Of words. Of thoughts. Of the indistinguishable hum of your body and the city, moving together, crumbling in tandem. Of your smile through teeth, your laughter through emptiness. Of the definition of your life, laid out before you as a dissembled puzzle needing a steady hand to help you piece it back together.

Of the words to family and friends, kind whispers that what they see is true and real and nothing else could be held beneath your skin, buried within your bones, guiding your every breath.

Of the break of blue in the swell of grey, so rich you feel your soul spoon it from the sky and consume it. Nourishment where none exists. Of the spread of air through lungs and veins, igniting the flame within, reminding you that it is possible to feel beyond the tinder and the match. Of the blaze that can feed and grow, if only you knew how to tend it right.

Of the crystalline, the shattering, when the blue is no more and the fire is out and you curl upon yourself to protect the spark that surely must stay alive. Of the life you live, in spite of it all.

Of the crunch and the craze and the sense of existing as nothing in a world packed full of people and their everything. Of the beauty in the mirrored city and the anonymity it reflects back, reminding you that to be faceless is to be fresh and clean and without sin or struggle to your name.

Of the first breath in Spring, reminding you that even beneath all the dead and dying, a crocus may still emerge and create colour.

The Code, Book 2: The Skeletal Bird – Coming Soonish

I’m not sure what it is about November. Perhaps it has something to do with NaNoWriMo, which I unfortunately bailed on this year. Or perhaps it is the fact that it is also Extra Life (which was a grand success this year.)

Something about November forces my writing to a complete halt.

want to write. I want to be productive. Especially given how well Book 2 is coming together. Alas, I took nearly a month off of writing and now I am desperately behind.

That’s not to say I didn’t accomplish things related to writing. For instance, I came up with the title. That’s pretty good, eh? Ha ha. In reality, I actually accomplished much more than just a title. This is my favourite point in the writing process, when I take the core of the story and build an intricate frame around it. It really is the little things that make the plot.

That being said, I’m also coming to terms with the fact that Book 1, as proud as I am of it, is not a reflection of my skills now. And isn’t that always the way of it? Your skills as a writer are always changing, always evolving. You become more theatrical, more concise, more in tune with what a reader is looking for. Your voice becomes more lyrical; bolder, brighter. It becomes everything you could have imagined.

And then the next day it becomes that all over again. Because your skills as a writer are not static, they are constantly evolving, and at some point you have to step back and say “Yes, this is as good as I can make it with my current skill set.” Even though one day you know you will look back at it, face palm, and pray for the sweet release of death.

I was fortunate enough to meet a local author yesterday, who told me about a time she saw Yann Martel speak. Martel, of Life of Pi fame, explained how he hated the first line of the novel and eventually just had to come to terms with it.

Yup, that sounds about right. Come to terms with it. Deal with it. Suck it up, cupcake. You’ll never look back at your old work and thing that it was the best thing ever. It is always changing. As you grow and evolve so does your writing.

Still, that desire to go back and press the ‘edit’ button is so, so tempting…

Where was I? Oh right. Book 2.

Coming June (probably) of 2017! Book 2 of The Code Series. The Skeletal Bird.

It has been two months since the Seige on Alcatraz. Natalia Artison and her guardian, Jim Wilkinson, have been on the run, changing names, identities, and stories, in the desperate hope of staying one step ahead of those that want them dead. 

But things have changed, and it is time to go home. With old enemies now on their heels, and an innocent child the victim of circumstance, Natalia and Jim must agree to forge an alliance with one who wants them dead in order to prevent an even more vicious enemy from coming down upon them.

Even an alliance with the devil cannot protect the innocent. With Jim’s family caught in the crossfire, Natalia must decide which fate is more horrendous: one where she is the killer, or one where she is the killed. 



Until then, may I recommend you purchase a copy of Between Fire and Pines from Amazon and become acquainted with the world of Natalia Artison and the Agency?

Until next time,


Chronic Pain Diaries: That Old Waiting Game

On Friday I have my appointment with the good doctor to get my spine poked and prodded. First time in nearly two years. I didn’t make the connection before, but since I’ve made an attempt to be more, shall we say, self-aware, about what my body is doing and trying to tell me (insert witticism re: the separation of body and spirit), I’m very, very aware of how damn nervous I am.

My tummy has gone full wibbly-wobbly, and I’m having a difficult time kicking the nerves that have settled into my brain. Why my brain decides to go all negative-nelly every time appointments come close when the rest of the time I am, generally, fairly positive, is beyond me. Why now? Why worry about the worst outcomes now instead of focusing on what will probably be good news? Hell, why not stay completely neutral until I have an answer?

I suppose after so many years of getting the obligatory check-ups at the hospital and receiving less than stellar news regarding the state of my spine, I just have a tendency to expect the worst. I could probably talk myself out of it, but the trouble is that this sort of nervous, negative, niggly knot in my noggin (HA!) permeates every aspect of my life. What is even worse is that I know it. I am like Muggy, the self-actualization Robot from Fallout New Vegas DLC Old World Blues who knows that his only purpose in life is to collect dirty mugs, and he hates doing it, and he despises the fact that he knows it is his only purpose. I know how my negativity impacts those around me, but try as I might I can’t kick myself back into shape.

It is classic Chronic Pain mentality. I don’t want to go to work today. I want to curl up at home with a blanket, a cup of tea, and a book. I have not one but two girl’s nights that I’ve been invited to this weekend and the thought of going to either makes me sick to my stomach because I can’t imagine a state of happiness existing, even temporarily, after my appointment on Friday.

To me, the hospital seems like a whirling black hole that I have been drifting listlessly towards for some time. Now I’m being pulled into the void and I can’t bring myself to focus on what is on the other side.

It’s problematic, because this is exactly what we are taught to avoid in CP classes. We aren’t supposed to get caught up in the negativity, but instead make a concentrated effort to imagine… well, happiness. We meditate, listen to music, write, draw, create and destroy. We force ourselves to become part of the world around us by contributing to its beginnings and ends. We focus on anything other than pain. Maybe it’s been so damn long since I’ve had to fight this mental battle, but the idea of being part of the greater metropolitan Earth makes me feel exhausted.

I know this is just a bad day, maybe two. I know it won’t last because I’m not the sort of person to let it dig under my skin and fester. I know all this, courtesy of perfectly rational thought, and yet I cannot shake the nerves. The more I try to distract myself with the larger Universe, the stronger the pull of the black hole. Whatever is on the other side, good or bad, surgery or another year of waiting, I have to find a way to get back to the old me. What is particularly troubling is that I’m not entirely certain if the old me is happy-go-lucky or doom-gloom-and-shrooms (I was trying to go with rhyming. In reality, I find fungai to be disturbing. Largest network of connected organisms? Creepy as hell is more like it.)

Two more days until I cross that event horizon. I’ll see you on the other side.