I’m Barbara Edwards and writing is a major part of my life. Like most authors, I can’t imagine not writing my stories. I have the next two paranormals in my Rhodes End Series partially done, but real life has been biting hours from my writing time.
Both have over fifteen thousand words already and I planned on sixty for each. I know the middle and the end. Now I must get the words written.
Do you like werewolves? I found I do, too. My Rhodes End Wolves have been part of my Series since the beginning. I’ve been keeping track of the Pack Law in a separate memo and found it to be useful when I add another scene.
How about Sorcerers? I’ve keep mine in the background, waiting for his own book. He’s nipping at my heels, too.
Witch? Of course. She’s a main character in the book I’m working on. And the star of her own story.
Everyone has written about their goals and plans for their year. I tried not to make plans. I’m a punster in every aspect of my life besides writing.
Here’s a Small excerpt from Ancient Awakening if you haven’t already read it.
The terrified servant fumbled her armload of logs as she eased the laboratory’s paneled door open. The pounding of her pulse shredded his concentration. Hunger stabbed through his gut. His fingers flattened the quill’s nib against the parchment and ink smeared the last entry like blood. Saliva pooled in his mouth while she built up the fire, then scuttled to safety.
His low growl muffled the soft snick of the latch. Once again, he had resisted the impulse to rend, to carelessly feed. A frustrated sigh heaved his chest. The only way to keep good servants was to reward them richly and let them live. The lesson had been difficult to learn.
He held the parchment to the fading light streaking through a slit in the thick stone. The pale glow outlined his fleshless fingers before a freshly-penned phrase caught his attention. He threw the broken quill into the fire and selected another. The correction had to be made and he bent over his desk to take care of it.
Satisfied with the change, he straightened and stared into the dancing red and orange flames until his stiff muscles eased. He had to eat, but he resented interruptions. His latest research into a cure had been so promising; the details so fascinating, only the relentless blood hunger forced him to stop.
Although he had searched the world, he had never found a remedy for the curse he had inflicted on himself. He eased erect and rubbed at his blurred eyes, before slowly stacking the parchment sheets, aligning the unused quills and corking the ink well with shaky hands. He was weak, but the priests would have his nourishment ready. They always did.
A snapping log showered glowing embers onto the slate hearth. He pondered the coals for a moment before he swept them aside with his bare hand. His changed flesh didn’t burn. Along with his soul, his body had surrendered its ability to feel pain, to age, or scar.
Legend gave him many names, but the wide halls of his mountain retreat no longer echoed with countless worshipers. He could have ruled the world had his ambition not died with the passage of time. The endless whispers were from the cold winds and the few praying priests. He didn’t care that he couldn’t remember his real name or birthplace.
For an eon he’d regretted the loss of softer emotions. Love had been the first feeling to die, along with the woman who had insisted he would never harm her. He couldn’t recall her features, just the merry tinkle of her laughter and the bright smile she had greeted him with every morning. He licked his lips. She’d tasted sweet.
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