Author: Nicole Luttrell

I'm a speculative fiction writer. That means I write about dragons, ghosts and spaceships. Sometimes I write about the ghosts of dragons on spaceships.

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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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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Broken Patterns is going wide on April 25th. You can preorder it now by clicking on the image below.

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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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Broken Patterns is going wide! You can preorder it now everywhere.

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How can we help?

Hey, how are you doing? I’m willing to bet the answer is not great.

To say that my heart is breaking feels like an understatement. It feels too heavy for that. I’m scared, furious, and desperately looking for hope in my overall day.

I’m worried about feeding my family. Worried that the food I feed them won’t be safe. Worried that our medical expenses, already high, will get worse. Worried that our rent will become too expensive. Hell, I’m a little worried my rights to have my bank account and a job will be compromised. Or, you know, travel across state lines without a negative pregnancy test.

I’m also, honestly, scared as a witch. The new VP seems to believe in witchcraft, and not be a fan of it. And frankly, I don’t want Captain Couch Gagger to decide he wants to be the Witchfinder General.

And yet, I know that I’m also extremely privileged. I am white. I am in a long-term cisgender marriage. I’m 38, and not really in danger of an unplanned pregnancy. I’m probably not going to lose my job or my home. (Of course, I might look back at this post ruefully at some point.) And like a lot of people, I’m wondering what I can do to help others. What can we all do to help each other get through the next four years?

Know your community

Your local community is your first line of defense, as you are theirs. So you need to know the people in your community. I’m really bad at this because I would much rather read my books than talk to people.

But when a neighbor got herself locked out of her apartment without her cell phone, I was able to help. Just as other neighbors have helped me.

I try to greet people when I’m sitting outside. Get on a first-name basis with the people who share my building. I have at least a passing hello relationship with the people who work at the shops I frequent. These are the real communities that have always saved us.

Know the facts

There’s a lot of misinformation coming at us daily. Unless you’re on Signal, apparently. And it’s going to come from all sides. Well-meaning people are going to share incorrect information without realizing it. Bad actors are going to spread lies. So bone up on your media literacy. Check where the information comes from. Check to see if anyone else is reporting it. Check that the person sharing this information doesn’t have something to gain from you believing this if it isn’t true. And when in doubt, don’t share it. Don’t spread it. Don’t engage with it.

Be heard

There are lots of ways to be heard right now. If your politicians are still showing up for town halls, those have been a great place to scream at them. But if they’re not doing those, because of all the screaming, you can still call, email, and send letters. If your politicians are doing things you don’t like, you don’t have to be quiet about it.

Make good art

If you’re here, I’m assuming you’re a creative-minded person. Probably a writer.

This is our time to shine.

If you feel so compelled, write about what you’re seeing. Write about the American citizens being deported. Write about the way families are struggling to feed themselves. Write about the attacks on LGBTQ+ youth. Write about how you feel, watching your country bully and brutalize other countries.

Most importantly, write about your experiences during these years. How are you doing right now? What are you experiencing? What are you seeing? How do you feel about it? Write it down, even if it’s just for you. Because while we’re all experiencing this together, no one is experiencing this in the same way you are.

Don’t let yourself get overwhelmed

This is an important thing to keep in mind. Yes, there is a lot to do. Yes, a lot is going on. But you have got to take care of yourself first.

You cannot give all your money away and then starve. You cannot work every single second you’re awake. You cannot consume news all day long. You will burn out.

So take breaks. Take whole days when you don’t look at the news. Take time for things that bring you joy. Take time to rest.

I am working very hard right now. There’s a reason this post is late. I’m caring for my husband. Managing my home, which is a series of tasks that don’t get talked about enough. I’m working a full-time job, and still trying to write.

And I am not so foolish as to think that I am the only person with a similar workload.

We need to take time for ourselves. Read a book, take a bath, do some yoga, take a walk. Maybe indulge responsibly in an adult beverage. I have a standing date with myself at a local wine bar. Once a week I go, have a glass of wine, and read my book. It is delightful. And I need that time to myself.

Donate and volunteer when you can

There are so many organizations that are going to need help as our government stops, well, helping. If you have time, consider volunteering. If you’ve got some extra money, donate to organizations that matter to you. I donate to the Pittsburgh Food Bank, The Brigid Alliance, The Trevor Project and Hello Bully. I also support several artists I admire on Patreon. Because God knows the arts are going to suffer through all of this.

The point is, we’re all in this together. We need to help where we can.

I hope this list has helped you feel a little less helpless. Because we’re not helpless. We’re not powerless.

We can do good things, one step at a time.

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An exciting announcement for Broken Patterns

Announcement time!

This took a little longer than I planned, for many reasons. I’m still caring for my husband, who had a stroke in December. February is hard for me emotionally. The news depresses me every day. And I forgot to uncheck a box on my Amazon listing. Such is the life of a writer in today’s world.

But today, I’m proud to announce that Broken Patterns is going wide on April 25th!

In Devon and Lenore’s world, magic is as common as turning a pot or fletching an arrow. What isn’t common is a man with thread magic. When Devon starts weaving prophetic tapestries, his royal family tries to keep it a secret.

But the family can’t stay in the shadows when Devon’s uncle is assassinated and he becomes second in line for the throne. Especially when he weaves a vision of destruction for the dragon lands.

This means that instead of being an Amazon exclusive, Broken Patterns will be available wherever you buy e-books. And over the next few months, the other books in the series will join her.

And yes, this is the third time Broken Patterns has had a launch day. So this is technically a relaunch of a relaunch.

Broken Patterns is always going to be an incredibly important book to me. It’s the first book I ever finished and published. And I think it’s a great story.

And this is the first time it’s been available outside of Amazon ever! I think it’s about time she was available to people who aren’t huge fans of the massive site.

So I hope that if you’ve always wanted to read Broken Patterns but didn’t have access to it, this allows you to grab it. I’m sure you’ll love meeting Devon, the boy who weaves visions, and Lenore, the girl who spins light.

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What I’m reading, Spring 2025

Spring is here. And for once, I’m not mad at it. Winter was kind of long, kind of cold, kind of dark.

Kind of full of me helping my husband to heal from a stroke that had him out of the house in intense medical care for two months and even now has him debilitated, unable to move his right side or speak.

I’m done with Winter. And, it should surprise no one that I’m behind on my reading list for the month.

Like, real behind.

But the books I’ve read so far have left me with a deep passion to read more. Specifically, more horror. So today I’m sharing the books I plan to read this Spring. Hopefully, I can get them all in, because there are some great books here by some great authors.

As always, this is a jumbled collection in no particular order. You’ll find fiction and nonfiction. You’ll find old books and a few new releases. I am a writer, witch and horror content critic and all three of those elements of myself are on display with this reading list. Hopefully, you’ll find something on this list that will catch your fancy and make its way onto your own TBR.

Who Holds The Devil by Michael Dittman

This is the book I’m reading right now. But as I probably won’t finish it before the first day of Spring I feel alright listing it.

A tree brought down under mysterious circumstances on Halloween lets loose a horrible demon in the town of Butler. One that has been there before.

This one is fun for me because I’m from Butler. I’m sitting in Butler right now. But even if you’re not a native, it’s a damn good story.

HorrorStor by Grady Hendrix

Imagine a haunted house, but bigger. Much bigger. Like maybe a giant furniture store with funny-sounding names and demonic possessions. That’s HorrorStor.

Also, if you get a chance, this is a great book to listen to in audiobook form. It’s fun.

Fairy Herds and Mythscapes by Kerry E.B. Black

I have long said that fairies are not something to be trifled with. This collection seems to agree with me.

Incidents Around The House by John Malerman

The cover and the title caught my attention, and I couldn’t move away from it. I am a sucker for haunted houses.

By the way, I’ve never read Bird Box or seen it. If I like this one, I might check that one out. Should I? Let me know in the comments.

The Cabin at The End of The World by Paul Tremblay

If I’m being honest, I got this book from the library just because it was written by Tremblay, who also wrote Horror Movie. And that was one of the smartest books I’ve read in years. But the description of little Wen being menaced by a stranger just pulled me in. I cannot wait to read this.

The Spirit Collection of Thorn Hall by J. Ann Thomas

This feels from the description like a blend of Thirteen Ghosts and Haunting of Hill House. And I am here for it.

Sunrise on The Reaping by Suzanne Collins

Do I really need to explain why I want to read this? It’s the story of Haymitch, the drunk mentor/freedom fighter from the astounding Hunger Games series. I am currently 17 on the list for this book at my local library. I cannot wait to get my hands on it.

An Apostates Guide To Witchcraft by Moss Matthey

This is a book about growing from a toxic upbringing in a high-control religion and finding oneself in witchcraft. Gee, wonder why I want to read that.

Poetry As Spellcasting by Tamiko Beyer, Destiny Hemphill and Lisbeth White

Writing is magic. Poetry is doubly so. I’m sure this book has a lot to teach me about both.

City Witchery by Lisa Marie Basile

I’ve actually read this one before, but I feel like I need a refresher. Especially as Spring blooms and I’m going to get out into the city more. It’s easy to feel like a witch in the middle of the forest or sitting by the ocean. But in an apartment in the middle of Downtown? That’s magical too, just in a different way.

The Witching Year by Diana Helmuth

I’ve also read this one before. But it’s the sort of book that you need to read a few times to really soak it all in. It is the memoir of a modern woman who starts practicing witchcraft out of curiosity and finds a world of joy, empowerment and spiritual fulfillment.

If you’re thinking of witchcraft and wondering if it’s for you, read this book.

Sisters In Hate by Seyward Darby

I’ve been meaning to read this one for a while. It’s about the women of the alt-right, without which they wouldn’t be able to survive. They are the homemakers and cheerleaders of this dark movement. I want to understand them, so I can hopefully reach them. Maybe help them.

Writing on Empty by Natalie Goldberg

I’ve also been meaning to read this one for a while. It’s the memoir of one of my favorite writing teachers about her experience during the Covid lockdowns. While I was perfectly happy hunkering down at home, Goldberg is a traveler. I can only imagine how this impacted her. I want to see how she survived it.

Never Flinch by Stephen King

King wrote another Holly book. That’s all I need to know.

But it’s also about a serial killer, threatening to kill fourteen people if the police can’t stop them. Since we have some time before this book comes out, I highly suggest reading the other books Holly appears in. That would be the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, The Outsider and Holly. They’re all great.

Let The Whole Thundering World Come Home by Natalie Goldberg

Oh good, a book about chronic illness by Goldberg. That won’t feel very personal at all. This one might emotionally break me.

So now it’s your turn. What are you reading this Spring? Let us know in the comments.

Also, keep an eye out for Haunted MTL. There soon might be a brand new way to hear about the horror books I’m reading.

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My review of Inspiring Creativity Through Magick

Writing and magic seem to go hand in hand. When I started my witchcraft practice, I was shocked by how many witches were also writers.

Well, not just writers. Singers, painters, dancers, actors. Witches seem drawn to art.

That makes sense to me. Writing has always seemed to me a tangible form of magic. To be able to experience other worlds while lying on your couch. To be distracted in stressful times and invited to another place or time. To hear the thoughts and musings of people long dead, but still here in ink and paper. To write something, and have it read by people all over the world.

That’s magic.

Many books have been written about writing from a magic perspective. I’ve read a few. But, I’ve never really talked about them here. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because the witch part of my life still feels like something very private. I’m slowly getting over that. I even posted a whole Modern Witch review series on Haunted MTL. So I think it’s time to introduce you to my favorite writing books for witches. Because if there’s one thing that’s universal, it’s that we all want to be better artists.

Today, we’re talking about Inspiring Creativity Through Magick, by Astrea Taylor.

Published in 2023, Inspiring Creativity Through Magick is a firsthand guide to creating a fulfilling ritual around your art. It walks the reader through each step of the creation process, from inspiration to the final product. And it is delightful.

The book starts with a conversation about creative spirits. Muses, and the like. This was great fun, and I actually learned about spirits I hadn’t heard of before.

The thing I appreciated most about this part was the discussion of the unnamed creative spirits that many artists say they’ve come in contact with. Taylor even mentions Stephen King talking about his muse in one of my favorite writing books of all time, On Writing. There he talks about his muse being a short man with a cigar that might show up and start working his magic if King puts the work in and all the conditions are right.

Taylor also talks about Big Magic, another book I’ve talked about here. This book also talks about feeling as though the artist is a partner in the act of creation. We are all capable of tapping into the creative flow of the universe and inviting spirits that want to help us bring our creations to life.

And we know this is true. Every artist has those moments when it doesn’t even feel like we’re on the same plane of existence anymore. When the words are coming or the paint is flying with no effort. When all the pieces fall together, or that subplot now makes sense and is exactly what the main story needed, or the character says just the right (or wrong) thing at just the perfect time. When you write a poem that just smacks you between the eyes because it’s so true, and you hadn’t even thought of those words before they were in front of you on the page, somehow coming out of your own hand.

Clearly, this was my favorite part of the book.

We then delve into the step-by-step process of creating a finished art piece. Not the technical details, of course. This book is for all artists, after all, and that would be a bit much. Instead, it explores the basic stages of creation. The inspiration phase. The first pass phase where we create our rough drafts and start telling ourselves our stories. The edits, and revisions. And of course, the eventual release of the work out into the world.

This is wonderful for many reasons. First, sometimes it’s hard to feel the creative magic in the later phases. Writing a rough draft is all creation. Making something from nothing. There are no rules, we’re just throwing words on the page and seeing what sticks. But editing? Revising? Grammar checking? That’s not creative.

It very much is. Honestly, I find that I’m far more creative in the second and third passes of my stories. It doesn’t feel as immense anymore. I have a better idea of what I’m trying to say, and how I utterly failed to say it the first time. So I can fix this bit here, and rewrite that part there. I know what doesn’t work, and now I can figure out what does work. And this is a process that is clearly explained in a far better way than I ever could in this book.

It’s also wonderful to have this breakdown of steps, especially as a beginner. Looking at a finished project, it’s impossible to see all the work that went into it. And if you’re starting at the other end, looking at a blank page, the thought of turning that blank page into a whole book is incredibly overwhelming.

Breaking this process down, step by step, is more manageable. And it’s something I still do. Today, I’m not writing a book. I’m just writing this scene or this chapter. I don’t need to worry about the edits or the rewrites. Or even the next chapter. All I need to worry about is writing this page right now.

One thing I will say is that Inspiring Creativity Through Magick does feel like a beginner book. If you’ve been creating art for a long time, it might feel redundant. I already knew the steps of creating, I didn’t need them drawn out for me. So there might be parts that a more experienced artist finds a bit boring.

Overall, though, this was a really useful book. I think every artist can take something useful and uplifting away from this book. Whether you’re a witch or not, it’s well worth a read.

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To write a long novel

If a book is well written, I always find it too short.

-Jane Austen

Let’s hear it for the long novel. There is just something about a big, hefty book that feels delicious.

Of course, I am a fan of Stephen King. I’ve read The Stand no less than seven times. I loved Strange The Dreamer by Laini Taylor. And Phillipa Gregory isn’t exactly short-winded either. Then of course there’s the holy grail of my childhood fantasy reading, Mists of Avalon.

A long novel is what you write when you want to explore sweeping expansive descriptions. When you want your readers to see the jeweled beetle sitting on the windowsill. In short (rim shot) writing a long novel takes a much different skill set than a short one.

Rich descriptions

If a short novel is like a sketch, a long novel is a wall-sized oil painting. The details in long novels are rich.

Consider a long novel you’ve read. I bet you feel like you could step into some of the most iconic rooms. You might be able to see the bedspreads or picture the garden bench.

Not everyone loves this sort of description, but some fans eat it up. I personally think it’s a great place to flex a more literary style of writing. This is a great place to get symbolic and poetic.

Large cast

Wheel of Time, Game of Thrones, Harry Potter. All of these have massive casts that span far beyond the main character. And most of those characters are fully formed. They have likes, dislikes, families, desires. We can see how changes in the world will impact these different characters in different ways.

This is a fantastic way to expand the world. To show different points of view that might challenge your main characters.

And yes, large books often have more than one main character.

Having the space to explore your world from multiple points of view is one of the benefits of writing a long book. It’s not an easy task. It’s difficult to juggle a large cast with their varying details and desires. So you’ll probably want to start a book bible as soon as possible.

Worldbuilding

Writing a large novel gives you space to really explore the world. If you enjoy creating different countries and communities, this is ideal for you.

Especially if you’re incorporating a large cast, you can establish as many communities as your heart desires and the story will support.

However, here’s a word of warning. Don’t get so lost in building your world that you forget to tell your story. Because the most beautifully crafted world can only hold someone’s interest so far. Remember, the story comes first. Everything else is just a stage setting.

Subplots aplenty

In a long novel, there is space to tell many stories. There can be subplots. There can be side quests. There can be love stories between secondary characters.

And that kind of feels more real, doesn’t it? There’s rarely a time when your life is just revolving around one thing. Even at the height of my husband’s stroke recovery, we were still dealing with other things. It’s never just one thing, is it?

Take my book, Station 86. While the characters are dealing with the Hollow Suits, they’re also falling in and out of love. They’re working on their careers and businesses. They’re trying to keep peace and keep food on the table. They’re running for office. They are living complex, complicated, messy, wonderful, horrible, realistic lives.

In the end, a large novel is all about space. It’s having space to stretch out and make sweeping and grand stories that are an investment of time. But that’s not going to deter people if you’ve done you’re job right. In fact, it might well be a great selling point.

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