Tuesday Aequitas Teaser...and slugs

Hi, everyone. Well, obviously I missed my Monday teaser, so I'll deliver that today.

In addition, there's something I just need to get off my chest:

Ignore the negativity - in life and in your writing. 

 I know, easier said than done. 

 But something happened to me, and I came to the realization that allowing negativity to influence me and have power over me makes ONLY MY LIFE worse. The person who's spreading it? His or her life is already in the crapper. They're also probably so used to it that they can't see the forest through the trees, if you know what I mean.

Let's metaphor this, shall we? Let's call the mean person a slug. A slug is a slug. It can't help what it is - a slow-moving, slime-trail-leaving garden pest. They are content to travel from yard to yard, eating anything that looks remotely tasty, leaving nasty little slime wakes and vegetable carnage. You shake your fists in a bout of exhausted rage! No slugs allowed! But still they come.

Why let it devour your lettuce crop?  Why let the person have the power to undercut your hard work and sanity? Instead, put out your little containers of beer, or dance around your yard with some salt if you're feeling particularly aggressive! Don't let the slugs into your garden!

We alone have the power to enact change. This applies to our ability to shut others out who would do us harm. Put up your defenses and get rid of those slugs.

Life is too short for slime.

P.S. By the way, did you know there's actually a web site about slugs? Yup. Check it out here.

And now, your Tuesday Teaser of Aequitas, #4. Enjoy. 

Undead creatures sure do bleed a lot, Themis thought as she swung her scythe, slicing one of the things in half and sending both pieces slumping to the ground. Others littered the city’s empty street in writhing little piles of dead flesh, spoils of her efforts. The artificial glow of the streetlights lit the blood pooling on the sidewalk and street. The sun would take care of that evidence.

Plucking a silver lighter from a hidden pocket in her cloak, she tossed the small flame onto the pile of body parts she dragged into a nearby alley and crossed her arms as the makeshift bonfire roared to life, the satisfying burn of acrid smoke in her nose. Snowflakes began to swirl in little dervishes, sucked toward the heat, and the winter wind blew wisps of her long hair around wildly.

No time to admire the carnage, though; the remaining vampire jumped on Themis’ back, attempting to sever her head from her spine. She dropped her weapon, burying the unbreakable blade in the strip of broken up asphalt under her feet before reaching behind her to dislodge the pest. Themis grunted under the strain, but finally the vampire’s grip on her cloak and leather armor faltered, allowing a shoulder throw. They sparred again, the bloodsucker landing more like a cat than a reanimated corpse. Watching the undead move had always fascinated her, Themis thought, as she flicked back her thick red braid and pushed the wayward strands out of her face.

The vampire hissed, baring its fangs at Themis and stepped forward. These things really have no sense of self-preservation.

“Frightening,” Themis said dully. The lack of recognition confirmed her foe was another newly-made vampire. The lack of experience was a plus for her, but the strength of a new vampire could not be underestimated. Both moved in a blur of blocks and strikes, showcasing their speed and inhuman strength. If Themis could grow weary, she would have. Lacking a biological imperative for oxygen had its advantages. Would either of them ever tire—

A searing pain lit her belly aflame, and she watched as the vampire withdrew a blade, now covered in a viscous black liquid.

That was Themis’ first mistake. 

Aequitas - Teaser #3

Happy Friday, everyone! To all of my many followers (you know who you are *wink wink*), thank you for being you and for being here!

To celebrate the end of the work week, and just because I feel like it, here's another teaser of my work Aequitas, again picking up where we last left off. Enjoy - preferably with a beer! :)

Themis sighed heavily. She couldn’t even enjoy the sights, sounds and smells around her now. At first they had been a delight; that much she could recall. Slowly, over her time as a reaper, the bloom faded. Now, these castle walls triggered the same panic in Themis as her dreams did. Reapers did not dream.

How long had she been a soldier of Death? That she couldn’t remember. Time meant nothing to them anyway. Still, she wondered. Themis closed her eyes once more, dipping into the knowledge she could summon at will. Ah, yes. The memory invaded her senses—sight, sound, touch, smell and even taste—as if she were reviving the night she entered the Great Hall for the first time.

Themis had a sense of endless, timeless drifting, brought to a halt when she opened her eyes. Blinking furiously, she scrambled to make sense of what was in her field of vision: an ivory-colored ceiling—not dirty white, but more like marble—which seemed to stretch up to the heavens forever, and a man’s smiling face. His bronzed skin stood in contrast to his straight white teeth and his wavy blond hair fell over her, creating a partial curtain of privacy between them in that moment. But his eyes were kind. And somehow understanding, though he couldn’t know her.

“Welcome,” he had said as he helped her to sit up. “I am Hyperion.”

“W-who am I?” Her mind was full of cotton, as was her mouth. She glanced down and stretched her arms out before her. Leather cuffs covered her from wrist to elbow. Her hands flew to her leather breastplate, molded to her like a second skin and displaying an intricately carved image of a blindfolded woman holding a sword and scales. Justice, she thought. Was that her name?

            “Where am I? What happened to me?”

            The man named Hyperion put a warm, thick hand on her shoulder. Its weight immediately calmed her, and she had a brief flash of the sun upon her face. Same warmth. Choppy images flooded her mind, too jumbled to make any sense. She shook her head as if to clear them.

            “Be at ease. You are a Reaper, a soldier of Death. That is all you need to know for now. The rest will come.”

            “But… why?” she’d asked him. Hyperion had smiled, as if he’d been anticipating the question.

            “Death is neutral. She takes no side. And she has always served as a mediator between her brothers.”

            Her head spun. “Brothers? Death… is a woman?”

            Hyperion chuckled low and it lit up his already radiant features. “God and the Devil. And yes. Why not? So, have you decided on a name?”

            She decided at that moment she liked Hyperion.

            “Themis. Justice.”

He trained her, as he did all the others like her, to fight like a warrior. While Sanctus, another reaper, schooled her in the ways of ferrying souls, Hyperion taught her all manners of combat and prepared her for her other duty: as slayer of all things unnatural. He told her of vampires, werewolves, zombies, ghouls and other creatures who sought to throw the balance of good and evil, light and dark. She trained for endless hours, wielding her scythe, until weapon and warrior became one.

Themis borrowed her namesake, as they all did, from gods, goddesses, titans and giants of Greek myth. The scrolls containing legends of reapers’ origins suggested the first of their kind had chosen names in deference to the oldest, most advanced civilizations of man, and likewise, selected Latin as their preferred, formal tongue—once they had need for speaking.

She had slain so many of those things he’d told her about. Themis had also ferried hordes of souls. Many went up; many went down. Somewhere along the way, things changed for her.

Was it just this—an infinite stream of souls, shepherded from one plane of existence to the next? A never-ending fount of blood pouring from the blade of her scythe? Was any of it making an impact? Should she even ask these questions?

            “Oh, what am I doing?” she asked the heavens. Themis had work to do, and these quandaries accomplished none of it. She filed them away, along with the increasingly vivid images from her dreams, into neat little compartments in her mind. Then she slung her weapon into the holster against her back and strode out of the courtyard.

Flexing those writing muscles

One of the members of a writing community I belong to today posted an entry from Chuck Wendig that really resonated with me.

Click here for the link to his post.

As a fairly green writer (in the world of fiction, at least), I tend to rely much too heavily on some sort of "divine" inspiration. My muse sounds a lot like Wendig's horse, too easily spooked and very nervous. It's tough to coax decent material out of that kind of muse. I always seem to be too busy dangling carrots, trying to soothe my muse/horse, and waste time when I should just be writing. I tell myself, "Just do it, woman." And then I open my doc, stare at it, and then get distracted with other things.

I freely admit and often pronounce that my muse is a fickle bitch. Well, I suppose I'm making a confession about my own character. And when it comes to my writing, I'm easily distracted and make excuses for my procrastination. There, I said it. Let the healing begin!

This community post got a lot of response from members, some calling it "Writer's Distraction," and "Writer's Procrastination." Most definitely. And it's a lot like going to the gym, this writing thing.

Depending on what you read, research states it takes anywhere from 18 to 254 days (but the average was 66 days) to form a new habit. I've heard everything from 21 days to 90 days, so pick a number that you like.  I think I'm going with 60. Two months sounds about right for me, based on other habit-forming experiences.

Okay, so back to my analogy. Before I had my daughter, I committed myself to getting rid of extra weight and getting healthy. I told myself I'd give my new exercise regimen two months - 60 days - and if I didn't like it or if it didn't produce results, I'd try something else. By the time those 60 days were up, I'd stopped counting the days and was in the thralls of my Crossfit habit. I dropped nearly 30 pounds and felt great.

Writing is a habit we must create in our lives. We alone hold the keys to our success in getting the writing accomplished. We alone can psych ourselves right out of it. There's always a reason NOT to write, just like there's always a reason NOT to work out- too much laundry or too many household chores to do; a good program on TV or a game we're itching to play; a book that keeps us away from our writing (though that's not always a bad thing); kids, spouses, parents, family; work; and life in general. There's never enough time in the day - no one will argue against that.

But making the time to write is like making the time to work out. And both come down to a simple key: discipline. 

In writing and ultimately getting published, it's a game of numbers and simple math (I cannot believe I'm using numbers or math in a post!): the more time we put into our writing, the more we write, the more likely we are to come up with some material fit for our book! And the more material we have, the more likely it is for some of it to be good! Damn good!

So in the spirit of writing and working long-ignored muscles, I'm pledging to quit making excuses. Now is the time for action. Sure, the laundry might pile up, the dust bunnies might threaten to attack, and it might get a little crazy in my house for a while, but I'm committed. (insert bad joke HERE)

Are you?

Aequitas - Teaser #2 (Because I hate Mondays)

Because it's Monday and I loathe Mondays, I've decided to take the easy (and hopefully more rewarding) route for all of you, and post another excerpt from my urban fantasy, Aequitas. We're picking up where we left off. Enjoy, and come back tomorrow for some wit. I was fresh out today.

To hasten their progress, Themis gathered Michael’s soul into her cloak and whisked them both away, scattering their particles to the In Between where she and the other reapers resided—and where Michael would be judged.

They reformed in the Measurement Room, where she willed the soul to part from her body. Michael staggered and fell before the elevated dais in the center of the cavernous room. Themis ignored the carved images above her head, though they always comforted her, and focused on the other reaper in front of them. Sanctus stood on the dais, arms extended, as he always did. Whatever the outcome, souls were always welcomed to the In Between, the plane of existence between Heaven and Hell. This was neutral territory.

Themis bowed quickly with her fist over her heart and closed the hulking, ancient wooden doors just as the screams reached her ears. She’d never witnessed what happened when a soul was claimed for the light or the dark, but the oratory differences were stark.

Wandering down the halls of their stone fortress, she passed a series of identical rough-hewn wooden doors leading to reapers’ quarters and other appointed rooms. Her long, pale fingers skimmed along the corridor’s rough, hand-chiseled stone, before walking through an arch leading to a grassy courtyard. No matter what seasons befell the people on Earth, here the grass remained green. She and the other reapers used this place as a jumping off point before they departed, unless they were leaving on horseback. Instead of heading to the stables to visit her stallion, Themis stood in the center of the green expanse with her face upturned.

It all looked so… normal. The sky over her head was robin’s egg blue and free of clouds. Their fortress and homestead, the In Between, belonged in the Scottish Highlands, complete with moss-covered hand-hewn stones and turrets. The grass smelled fresh and clean and gave under Themis’ leather-clad feet. Even she and the other reapers wore skin, in addition to their leather armor, projecting an image of humanity rather than their true form. Who would prefer gaping into a skeletal face with floating eyeballs staring back?

Mirage. Illusion. Fabrication. All of it. 

A Good Editor...

A good editor is well worth the investment. (Yes, it IS an investment). If you truly want to produce a great work of fiction and get it published, I firmly believe you also need a good editor. Nay, a great one. One who will tell you what works and what doesn't, make changes and suggest others, slash through sections of your manuscript that you were too afraid to cut on your own, and point out any short-comings in your manuscript, but do it in a way that doesn't leave you wondering what happened to your beloved novel. I promise you – we’ll work on it together!


As a writer, I wholeheartedly subscribe to the wisdom out there about editors: You want it to be great? You want to be a serious author? You want to be a better writer? You want to get your work published?


Then you absolutely need an editor. Maybe even two.


And as an editor-in-theory who is trying to establish herself as an editor-in-practice, too, I see it rather simply: you need me. I need you and your work. Together, at first, we might make a cacophony and there might be times where you're convinced all editors are the devil reincarnate, but it DOES get better. Slowly but surely, we'll weed out the instruments that are out of place in our song. We'll tune up the ones that need to stay but first must be polished up a bit. We'll move some chairs around, straighten some ties and lift up a few elbows in our orchestra. I'll give you the baton and show you how to wield it. And before you know it, we'll have a beautiful sound - a symphony to make the audience cry - and you'll be off and running!


This is my guiding principle: the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But delivered in a tactful way.


I want to get to know you and you me. And I look forward to working together. Let's make your manuscript the very best book it can be!

Click here to visit my services page, which includes pricing and other details.

Book Review - Beautiful Creatures

Beautiful Creatures by Kami Garcia
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Honestly, I expected much more from this book than what it delivered. Kind of like a supreme cheese pizza with loads of toppings... when what I got was some cold, stale cheesy bread sticks.
I have my doubts about the ability of two different writers to write one book together and have it be cohesive. Not that I could pick out which parts were written by whom, but most of the time I found myself skimming through large sections of narrator exposition to get to the action.
When all was said and done, there wasn't much action. and the climactic battle was a little disappointing.
Most times, though, I got distracted by all of the filter words and the general poor editing in this book. Forget about the fact that Lena is largely unlikable for me as a MC and Ethan is a girl in a boy's body. What high school boy would know the names of the two town dress shops, styles and terms for all of that dress junk, or be so in touch with his feelings? Sorry, ladies, not believable for a moment.
In the end, this book has a great title and that's about as far as the "great" goes. Talk about great expectations... and disappointing ends.
I probably won't read the other books in this series, because I frankly don't care what happens to Lena and Ethan. I'm a little curious about the bad guys, but not enough to keep reading. Oh well.

View all my reviews

Slow and Steady...

When asked what my strategy is to writing, I'm often at a loss for words. Ironic, I know. You see, I don't really have one. Often I pledge to write a little each day, even if it's only a paragraph. Some days, I deliver on that promise. Others, not so much. Life has a habit of getting in the way of my writing, but I'm okay with that. Because it's in those missed writing opportunities that I embrace the wonderful chaos that is my life. This is the source of my joy:

My little ball of energy is Abigail, and she'll be two in August. She and my husband are pretty much the only two people who are allowed to pull me from my writing (without a scowl, growl or nasty expletive). Alas, they do often, but what is a writer to do? There are times when I wish I could simply park myself in front of my laptop and let the world slide away, but then I'd miss this precious little face.

So, I guess to answer that question, finally, my strategy is: slow and steady. A little each day when I can, or as much as possible whenever I'm able and the mood strikes. I don't have the luxury of time and unbroken solitude that others might, but that's okay with me. Never do I doubt that I will finish my first novel. And in the end, my persistence will win. I am sure of it. Slowly but surely I'm working, chiseling away the stone to fashion something from nothing but an interesting idea. I'm excited as hell to see the finished product. And I promise you, it WILL happen.
:)