Foliage breaking strides through the undergrowth of the uneven holt floor was barely enough to delay the pounding of clawed feet. Tongue sliding through the side of my mouth and breathing ragged, I tried to outrun them. They were hungry, however, and would not slow down merely to provide me with more time to prepare. Heavy with young, I wanted to quell their lust for larger kill; wanted to tame them before I birthed my own into their hungry midst. There were too many males and I feared there would be bloodshed.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
It is interesting to know what writers were before they were writers. For most of us, we have taken a long and winding journey before destiny found us and handed us the golden pen of creation. Even those of us lucky enough to have been scribing since a young age, have always come by way of another route. Often the way of the writer is a never-ending twisted and gnarled path of trials and tribulations, with occasional high notes and flat plains of free sailing.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Sometimes the simplest things can be the hardest to achieve. Hours, days or weeks pass, for some maybe even months, with nothing; a wordless page, an empty document, a mind void of inspiration and full of hesitation. For me it was four weeks; four weeks of numbing dead space inside my cranium. I had been steaming ahead with editing my second book in my trilogy, boldly confident that I would soon be back to writing the rest of book three in no time at all. I was wrong.