Month: April 2025

Broken Patterns, Chapter Three

Broken Patterns is available everywhere today!

Lenore stood with the other ladies of court on the steps of the palace, trying desperately to suppress a sigh. Her cousins, Harper and Joan, stood next to her. Joan was Uncle Joseph’s daughter and a Mestonie. She stood closer than Harper, who was Uncle Lewis’s daughter and on the queen’s side of the family. Lenore thought that if Joan whispered one more comment about how they were the only Mestonie girls and therefore should set a shining example, she was going to go ahead and let Harper punch her out of her boots.

Lorna glanced back at Lenore, and said, “Wipe that nasty look off of your face. King Omar will arrive any minute. I’ll not have you looking like a spoiled toddler.”

She widened her eyes and planted a great smile on her mouth. “How lovely indeed, Mother. Perhaps King Omar could explain to me how it was vitally important I not be allowed to have even one of my dogs with me, seeing as how the last time we visited him in Calistar I had three, and he seemed to find this delightful.”

Harper giggled, but stopped after a look from the queen. “Sorry, Auntie,” she whispered.

Lorna glanced back at Victor, who stood just behind Lenore. “How ungrateful you are, Lenore. I did let you bring one of your dogs,” she snapped.

“Why is King Omar coming to visit now?” Hannah asked quickly.

“To talk to Ambassador Vitaly, and be a friend to Papa,” Lenore said. “He’s holding up really well after Uncle Issac’s death, but I can imagine he’d like to see his friend right about now.”

“It was such a crushing loss to the Mestonie family,” Joan said, batting her eyes. “Really, it’s been difficult for us all.”

“Especially those of us who actually liked Michael,” Harper muttered. “As opposed to those who lived in their country estate and only saw him once a year on his birthday.”

Lorna cleared her throat. The crowds at the front of the palace were cheering, as the royal gondola glided into view.

King Omar was the first person anyone would have noticed. Over six feet tall, he had the dark brown skin of Calistar, a completely bald head, and a neat goatee. He wore a white silk tunic and loose flowing breeches, with a long dagger tucked into his sash. He was standing up on the gondola with Samuel, both waiving to the cheering people.

“Princess, how should I feel about this man?” Victor asked.

“He’s my papa’s best friend, and he likes us well enough,” Lenore said. “But he won’t be in the same room as a girl unless her husband or father is there.”

“That’s not just the king,” Harper said, “It’s the law in Calistar. Don’t make it sound like he’s being strange, Lenore.”

“The girls wear veils over their faces, but leave their bellies exposed like prostitutes, you tell me how that’s not strange,” Joan replied.

“I really hope we just got that all out of our system before anyone important could hear you,” Lorna said.

“Yes, Aunt,” the other girls replied.

The gondola came to a halt in front of the steps. Samuel and Omar disembarked, and made their way up the stairs. “Ah, Queen Lorna,” Omar called in his booming voice. “You look more lovely every time I see you.”

“Thank you, King Omar,” Lorna said with a smile and a curtsy.

“And the little ladies,” Omar said. “Samuel, I don’t know how you let them walk around without veils. They are too precious to be seen by all these unworthy men. Princess Lenore, I hardly recognize you without your puppies.”

Lenore and the girls made neat curtsies to Omar. “I am honored to see you again, King Omar,” she said, in perfect Calistarian.

He laughed out loud, and said in the same tongue, “Clever girl, very clever. I’ve brought my two oldest daughters to visit with you. I am sure you will have a wonderful time with them.”

Lenore, who knew very well that Omar’s oldest daughter was two years younger, suppressed a wince. “I am sure that I will be as good of friends with them as you are with my papa,” she said.

A second gondola was pulling up to the docks. Two girls dressed all in white silk sat on the benches, their faces covered in veils. How am I to carry on a conversation with two girls whose faces I can’t even see? she thought.

As they disembarked, Lenore noticed that the taller of the two was indeed wearing a shirt that didn’t cover her stomach, and there was a diamond set in her navel. They walked serenely up to Lenore, and set their hands together before giving an inclination of their heads. Lenore did the same, having learned to do so while staying in Calistar. Joan tried to imitate her, but Harper simply curtsied.

“It is wonderful to meet you, Princess Lenore,” said the taller one. “My sister and I were too young to be properly introduced when you visited our home. My name is Sultiana, and this is Chrissie.” The shorter girl nodded.

“I’m very happy to meet you both,” Lenore said.

“Let’s head inside now,” Lorna said, gesturing towards the courtyard. “It is rather warm out in the sun today, and we have cold drinks waiting.”

As the Calistar Princesses fell into step beside Lenore, Chrissie whispered, “Warm? It’s freezing out here.”

“Chrissie, shut up,” Sultiana hissed. “You are a guest.”

“D’you really think it’s cold?” Hannah asked. She and Lady Larissa, the final young woman of court, had quickened their steps to join them.

“It is in comparison to home,” Sultiana explained.

“That’s right, Calistar is a desert,” Harper said. “I’ve always wanted to see it, but my papa doesn’t like it. He says it’s too far away from the water for mages like us.”

“How do you survive with all that sand?” Larissa asked. “Doesn’t it just ruin your things?”

“Not all of us wear cloth of gold gowns to Midweek supper,” Lenore replied.

The other girls laughed. Larissa, whose father was the royal treasurer, pointed her nose in the air.

They all settled in the large library just off of the dining hall. This was Lenore’s favorite room in the palace. Sofas were scattered around the room, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. The whole roomed smelled of paper and ink, though there was still a lingering scent from the tobacco her Uncle Issac had smoked.

Lenore sat down on one couch, and the girls sat around her, with Sultiana on her left and Hannah on her right.

“I do wish we might have visited somewhere away from the men, so that we could take our veils off,” Sultiana said. “At home, we have our own sitting rooms, so that we can rest in privacy.”

“Must you have your veils on all the time in front of men?” Joan asked. “How do you eat?”

“We do not eat in the company of men unless they are our family,” Chrissie said.

“Oh, that might make supper difficult here,” Victor said.

The Calistar Princesses gasped, and turned away from him quickly.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to talk to them, Victor,” Lenore said.

Victor blushed. “Forgive me, Princess Lenore, for insulting your new friends. Please tell them for me that I did not intend to violate their customs.”

“What can one expect from a savage, after all,” Joan muttered.

“Princess Lenore, you allow your noblewomen to speak in such a way?” Sultiana said, her voice suddenly very quiet. “Because, it seems to me that the warrior responsible for protecting the greatest jewel of Septa should be shown more respect.”

“The greatest jewel in Septa,” Harper laughed. “Lenore, can I call you the greatest jewel in Septa? We should embroider that on your night robe.”

“Apparently we’re not as particular about nobility here,” Lenore said, trying not to laugh at Harper. “But you’re right. Seems awfully stupid to talk about a loyal man like that. Seems like a girl might just take offense at that, and slap someone’s face, if she doesn’t stop running her fat mouth.”

Joan gasped. She and Larissa excused themselves quickly, and left without waiting for Lenore’s leave.

“That seemed cruel,” Chrissie said.

“I quite agree, those girls were very rude,” Sultiana added.

Across the room, the kings were getting to their feet. “My friends,” Samuel said, “King Omar and I must discuss a few things, matters of state and such. Rather than bore you all with that, I’d like to invite you into the garden, where food and drink are waiting. We’ll join you when our work is completed.”

Lorna rose, among her ladies, and started to lead everyone out into the garden. Sultiana glanced around, and said, “That is very peculiar. Kadar and Shilom are not going with my honored father.”

“Who are Kadar and Shilom?” Lenore asked.

Sultiana pointed to a very tall man dressed in red with his hair in thick braids, and an older man dressed in blue with a prominent forehead. “That is Kadar, of the smith tribe, and Shilom, of the Scholars. They are his chief advisers. If our honored fathers are to discuss work, these men should be with them.”

Lenore glanced around, and noticed that Lord David and Uncle Lewis, her father’s own chief advisers, were leaving with the rest.
“What are they talking about without them, I wonder?” Lenore whispered. They went out into the garden. The sun was shining, and tables of food had been set out with blue tablecloths. Lenore glanced towards the wall. It had been repaired, but the bricks were of a different shade. She shuddered, wondering if she was the only one who thought it morbid that they were playing in the garden where Uncle Issac and Michael died. She glanced over at Devon. From the look on his face, she wasn’t.

“So, you won’t be able to properly meet my brothers, or the other boys of the court?” Lenore asked, trying to distract herself. “Or can you speak to them with your father present?”

“We may not speak to them at all,” Sultiana said. “In fact, I am surprised that my honored father even allowed us to be in this garden with all of these men without him.”

“Whatever he is talking to King Samuel about must be of the gravest importance, to break such laws,” Chrissie said.

“I wonder,” Sultiana said, looking along the wall, “if someone wanted to hear their conversation, what would they do?”

“They would be smart to forget that idea,” Chrissie said, “After all, they are kings, and if they want a moment of private conversation that not even their advisers are privy to, then surely their daughters should respect that.”

“Of course,” Lenore said, “but if someone wanted to do it, they could manage it by sneaking into the servants’ hall, and listening at the door.”

“And I am off,” Hannah said, “If my mamma finds me spying, she’ll have me shut up in the kitchens for a week, scrubbing pots.”

“I shall come with you, as Malonie smiles upon little girls who obey their elders, not those who delight in disobedience,” Chrissie replied. They made their way towards the food table.

“Right, so the servants’ halls have got an entrance right over here,” Harper said, pointing her thumb towards the wall.

“I think I ought to wait here, Princess,” Victor said. “I do not think it will be healthy for me to be found sneaking about with the Calistar princess, even in the company of others.”

“Good thinking, you can keep watch,” Lenore said. “Tell my mamma we went to the necessary room if she notices us gone?”

Victor gave her a wicked smile. “The Queen is well occupied, showing off for the ladies of court. You will not be missed, I think.”

The three girls glided serenely across the grass. “Will Chrissie tell?” Lenore asked.

“No, will your friend, Hannah?” Sultiana replied.

“She won’t,” Lenore said. They looked around when they got to the door to make sure no one was watching. Then, Harper opened it, and all three of them disappeared into the hall.

The servants’ hall was well lit with torches and set with a cobblestone floor. Lenore led Sultiana and Harper along until they reached the door that would lead them to the library. They saw no one along the way.

Outside of the room, all three girls clustered around the door to listen.

“I wish I didn’t have to ask this of you,” Omar was saying. “I know this is not the best time.”

“Not the best time!” Samuel cried. “Issac and Michael were just killed, right in front of two of my children! I’ve got the whole damn country in my lap, which I am apparently handling terribly, according to every single person who’s got anything to say to me. We’re on the threshold of war with Montelair. Not the best time is an understatement!”

“I haven’t got a choice,” Omar said. “You know how sensitive these things are for my people. If I don’t have an heir, I’ll be looking at civil war.”

Lenore looked at Sultiana. “What’s that about?” she asked.

“My father does not have a son, brother or any male relatives,” Sultiana said. “My honored mother passed into The Goddesses’ hands a year ago. Our people grow restless, with no heir apparent.”

“And your people are a little fussy with each other, aren’t they?” Harper asked.

“If by that you mean the tribe leaders would sooner cut each other’s throats than decide together who our next heir should be, then yes,” Sultiana replied. “There has already been fighting between the Smiths and the Herdsmen.”

“Samuel, I won’t get another chance like this,” Omar said. “Don’t you see what this would mean to my people? I’ve spent my life trying to get these closed border fools on my council to listen to me. You are still the only Septa man who can enter our lands without getting shot on sight. And a man who leaves with his family is hunted like a traitor by his own family. Now, I’ve got the Traders on my side, the Scholars as well. The Farmers will side with me just to stop the war. I’ve got the Smiths and the Herdsmen outvoted. If I can’t do this now, I will never get another chance.”

“Omar, you are asking me to give up one of my children,” Samuel said. “You’re asking me to change his family name, as though he was never even mine.”

“Not until they are married,” Omar said. “He’ll stay here until then.”

“Octavian?” Lenore whispered.

“Who is that?” Sultiana asked.

“My little brother,” Lenore replied. “But he can’t go to Calistar. He’s our heir.”

“Omar, I think you ought to meet the boy first,” Samuel said. “He’s not really the sort of man who’d likely get on well in Calistar.”

“Well, now I know he’s not talking about Octavian,” Harper said.

“Oh damn,” Lenore whispered.

“Devon seems like a bright boy,” Omar said. “And he’s young. It’s still too early to tell what sort of man he’ll be. I am sure that he and Sultiana will get on very well.”

“Is Devon your other brother?” Sultiana asked. “The quiet one?”

“He is,” Lenore said.

Samuel sighed. “I wanted him to stay here, and be an adviser to Octavian, like I was to Issac.”

“But if he comes to Calistar, he will be a king,” Omar said.

“And why in the nine levels of hell would I want that?” Samuel asked. “Weren’t you the one who told me that the crown was a curse? That being a king would always come before being a father and husband? Why d’you think I’d want that for both of my sons?”

“I don’t,” Omar said. “But I know that you do want peace. I know that you know what will happen to Septa if Calistar falls to war. I know that you are already acting as a king first. And I know that Devon will do the same. I am sorry, my friend, but this is the best option for both of us, not just me. Unless you want Octavian to inherit a warring neighbor after my death.”

“You are right,” Samuel said. “Creator preserve us, I know it. I’ll speak to Lorna, she’ll be livid.”

Lenore got to her feet. “I’ve got to go find my little brother, excuse me,” she said.

“I do not think that you are very happy with this news,” Sultiana said.

“It’s nothing against you,” Lenore said. “It’s only that, well, my little brother’s not the sort to be very happy in Calistar.”

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I switched to a Traveler’s Notebook

Long-time readers of this site will know I’m a big advocate of the Bullet Journal system. It helps me organize my life so I can get what I need done. And I have a lot of things that need to be done. I’ve long relied on the simple listing structure for just about everything as I have a full-time day job, a writing career, and a home and family to care for.

As much as I’ve loved my bullet journal for over a decade now, it has some drawbacks. I often find that I need pages for certain projects for a small amount of time, and then I never need to look a them again. There are other pages that I need to refer to long term, that need to be moved from book to book as I fill them. Then there’s the fact that often end up carrying around multiple notebooks as I don’t want to keep writing notes in with my day-to-day lists. The last thing I want to do is rummage through a month’s worth of daily to-dos, grocery lists and mini-project pages just to find that one story idea I had at some point.

When I saw people converting their bullet journals over to traveler’s notebooks, I was interested. This seemed like the sort of thing that would solve a lot of my problems.

The system is a lot more free-flowing than a normal notebook. It’s a small book of sorts in which you attach thin notebooks. There are different ways to do this, but I use simple elastic bands. The notebooks you fill it with are varied. You can get planner pages, calendars, lined paper, graphs, and blank pages. I got an insert that acts as my wallet. More on that soon.

Because of this, you can swap out notebooks anytime you please. It’s like a school trapper keeper got a massive upgrade.

I’ve been using this method for a few months now. And I have to honestly say, it’s helped me in ways I didn’t anticipate.

Let’s discuss.

It’s helped with my organization

As I mentioned above, one of the first things I added to my notebook was an insert that has sleeves for cards and a little zippable envelope in which I keep a little cash and a glasses cleaner. And because of this, I haven’t lost my wallet!

I don’t think you understand what an impressive statement this is for me. Not once since I’ve started this have I had to shamefully rush back home, leaving my purchases at the counter of a store. Not once have I been late to something or worse, missed a bus, because I couldn’t find my damned wallet. Not once have I had to tear my house apart trying to figure out if I left my wallet on the sink, on my desk, in my jeans pocket, or maybe on the counter of the crystal shop I was just at.

This might seem trivial, but it was a huge game-changer for me. I also always have a glasses cleaner with me now.

I can switch out notebooks as I need them

Right now in my travelers notebook I have four notebooks. The first is my standard bullet journal. The next one is my holiday planning book. This is nothing too elaborate. I just take a page or two to plan out what I want to do for each holiday, what I need to do to accomplish these goals, and a shopping list for the holiday in question. I also write down a few memories of the day there.

Image from my Traveler's Notebook.

(Larger holidays, of course, take more pages. If you’d like me to talk about my Yule and Christmas planning pages when we get closer to the season, let me know.)

Next, I have a reading journal. This isn’t nearly as elaborate or detailed as some of the amazing ones you can find online. It’s simply a place for me to record some key things for my amusement. Here’s a quick bullet list of the things I track, in order. I don’t do anything cute with this, I just write down the information.

– Title of the book and what format it was. Physical, audio or ebook.

– Name of the author and whether it’s fiction or nonfiction.

– What day I started it and what day I finished it.

– Star score, from 1 to 5.

The rest of the page, or pages, is space for notes as I read. I’ll copy lines that stick out to me. Or things that occur to me as I’m reading. For instance, my notes while reading Sunrise on The Reaping had a lot of melting down over that ‘painting my poster’ line.

Finally, I have a writing notebook. At least, a mini one. I keep a larger one, but I can’t always take that with me. And we all know inspiration strikes when it strikes.

The important thing is not necessarily what I have in my notebook right now, even though I spent a good amount of time describing each one. The important thing is that I can swap these out at any time.

Let’s say I want to do away with my planner and put a small one in my notebook. I’m not likely to do that, but I could. I will almost certainly put a specific notebook in just for Nebula Con in June.

Sometimes I like to have a mini sketchbook in there. When I eventually go on vacation, I’ll have a specific notebook for that. (Man, I’m going to love this system when I go on vacation.) I might eventually make a notebook for dealing with the Darling Husband’s health.

I also use a similar method, by the way, for my grimoire. But that I’d just as soon keep private.

The point is that you can have notebooks for anything. Dream journals, recipes you want to try, cleaning routines. Anything you like. And you don’t have to commit to having it there forever. I won’t need my convention notebook in there all year round. The same goes for my vacation planner. But when I need them, I can sub them in. That is my favorite part of this system so far.

f you try the traveler’s notebook, let me know what it does for you in the comments. I’m always excited to hear about new notebook ideas.

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Broken Patterns, Chapter Two

As of Friday, Broken Patterns will be available everywhere!

Devon Mestonie had lived in the palace of his uncle the king for most of his life. His father had a castle and lands of his own, of course. But in all of his fourteen years Devon didn’t think he’d spent more than a handful of months there. His papa said it was because there was a lot of work to do in the capital, and he was needed. His mamma, Lorna, said it was because Samuel and Issac were too close to stand being parted for very long.

In all that time, Devon and his brother Octavian had shared a room in their cousin Michael’s suite of rooms, as royal cousins and first in his court. Now, Octavian was being moved into Michael’s room. But he wasn’t going without making noise.

“Michael’s been dead for only two weeks, and we just can’t wait to shove all of his things aside and move on, can we?” Octavian cried at the head manservant, Peter, as he oversaw the move. Lighting was crackling along his shoulders, a sign that he was losing control of his magic right along with his temper.

“Prince Michael has gone to the arms of The Creator, and your father has been ordained king,” Peter said with a sigh. “That means that you, sir, are the new heir. This was never Prince Michael’s bedroom, it was the bedroom belonging to the heir of Septa, our next ruler. That is you. If you don’t like it, go and speak to your father the king.”

That, Devon decided, was the bit that was bothering him most. “Your father the king.” It had always been your uncle the king before. That left his father just to be papa. To Devon, it felt like their father didn’t belong to them as much as he had before.

Deciding that he wanted none of the fight that was brewing between Peter and Octavian, Devon ducked out into the hall. Sadly, there didn’t seem to be a single quiet place to be found in the whole palace.

He went first to the training rooms, to play with the bows. There he found Dennis Synthia and Oliver Castille, two of the noble boys of the court. Dennis was Lord David’s son, and he looked like it, being the tallest of the court, with the biggest nose. Oliver was, in Devon’s opinion, too pretty for his own good, with hair that he was too fond of caring for.

Devon selected a bow, and started to fit an arrow to the string. “Bet your papa wants you to take up sword work now,” Oliver said.

“Bugger that,” Devon replied. “I’m terrible with a sword.”

“But it’s more princely,” Dennis said, firing his bow.

“I’m not,” Devon replied.

The indoor range was near the conference chamber. The lords and ambassadors were there, apparently having another argument.

“What are they on about now?” Devon asked, listening to the men’s voices rising and falling.

“That man that stayed from the Montelair soldiers,” Oliver said. “My papa thinks that he’s a spy, and he wants him hung.”

“Lord Lewis thinks we ought to march on Montelair,” Dennis said. “He said that we’re taking the word of someone we know nothing about that this wasn’t an act of war on King Kurtis’s part.”

“Except when he said it, there was a lot more swearing,” Oliver said.

Devon fired his bow, sinking the arrow into the very edge of the red target in the center of the butt. “I was hoping for a bit of quiet,” he said.

“Then don’t go out to the outside range,” Dennis said, “Hank and Howard are out there, sparring.”

“Oh, Creator defend us, I wish they’d stop that,” Devon said. “They only get started fighting, and Hank gets mad if Howard uses his magic, even though he knows he’s got no control over it.”

The door to the conference room opened, and the ambassador from Coveline came out. She was a large dragon, thin in body and green in color.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to dragons in the palace,” Dennis whispered.

“Does Ambassador Lau look different from that language master she brought with her?” Oliver asked. “Isn’t she shorter, and fatter?”

“Of course she does,” Devon said. “Ambassador Lau’s a Vondrai dragon. They’re the ruling class. Mistress Risus is a Monnor. They’re more common.”

“Probably shouldn’t call her fat, though,” Oliver laughed.

“I’m going to go find Lenore,” Devon said

“Think she’s in the tower,” Dennis replied.

“How d’you know that?” Oliver asked, smirking.

“Because she’s with Hannah, and Papa likes me to know where my sister is, arse!” Dennis replied, blushing a little.

“Right, I’ll see you later, then,” Devon said. He set the practice bow back in place, and nearly ran to the tower workroom set aside for the thread mages in the palace.

It was Devon’s favorite room. It was circular and huge, with two great fireplaces to keep the cold away in the winter. Every available bit of wall space was covered with hooks that held thread and yarn in all different colors and weights. Great chests were placed beneath them for even more yarn and thread. Comfortable chairs were set around the room for the mages to sit. As his mamma had been the highest ranking thread mage in the palace since their grandmother died, this room did not change hands, and looked just the same as it always had.

Lenore was there, along with Hannah, Ramona, and Victor. Hannah was a heavier girl, with a thick braid tucked over her shoulder. She sat next to Lenore, stitching a bright green vest.

Ramona was the head of the royal nursery. She was an older woman, with a stern face. She knelt before a loom, weaving a tapestry that showed birds flying across a blue sky. Thanks to her magic, the birds were moving.

Lenore sat in the sunlight near a window, spinning the light into her thread.

Victor’s appearance had changed a lot since the first time Devon had seen him. His hair had been cropped short and neat, his facial hair shaved. He dressed as most other men of Septa did, the same sort of cloths that Devon wore, with a jacket, undershirt, and breeches, with high polished leather boots. He stood next to Lenore’s chair, watching her spin with a look of fascination that amused Devon.

“Hello, Prince,” Ramona said when she saw Devon.

“Please, don’t call me that,” Devon replied. He came to her side, and sat next to her on the floor.

“But that’s what we are now, prince and princess,” Lenore said with a grimace. “As though it does us any good. Octavian will be king, and you’ll be his adviser, I’m sure. But I’ll just have more of the lords after me for their sons. Disgusting, as though I’m nothing more than a means to an end.”

“Oh, stop,” Hannah said. “Being a noblewoman is an important calling. We’ve got lands to run, and families to look after. It’s not like you’ll ever be bored.”

“One can be busy and bored at the same time, if the thing one is doing is boring,” Lenore replied.

“Nurse, can I use your hand loom?” Devon asked.

“Sure,” Ramona said.

“You weave?” Victor asked. “Boys do not weave in my country.”

“Boys don’t weave here, either,” Lenore replied. “Just my little brother. And I wouldn’t allow it, but he’s not bad. You just cannot tell Papa.”

“And how am I to avoid telling him anything, being sworn to him and all?” Victor asked. “A man is not a man if he does not take his vows seriously.”

“Well, I don’t think he’ll ask you direct,” Ramona said. She set the loom in front of Devon, and he started to set it with base yarn. “Besides, a talent is a talent, even if it’s unusual.”

Devon smiled at her. “Thank you, Nurse.”

The five of them sat in silence for a while. Victor wandered around the room, glancing out of windows and looking bored, but otherwise everyone stayed still. With the rest of the palace in such a rush with the funerals and Samuel’s coronation, this was a mercy.

Devon’s fingers started to itch while he wove. He stopped to rub his fingers on his breeches, then went back to work.

“Does the king know a group of Montelarians are coming up to the palace?” Victor asked, looking out the window.

“I don’t know,” Devon said.

“He does, and he said so yesterday,” Lenore said with a sigh. “Honestly, Devon, you are so hopeless. Papa sent a messenger up to Kurtis about the attack, and this will be the answer.”

Devon was pulling colors from Ramona’s rag bag at random. He looked at the fabric strip he was making, which should have been a simple striped pattern. Instead, it looked vaguely like a crossbow bolt, black with a thin arrow head and wooden fetches at the back in place of feathered ones. Around it was a pattern of flames.

“How did I do that?” he whispered.

Ramona looked down at his loom. “Well,” she said, “that is a clever little pattern.”

Lenore and Hannah bent over to see as well. “That is a manly thing to weave, I suppose,” Victor said.

“That is good,” Lenore said. “Well, if you can’t sword fight, and you aren’t a mage, at least you are good at something, little brother.”

“Wish my brother did something quiet,” Hannah said.

“Let’s go down and see the people from Montelair,” Lenore said, putting her spinning away. “Maybe Papa will let us sit in on the meeting.”

“Why would you want to do a thing like that?” Lorna asked. “They will only talk about boring matters of state. Surely you would be more interested in going to visit the hounds?”

“I am tired of hearing things secondhand,” Lenore said. “Besides, I’m sure Victor will want to know what’s going to happen.”

“I would like to know later, when the nobility of Montelair cannot see me and have me gutted,” Victor muttered.

“Come on,” Lenore said. Devon shoved his loom back into Ramona’s bag, and followed after her and Hannah.

“Here,” Hannah said, offering Lenore a bit of fabric. “I stitched that, so I’ll be able to hear anyone who talks into it. They’ll probably let you sit closer than me.”

“You ladies really are interested in politics?” Victor asked.

“This is history in the making. How is that not fascinating?” Hannah asked.

“I just want to know what’s going on,” Lenore said. “Men are always making all these decisions and they act like it’s not going to concern us poor little girls at all.”

Samuel and his lords were coming from the conference room as Devon and the others came around the corner. “Papa, may we come meet the delegates from Montelair with you?” Lenore asked.

“Oh, Bug, you’ll be frightfully bored,” Samuel said. “Devon, I didn’t think you had any interest in this sort of thing.”

“I do, Papa,” Devon said.

“And so do I,” Lenore said.

“You may come, but you may not speak,” Samuel said. “Montelair has a different opinion of ladies, and I can’t trust them to act like gentlemen to you, dear.”

“I won’t say a word, Papa,” Lenore said.

They fell into step behind the lords. “How do men treat women in Montelair?” Devon asked Victor.

“Not very well,” Victor replied. “I have not lived here long, but I am already seeing that men are more gentle with women here. You would not like Montelair, I think. We are not gentle with many things.”

The gondola holding the Montelair group was pulling up next to the boardwalk in front of the castle. “I will never get used to not having proper roads here, instead of all these canals,” Victor said.

“I can’t imagine living any other way,” Lenore replied.

“Thought we discussed no talking,” Samuel said.

A man was getting out of the gondola. He looked as different from Victor and the other Montelarians Devon had seen as it was possible to be. He was thin, and so pale that his veins could be seen on his face and neck. His eyes were watery. He wore a red velvet coat, and a large decorative velvet hat, encrusted with gold along the rim.

“What’s the matter with him?” Hannah asked.

“He’s inbred, like all the other aristocracy,” Victor whispered. “Stupid kuo i, weakening their whole line because they think their own people to be inferior.”

“What does that word mean, ‘kuo i?’” Lenore asked.

“It is a not so nice word, Princess,” Victor replied. “I believe in Septa, you would say ‘ass.’”

The man looked around. Devon was sure he’d heard Victor. If he had, though, he made no mention. “I am Vitaly, official ambassador sent by King Kurtis of Montelair,” he said.

“I am Samuel Mestonie,” Samuel said. “I welcome you to our land, and I hope that we can move past the hostilities of the past to a better future for both of our countries.”

Vitaly smiled, “I hope so as well. I see that you’ve contained one of the Broken Chain men for us. Thank you. I’ve brought guards, we will take him into custody.”

Victor hissed. “Should have known I wasn’t getting off so easy,” he muttered.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Samuel said. “That man is my daughter’s bodyguard. He’s working off a debt to the family.”

“Ah,” Vitaly said. “In the interest of friendship, King Samuel, I want to caution against that. These commoners, they are like stray dogs. They will wag their tails for a meal, and happily sleep at the foot of your bed. But in the end, they will always belong to the person who feeds them best.”

“Well, also in the interest of friendship,” Samuel said, crossing his arms over his chest, “let me tell you that Victor knelt under my blade and swore fealty to my family. I don’t know what that means in Montelair, but in Septa we take a man at his word. That’s a Septa man you’re insulting right now, and if you want this conversation to remain ‘friendly’, I’d advise you to stop.”

Vitaly gave the king a gentle wave of his hand. “Of course. No offense meant, I assure you. My apologies.”

Devon’s attention was drawn to the wall. There was movement there, beyond the rhythmic back and forth of the guards marching. One of them had stopped, and was holding a crossbow. It was aimed at Vitaly.

“Papa!” Devon cried, pointing towards the man. Everyone looked up, just as the guard fired.

Samuel’s sword was out in a moment and he swung, throwing a wave of fire at the arrow. It caught, and fell to the ground in cinders. Victor was pulling Devon and Lenore back, as the guards on the wall grabbed the attacker. They pulled his helmet away, to reveal long blond hair.

“That’s one of the men that attacked us,” Lenore cried.

Vitaly’s guards were steadying him, and helping him to brush the ash from his cloths. “That was some very fast magic work, Sire,” he said, with a shaky laugh.

“I think we found your rabid dogs,” Samuel said. “It’s my turn to apologize, I thought we’d swept the palace before your arrival. Come inside, we’ll get you settled with a nice brandy.”

“Yes, that does sound like a good idea,” Vitaly said with a nod.

The king led Vitaly inside, a hand on his shoulder. The others followed, Lenore falling into step beside Devon.

“An arrow,” she said, looking at him sideways.

“What of it?” Devon asked.

“An arrow surrounded by flame,” Hannah added.

“That nice little picture you made, Prince,” Victor said. “Rather prophetic, don’t you think?”

0

Broken Patterns, Prologue and Chapter One

Broken Patterns will be available everywhere on Friday. For now, here’s chapter one.

Part One

Prologue

I have been so alone for so long. Since the other one cheated me, leaving me in the darkness and cold, I have been alone. I had tried to find another place to bear my egg, my child, but there are precious few warm places in the darkness of the universe. There was nothing I could do, but hold it close to me as it died.

The other one’s child has flourished. Upon it, thousands of species had grown, warm and safe in the light of the sun. The sun that should have been mine.

I can bear this no longer.

Calvin Olendae didn’t believe in me, but that was all right. Men who didn’t believe were just as likely to hear my voice. They are just as likely to call me by my name. I’d spoken to him since he was young, whispering of the sins of Septa, and what he should do to stop them. Now, tonight, it was time.

He led his men through the cold, black waters of the canals, right up to the side of the palace walls.

“Makes you sick, boys,” he whispered, “Those fine nobles snug and warm while our babies freeze to death in the night.”

“I still do not see how starting a war after five years of peace is going to fix that,” Victor muttered from beside him.

“Shut up, Vicky,” Calvin hissed. “Now I know you are not very bright, but I would think this plan was simple enough to understand. Do you think you can manage to take orders for once?”

“Yes, Calvin,” Victor muttered. There was one I would have to keep an eye out for. There was too much light within him.

Without another word, the men crawled from the canals, and took oiled cloth bags out from under their cloths. Even after nearly an hour of swimming through the dark waterways that served Septa as roads, they were still dry inside, thanks to a bit of magic from Calvin’s woman. It was a good thing too. The Septans were far more likely to believe they were actual Montelair soldiers if their red coats weren’t soaking wet.

The men stripped their wet coats, and pulled on the uniforms. Then, Calvin led them to the wall that surrounded the palace.

A guard on the wall saw them coming. “You there, stop!” he yelled, training a crossbow on them.

“Victor,” Calvin said.

Victor walked to the wall. When the guard fired, he held up one hand that glowed blue. The bolt hit it, and bounced off.

Calvin clenched his own hand, and a ball of the same blue light formed. More guards were running along the wall. Calvin waited until they got closer, then tossed the light at the wall.

Even his own men jumped when it burned away in a blast of blue light and dust. He ran through, with the others on his heels.

Inside of the wall, there was panic. I had made sure that Calvin would recognize King Issac Mestonie on sight. He stood in front of his wife and son, holding a sword. As Calvin watched, he swung the sword, and it lit with fire.

“That is a cute trick,” Calvin said, “but I have an even better one.”

He clenched his fist again, and threw another ball at Issac. The king and his family were dead, just like that.

Guards were yelling, and men were running out of the palace. “Calvin,” Victor gasped, “that was a boy you just killed. He could not have been more than fourteen years old.”

“And now he will not reach fifteen,” Calvin replied. “You need to steady yourself for this, boy. This is what war is.”

A nobleman was running from the palace. He drew a sword, and set it afire just as the king had done. “Look, see?” Calvin said. “The nobles are just like weeds. You pull one, and there is always another to take its place. That is why you have to rip them out by the damn roots, Victor. You take that one.”

Victor swallowed, and nodded. He walked towards the man, his hands glowing. Perhaps I could use him eventually. Calvin turned his attention to the guards. The other Brothers worked their way through them as well. Soon the pretty lawn was painted red with blood.

As Calvin stopped to take a breath, he noticed a flicker of light from behind one of the garden trees. He looked, and saw a young woman, no older than fifteen, and a boy of roughly thirteen. They were hugging each other, and obviously trying just to keep out of sight. That was never going to be possible, with her dress decked out in embroidery that light up like a lantern. The blessing of The One, the one they called The Creator was on her. They were nobles from the looks of them, with that same Mestonie curly black hair.

Calvin started towards them, already pulling together another ball. The girl saw him coming, and held the boy closer. “You get back!” she said.

“How like a noble,” Calvin laughed. “Never knowing when to stop giving orders.”

He started to pull his arm back to throw, but suddenly someone grabbed him from behind. He looked, and saw Victor.

“Let me go!” he yelled, wrenching his arm free. What was he doing?

“Calvin, you cannot keep doing this!” Victor yelled. “Think about what Da would say if he knew you were killing girls.”

“I do not give a damn what Da would have said,” Calvin said. “Any noble that is left over can start this whole mess again.”

Victor stepped in between him and the children. “This was not the plan! We were supposed to just attack, make them think we were soldiers, and leave. You already killed one child, will you kill two more? Look at them, Calvin, that girl is the same age as June!”

“And if I have to kill her to make sure June and my other children survive, I will do it!” Calvin cried. “Now move!”

Victor held up his hands. “No,” he said.

Calvin swelled with fury. “How dare you?” he hissed. “How dare you choose these noble hounds over your own family? Who raised you after Da died? Who put clothes on your ungrateful back?”

“That is why I have got to stop you. How much innocent blood do you want on your hands?”

“There is no innocent blood on my hands, little brother,” Calvin said. He threw the ball.

Victor caught it, and it knocked him back into the noble children. The girl tried to catch him, but all three of them went down. Victor cried out in pain as he landed, but he still didn’t move away from them. “You would really kill me, just to kill them?” he yelled.

Calvin looked down at him. “I do not even have to think about it that hard.” He raised his hand to form another ball. Before he could, though, he was hit from the side by an arrow. He gasped in pain, and another arrow struck his leg. He turned to run back toward the canal, and another arrow hit him in the back. Calvin stumbled, and fell into the black water. In too much agony to swim, he sank into the darkness.

Damn. And I had wasted so much time on him. Oh well, at least there was the other one. But, then, there was also that girl. There was light in her, yes. But perhaps there was room for darkness as well.

Chapter One

Lenore Mestonie pulled her little brother, Devon, close to her. She tried to catch her breath. The boy who’d saved them scrambled to his feet, and ran towards the canal. She wanted to scream for him to come back, that there were other soldiers who might still hurt them, and she still couldn’t even see her brother Octavian, but then she realized how foolish that was. She didn’t even know this boy, after all.

Devon was struggling out of her grasp. “Michael was hurt, Lenore,” he cried. “We’ve got to check on him.”

“What are we going to do, stupid?” Lenore snapped. “Just stay here with me until we see Papa.”

Septa soldiers were running through the garden, trying to round up the Montelarians. Lenore saw some of them get away, and she hoped that they all drowned in the canals like their leader.

Samuel, her father, was running out into the garden, followed by the other men of the court. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and a head and beard of thick black hair. He was looking around, as though trying to figure out what was going on. Lenore had to admit that it was very difficult to guess, given the chaos.

A guard was kneeling over Uncle Issac. He looked up, his face pale, and announced to no one in particular, “The king is dead!”

“Prince Michael, too!” someone cried. Lenore looked toward them, to find that it was her younger brother Octavian, the middle of the children, holding their cousin Michael in his arms and sobbing.

Lenore looked back at her father. His strong face was ashen. He took a deep breath, and then another. Finally, he walked over to her. “Bug,” he said, kneeling in front of her, “tell me what happened here.”

“Uncle Issac brought Devon, Michael and me out to see the bats leave the tower,” Lenore said. “Then the wall, well, it just sort of exploded, and those Montelair soldiers came running through. The biggest one shot some sort of light ball at Uncle Issac, Aunt Grace, and Michael. I grabbed Devon, and we hid here, but the soldier saw us. He would have killed us, but that boy over there saved our lives.” She nodded her head towards the boy kneeling next to the canal.

“Papa, I thought we were at peace with Montelair,” Devon whispered.

“No tears, Devon,” Samuel said. “Look at your sister, she’s not crying.” Lenore thought that was a very near thing.

“I know that we were at peace with Montelair, and I’ve no idea why they’ve decided to attack us now,” Samuel said, getting to his feet, “but we will find out.”

“It was not Montelair,” said the boy.

Everyone looked towards him, as he rose to his feet, and turned. “It was not the king that sent us,” he repeated. “It was the Brothers of the Broken Chain. My older brother, Calvin, he was leading them. I was only along to try to stop him.”

Samuel pulled his sword, and swung it, lighting the blade on fire. “Not another step closer, not yet,” he said. “It was your brother who was leading, so it was him that killed my brother, the king?”

“And it is him that is now dead, at the bottom of your canal,” Victor said. His Montelarian accent was thick. Lenore had thought that he was a boy, but looking at his face, she realized that he had to be at least twenty-three. His roughly cut blond hair hung in wet strands around his face.

“Papa, don’t hurt him,” Lenore said. “He saved us.”

“Who are you?” Samuel asked.

“My name is Victor Olendae. I was a member of the Brotherhood of the Broken Chain.”

“And why did you save my children?” Samuel asked.

“Because I did not want to see more innocent lives taken because my brother could not tell an enemy from a bystander. Because it was the right thing to do.”

“So, what am I to do with you now?” Samuel asked.

Lenore was astonished at how calm her father sounded. She wondered if anyone else noticed how his hands were shaking on the handle of his sword.

Samuel walked up to Victor. “I’ll make you a deal, Victor Olendae. You swear your fealty to me, and I’ll spare your life. I’ll give you a job, and a place in my household. Otherwise, I’ll hold you accountable for your brothers’ crimes.”

“So, my choices are death or slavery?” Victor asked.

“Fealty isn’t slavery,” Lenore snapped. “It’s a promise of loyalty and service. A slave is a bought and paid for possession, and slavery is a filthy practice. There haven’t been any slaves in Septa since my family overthrew the old church.”

One of the noblemen, Lord David, cleared his throat. Lenore looked over at him. He was a taller man, with more nose than his face really needed. “Prince Samuel, we are awaiting your orders,” he said.

“Oh,” Samuel said. “I suppose you must be. Yes, Victor, please look after my children while I get this mess sorted, will you?”

He wandered towards David, calling for guards to collect Issac and Michael, to sweep the grounds in case any more rebels were hiding, and to rouse the ambassadors.

Victor walked up to Lenore, who was just getting to her feet, pulling Devon along with her. “Your dress shines,” he said.

“I am a thread mage, I spin light into yarn,” Lenore said. “Thank you for saving us. I am sorry that you lost your brother.”

“I am sorry that you lost family as well,” Victor said. “I tried to stop the whole thing several times on the way here. This is not how my people should gain their freedom from our king.”

Octavian stumbled up to them. “Lenore,” he asked, “is Papa the king now?”

Lenore looked at him. For a moment, she had a hard time remembering what the words he’d used meant. King wasn’t a title, king was her uncle.

Finally, though, she said, “I think so.”

0

Why Sunrise on The Reaping Works

So I just finished reading Sunrise on The Reaping. And it emotionally wrecked me.

Yes, I know these books are written for teenagers. I don’t care, they’ve had me crying in public more than once.

I happened to be carrying the book with me as I was running errands. One of those errands was to return the book safely to the library from where it came. But in one shop, the man behind the counter said, “Oh, that’s that new Hunger Games book, right? I heard that was coming out.”

And I said, “Yes, I just finished it.”

“Is it any good?” he asked, “Or is it just a money grab?”

“Oh no,” I said, as though those two things were mutually exclusive. “It’s very good.”

I know the accusations get thrown around often when an author comes back to a popular series and adds more to the story. And sometimes it’s a valid argument. Sometimes it’s even a warning of elder abuse.

IYKYK.

But I honestly don’t think that Suzanne Collins wrote Reaping because she was running low on cash. And frankly, even if she did, I’m not mad at it. Because even if she wrote this book for money, it was still a damned good book. So today, let’s talk about why Sunrise on The Reaping was such a good prequel. Aside, of course, from the many reasons why this series is great to begin with. I was obsessed with re-reading the series after I finished Reaping, and I’m shocked by how good it is. How accurate it is. I’m sure I’ll talk more about that later, but for today, let’s just focus on Sunrise on The Reaping.

The story made sense with the rest of the series

The story of Haymich’s Hunger Games fits thematically with the rest of the series. It felt like the rest of the books if that makes sense.

Most good writers have a voice. They have certain ways of phrasing things, word preferences, and pacing that cannot and should not be taught. It’s something we writers develop over time.

And it’s something that changes over time. Take for instance Stephen King’s Castle Rock books versus his Holly books. They have a different feel, don’t they? Not entirely different, but enough that it’s noticeable. This is partially because they’re very different series that deal with different subject matter and different sorts of main characters. They were also written decades apart from each other, of course. And that’s the really tricky part. Writing voices change over time. While that’s to be expected and is in fact a good thing, it can also be difficult if you want to go back and add something to your series later.

But Reaping feels very much like the rest of the series. It feels like a similar vibe, a similar voice. And that’s not an easy thing to do.

This world feels like it is filled with stories

One of the great things about the world of Hunger Games is that it feels like it’s full of stories. Katniss has one story, and it feels like an ending. But it’s also an open ending. There are ways that the story can continue.

And there are certainly ways it can expand in the past. I mean, we have how many Hunger Games between Katniss’s and Lucy Gray’s? And what about the war that started all of this? What about the calamity that befell the world to give us Panem to start with? And we haven’t even learned that much about the other districts. I mean, I love District 12 because it’s basically where I live. But there are twelve other districts we could learn about. I’d read a book about a victor from each one, personally. I also wouldn’t mind a book about District 13 and how it fell.

I have no idea if we’re going to get any of those books. I don’t know if Collins plans to write anymore in this world. But I hope she does. We’ve barely scratched the surface of this world she’s created.

It was a well-written story that built on all of the other books

As I mentioned earlier, this story built well on the rest of the series.

We already knew there was a reason Haymich was a drunk. Now we have every tragic detail. We know what it must have cost him, year after year, to work with kids bound for the games. We understand more why he had such affection for Mags, and why he has such a mixed series of emotions around Trinket. Above all else, this is what compelled me to go back and read the rest of the series again.

But this book also adds to Snow’s story from Songbirds and Snakes. It also adds to Bettie’s story and Wiress’s. In short, it expanded the world in ways that built up, rather than ignoring, the work that had been done before.

It’s not the first prequel that was satisfying

Speaking of Songbirds and Snakes, as well as work already done, that was also a good book. Much of what I’ve said about Reaping can be said about that one as well.

Having one prequel that was already a joy made me far more excited to read this one. Because, to me at least, it proved that Collins was still eager to write in this world, and still had more stories to tell. It’s said that the first chapter of your book sells your book, while the last chapter sells the sequel. That was certainly the case here.

It was clearly a joy to write

Finally, this might just be writer bias. But because the book is so well written, I have to assume that it was fun to write. Collins was passionate about writing it.

Writing takes time, as you’re probably aware. Time that could be used to do just about anything else. To put in the time and effort it takes to write a good book, you need to care about what you’re writing. It needs to move you, to pull you back again and again. Your passion for the story has to be enough to get through the exhausting days. The days when everyone else has needed so much of you. You’ve gone to work, made one to three meals, and cleaned and cared for loved ones both flesh and furry. On the days when it feels like committing yourself to one more thing might break you, you need to feel passionate about your story to make it happen.

That’s why I think Reaping was written with love. You can feel that Collins had something to say. Something she needed to say.

I hope she has more to say. And I hope that if you haven’t yet read Sunrise on The Reaping you get a chance to soon.

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1

My local bookstore closed

For my entire life, there’s been a bookstore on my local Main Street. It was called Book Nook. And, being who I am and doing what I do, I loved that place.

It had old-fashioned wood-paneled walls. Shelves that smelled more like an old library than a shop. As a child, my favorite part of the store was the spinning rack of bookmarks.

Did anyone else have this weird bookmark obsession as a child? Fancy bookmarks were everything I wanted in this world. These days I just use any nearby scrap of paper. That’s a little sad.

Man, that place never changed. I used to beg my mom to take me there anytime we were on Main Street. At the time, Main Street was a place we were a lot. She worked at several different restaurants over the years. We lived in three different apartments tucked above stores. There was a little five and dime where I marveled at the fancy pens that looked like crystal. We ate at Burger Hut and the Hot Dog Shoppe. We used to have Woolworths until it burned down when I was a child, but I remember sitting at the counter and having milkshakes.

I remember the fire, too. The way the smoke coughed upwards in the sky and terrified me. I worried that it would come for us as well. I think I’m still a little afraid of that.

The five and dime is gone. The Woolworths is gone. Any number of other little shops are gone. The Unicorn Gift Shop, several antique stores whose names I’ve forgotten, a frozen yogurt place. There used to be a classy little bar where I watched presidential debates during the first Obama campaign, drinking Long Island ice teas with the campaign director in my town. Now it’s the classy little wine bar where I go to enjoy a glass of chocolate-flavored wine and read. Life moves on, tearing itself down, burning itself out, building new days and lives and stores upon the memories and ashes.

But not Book Nook. Man, that place never changes.

As a kid, I went there to buy Goosebumps and Babysitters Club books, series I loved equally. As a young woman, I waited outside the door for them to open the day the last Harry Potter book came out. The storekeeper there that morning was both confused and, I think, annoyed to have some overly excited woman in her early twenties waiting at her door. Apparently, this was a new experience for her.

I had my first book signing there when Broken Patterns came out. A copy of the book sat in the front window for months. They even hung up a poster from Starting Chains.

For months. To the point that it faded.

That place never changed.

That was a great experience. A young mom came in, clearly with just barely enough money to get her daughter a book. I gave her a copy of mine and she was thrilled.

I hope she’s doing alright.

I’d pop in from time to time. Sometimes I’d find great things. The author’s extended version of The Stand and American Gods. I impulsively bought some hardcover books that I still love to this day. Strange The Dreamer and An Absolutely Remarkable Thing.

But I didn’t get the sequel to either book there. They never seemed to get them in.

As other stores came and went, Book Nook stayed. Its new releases dwindled. Its stationary options did too, until they went away entirely. So did the bookmarks.

There were no cute impulse buys at the counter. The same counter with the same register that had always been there. Instead, there was a display of lottery tickets. And they clearly made money from the lottery tickets. Once during a book signing, I watched an elderly woman come in and proceed to purchase a scratch-off ticket. She scratched it with no joy, then bought another and another. She kept going for quite some time, scratching tickets with absolutely no emotion on her face.

It became a place that wasn’t fun to be in. Where I rarely if ever found new books I was interested in reading. The hours were erratic, so even if there was something there I wanted, I had a hard time coming in.

And it never changed.

Earlier this year, I received an email from the manager, telling me they were going to close and that I needed to come pick up my books.

Losing my local bookstore has left me with mixed emotions. They survived so much, hanging on through decades of Amazon encroachment and even the pandemic. But they never, ever changed. They never grew with the times. They did nothing to offer readers and buyers a better experience. They simply existed.

And now, they don’t.

I do not blame the store entirely. But neither do I blame competition entirely. Neither do I blame consumers entirely. But all three share a bit of the blame.

Myself included.

I could have been more patient and asked them to order the books I wanted. I could have scheduled more events there, even though the reason I stopped was that no one showed up to them.

But in the end, the issue lies with all three. We should shop small when we can. Big corporations should stop using such predatory practices. They won’t, but they should. And small businesses should put in the effort to grow and change with the times.

In the end, though, I don’t write this to blame anyone. I write this to mourn. No matter the reasons, my local bookstore is closing. The store I shopped in as a child is gone. And I hate that. So I just wanted to hold space for it today.

I don’t remember who said this, or even where I first heard it. But someone somewhere said that every piece of writing is a love letter or a eulogy. This was both.

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3

My thoughts after Pathfinders Writing Collective’s March Madness

I got an email on Monday that maybe you got too. It was from the Nanowrimo organization, explaining that they are shutting down.

I have mixed feelings about this. I posted months ago about why I was stepping away from Nanowrimo. But it’s an organization that inspired millions of writers over the years. It gave me the inspiration and courage to write my first published novel.

This one. Available now on Amazon and going wide as of April 25th.

And yet, I also feel we are seeing the writing community’s response to AI writing. We will not support any organization that gives quarter and comfort to AI platforms that steal our work and produce flat and soulless stories flooding our markets.

There is one part of the letter that I agree with, though. Interim executive director Kilby Blades said, “Many alternatives to NaNoWriMo popped up this year, and people did find each other.”

And this is true. We found each other. And this past month I participated in a writing challenge that does just this. The Pathfinding Writers Collective March Madness event. And it was a fantastic experience. Even though my team lost. If we’re being fair, I personally lost twice.

Let me explain.

My personal goal for the month was to write for 31 hours in March. One hour a day. And that sounds easy until we remember that I’m caring for a husband who had a hemorrhagic stroke. He needs an incredible amount of hands-on care. So there were a lot of days where an hour of writing was a delightful daydream.

But this was still an incredible success for me. Let me explain.

I still wrote more than I had been writing

As mentioned, this is a busy season of my life. And for much of February my writing took a back seat. Hell, it wasn’t even in the back seat. It wasn’t in the trunk. It was in the attached trailer behind the damn car. Most days I couldn’t even think of looking at my writing.

But in March, I wrote twenty days out of thirty-one. I made the time. I tried to write an hour, but sometimes made only 15 minutes. Sometimes I only made 10. But that’s still more than what I had been doing. I didn’t make a ton of progress, but I made more than the month before.

There was this incentive, you know. This desire to make sure I had some numbers to put on the board, even if it was a small number. Because any number, any number at all, was better than zero.

I kind of love time-based writing goals

Writing goals work for me. I like having numbers to work towards. For most of my writing career, my goals were word-count based. But I’m realizing that this sort of goal isn’t conducive to actual writing. It doesn’t take into consideration all of the work that goes into writing that isn’t putting words on the page. I was ignoring the time I spent researching, freewriting, outlining and planning. Those are all vital parts of writing that need time and space. They need to not be rushed.

I also find that my writing goes faster when I devote that time, unrushed, to the brainstorming process. It’s as if by giving my mind time to mull over the story without a keyboard under my fingers, it has more space to breathe and is already written when I am ready to write.

Having a community is awesome

We’ve talked about this before, so I’m not going to devote much time to this. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t important!

It is, if I’m being honest, the most important part of challenges like this. It’s what made Nanowrimo so special.

Writing is solitary. Its deadlines are often self-imposed. I have no boss asking me for updates. I have no co-workers to bounce ideas off of. I have no external pressure to create. Which is both a blessing and a curse.

For one thing, it’s lonely. For another, it makes it so much easier to push off tasks I don’t want to do because, after all, there are no repercussions.

But when I have a team of people I’m working with, there is some good pressure. When I don’t want to let my team down, I’m inspired to get my ass in my chair and write. On days when I might not have written at all, I wrote. On days I needed inspiration, I had the rest of my team. And that made all the difference.

I didn’t take as much advantage of the challenge as I wanted to. I could have done more. I could have attended more writing sprints. I could have chatted more and made more friends. But for where I am, I think I did the best I could. And I saw so many writers reach so much farther than they thought they could. I saw this wonderful community of writers cheering each other on, supporting each other, and inspiring each other. I don’t want to give out names that aren’t mine to give, but one writer in my group wrote through 249 hours in one month. Girl, how?!

But whether we wrote almost 250 hours or thirteen hours, we all came together to reach a goal. We all made progress on our stories. And we need stories now more than ever.

So the question is, will I be participating in more Pathfinder Writing Collective events? Absolutely. I cannot wait.

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