planes in formation, flying into the sunset.

Their deployment ceremony will be July 28, but I greatly appreciated the effort all these people went to for this concert. I think it does make a difference when the soldiers know they are supported and appreciated.

The F-bomb and Friends

Last night the VFW and others held a concert and hot dog feed for the guys leaving for Ft. Polk Saturday. I want to post some pictures, as soon as I figure out how, and talk about that later. This morning I am too tired to do a good job.

JJ has a thread going on her site about what makes you stop reading something. For me, gratuitous, graphic violence, sex and foul language will often make me quit a book. I don't do gore and torture at all and horror very, very infrequently.

Which prompted Conduit to say I probably wouldn't like his book because of the language. That's a pity because I really do enjoy his writing and he is extremely talented.

And, before I go farther, I'm going to give a statement. I don't care what you write or how you talk. Your life, your work. It's just something I don't care for. If I was at a party and things got too rough, I would just quietly leave. No muss, no fuss.

That being said, I don't enjoy it and I avoid it.

I pulled into a convenience store about ten years ago and had Will with me. He was about eleven at the time. This lowrider was parked across the drive blocking the gas pump and sitting in a no parking zone. I sat for a long time, waiting and finally got mad. Bad enough I can't fuel up, but he left his "music" on, blaring so loud it rattled my windows.

"Gonna kill that mfing cop
Gonna blow that pig away"

I turned off the truck and stormed into the store. My gangster friend was sprawled across the counter flirting with the young clerk, who was giggling prettily.

"I need you to move so I can get to the gas pump and do you really thing everyone in the world wants to listen to that trash?"

He straightened up and pointed his finger at me, "Shut the f*** up you f***ing white c**t."

It made me so mad I doubled up my fist and hit him. He went sailing tail over teakettle into a candy display and also knocked off quite a bit of stuff off the shelves. So here's this little ganger floundering around in a massive pile of candy, screaming at me about what his homies are going to do to me.

In another completely spontaneous moment, and being of sound mind and body, I started praying for him.

I held out my hand and said, "The Lord bless you and keep you." Then I quoted several scriptures about being delivered from evil spirits and prayed for his salvation. Aloud, of course. With my hand outstretched toward him.

His eyes got as big as saucers and he kind of crawled/scrambled/ran to the door. I followed him calmly, continuing to pray for the terror-stricken ganger.

I laid my money on the counter and told the clerk I wanted $20 on pump one. She was standing there with her mouth hanging open and just nodded. Not even a pleasant, "thank you. Come again."

I called a cop friend of mine later, because I was kind of worried about these punks attacking my house or kids. Ashley laughed and then calmed my fears. "Jules." No EE isn't my first. Many people have called me Jules. "Do you really think he's going to tell his friends a little, old white woman knocked him on his ass and then prayed for him to be delivered? Trust me, he's not telling this story to anyone."

Interesting

I refer you to the Danger Synopsis post in May.

I spent some time organizing Paladin tonight, not enough time, but some. Will, hopefully, finish the rewrite on the final chapter tonight. The battle scene may need some sprucing up.

I'm probably going to lay off the blogs for a while, except for a select few. I have to concentrate on this book and the workshop. After I get a few things lined out with Barbara's workshop, I need to start running it through the Books and Writers or it isn't going to be done for Surrey.

So, between the move, Barbara's workshop and the B&W workshop, I think I have enough to occupy me. Plus, I am going to start working out again next week. Need to get in better shape if I am going to strap on armor and learn to sword fight.

And, speaking of Barbara's workshop, I was kind of dreading the critique. Yes, there are still some problem areas, but she was pleasantly surprised by the new synopsis. Of course, compared to the old one, it only had one way to go.

The things I was most worried about, structure, plot, arc, etc., I nailed. She even recognized some strong characters. First exercise was beginning, end and the synopsis. I can't go into much else because it's a closed workshop and copyright material, but I am very pleased I made the commitment to do this. She is well worth the money and effort and I highly recommend her.

Will's unit is having a concert at the armory tonight and I am going. They ship to Louisiana Saturday morning for three weeks of convoy security training. I wish they had longer, but most of the guys and gals in the unit have already been to Iraq once. They stay in Louisiana three weeks and then come home for three weeks. Then they ship off to Georgia, where they will deploy to Iraq. I'm trying to not dwell on this much to avoid a lot of navel gazing.

The Council Chambers

Since I am too lazy to write something interesting, I'll just post a snippet from Dragon Valley. Perhaps one day I will actually finish this story. As usual, all rights reserved. Copyright 2003 Julie Weathers.

The metallic leaves tinkled softly when Barrahcus rapped his staff against the floor, the sound echoing through the silent chamber.

“Arrest that woman!” he roared. “This is an outrage.”

The guards looked at Maija and back to the councilman. The captain stepped forward at last, followed by three armsmen. She waited. Her cause was lost before she had even addressed the council. It didn’t help that she was fading completely from sight very rapidly, making it appear she was avoiding arrest. She tried to calm her breathing to slow the process or hopefully halt it. It was no use. The mer armor was designed to protect the wearer and it sensed her feelings of fear. No amount of thinking would remove her emotions. The aura continued to glow and strengthen as she faded into a shadow.

“Hold,” said the princess. She held up her hand toward the guards. Maija heard one of them exhale deeply. Maybe it was her sigh of relief she had heard.

“Council, come closer.” Maija watched the members gather around the throne. There was much animated discussion, punctuated by an occasional outburst. Most was kept to a low murmur only those closest to the group could hear.

She let her attention wander to the room, trying not to think about what the next few moments might hold for her. It was a forest frozen in time. Trees fashioned of bronze and slightly tarnished silver formed a rough circle against the rounded walls. The ceiling was domed and made of intricately crafted slabs of colored gems. The pieces were joined together with lead channels, which traced through the roof like a dull, metallic spider web. Toward the edges, the gems were various shades of jade, mimicking the leaves of the forest canopy. Beams of sunlight knifed through in places where the artisans had placed slivers of amber to produce golden rays. In other places, topaz and opal, sliced thin and flat, gathered to give the illusion of a clouded sky peeking through the woodland cover.

The metal tree trunks were so lifelike she was almost compelled to reach out and touch the rough bark of some and caress the smoothness of others. Some of the tree roots snaked over the deep green marble floors before fading to nothing. Smaller trees receded against the wall in such a manner the observer felt they were looking through the mists of time, taking them back to the old world where the land was whole and elven guards still rode with unicorn escorts at their sides. The tree leaves were made of copper, like the entrance gates of the city, so they aged to an appealing verdigris. The branches and the leaves of the trees covered the ceiling, thinning toward the middle of the dome where only the mosaicked sky remained. Squirrels of faded brass with, bright, obsidian eyes watched the elves of Kyralai. Birds nested in the branches, setting eggs of onyx for eternity. Butterflies with jeweled wings flitted among the blooms. No detail had been overlooked, not even the finely loomed tapestries woven behind the trees, showing the heroes embarking on the four prophecies. The tapestry behind the dais showed a young princess and her escort, leaving home to fulfill a destiny. The same princess who now sat on the throne with a multi-hued sheka kitten in her lap.

The cat would have been particularly at home in an old forest such as the one recreated in this room. Its emerald eyes blended with the green stripes and splotches on its ebony coat. Strips and dabs of gold and blue intermingled with a deep brown to create the perfect woodlands creature. It would have been perfectly camouflaged in a tree. Shekas were nearly impossible to see when they perched on a tree limb or blended into a vibrant forest floor. Outside the forest, their coats were anything but concealing, however. They looked almost like a long-haired harlequin. The brilliant markings may have contributed to the extinction of the cats as more and more people hunted them for the furs. Yet, there sat the princess with one of them in her lap.

A Day in the Life of the Insane

I've been walking at work during breaks and lunch instead of inhaling Reese's Cups like I am wont to do. The warehouse has a marked pedestrian path so it's safe and encouraged to walk if you want. It's still a good idea to keep an eye out for forklifts.

So, anyway, a new girl at transportation decided she was going to start walking with me. Not a problem, I like her and she's cheerful. I do enjoy my quiet time because I work out scenes while I am walking, but the company is fine also.

Briget walks through the large doorway instead of the man door on one of our rounds and I tell her we have to use the man doors. Big safety violation and she can get written up for it.

"I was just letting you go through the door, Miss Julie, but I'll open it for you next time and wait for you to go through."

I laugh. "I can open the door, that's fine."

"Oh, no. I'm all about the respect. I have so much respect and admiration for you."

I laugh again. Why on earth would she respect me?

"I never wanted to be old before, but I've changed the way I think now. I want to be like you when I get old."

Umm, thanks. I think. Guess I ought to cancel those plans to buy a belly dancing outfit for myself for my birthday.

Good news. The plumbing leak was not a slab crack. Dishwasher still not draining, but tub, commode and sink are. Plus they fixed the leak in the bathtub next door.

Better news. Barbara Rogan's workshop is awesome. I can't go into details, aside from saying she does make you look at your work very closely and she shows you what to look for. I fully intend to use her on all future books, but much of what she teaches stays with you, I think. It improves the writing, not just the individual book.

Even better news. Surrey site is live. I am so excited about this. Surrey is my gift to me after this disastrous divorce. It's my coming out party. My declaration of independence. No, I am not going to be doing anything wild, but it is just the idea I will go somewhere and spend money on my dream.

I had a horrible dream last night. I seldom remember my dreams these days, but this one I did. Evil Editor posted an Evil ad about pick up lines. Then he came up with, "Hi, I'm Evil Editor. Would you care to submit to me?"

So, I'm dreaming of being at Surrey and everything is going great. It's the start of the conference so I haven't said anything stupid and I've made a few pitches and contacts. That night, I'm in the lounge standing there talking to some friends and a man behind me says, "Hi, would you care to submit to me?"

Without turning around, I shoot back, "Well, I would, but I left my collar at home." Then I turn around to see what fool is trying that line on me. Surprise! It's my dream editor and he has the most shocked look on his face.

He, of course, spreads the word I am insane and I get blacklisted in the publishing industry. Thus ends my dream of being published.