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Ah, it’s so tempting to lie.
How I would love to write an idyllic scene in which I awake to coffee and croissants in bed served by one of the hunks in one of my books, followed by a leisurely chat with my faithful assistant who will handle the multitude of take down letters issued to sites stealing my books while that person arranges promotions, composes graceful answers to fan mail and perhaps arranges a photo shoot for a new head shot. Presumably, my fans want to see how I really look and not how I looked twenty years ago. Oh, and of course he or she must go the post office to clear out new fan letters and generous royalty checks from publishers.
Instead, here is what happens. Between 4:30 and 5:30 a.m., one of my four rescue dogs steps on my head. Aroused by growls as they fight for this honor, I stumble out of bed—usually cursing—and down the steps with a flashlight in my hand. Eventually all of us are fed, one of us is dressed, and after checking my computer it’s off to work I go. I work for a small rural municipality you’d think would be quiet and peaceful, but you would be wrong. All day long, I will be bombarded by requests for building permits from people who are still pretty much locked down and are taking this opportunity to build a deck, put in a generator (our electric service rivals a Third World country), construct a garage, etc., etc. Sometimes this involves earthmoving and digging that involves the EPA and Health Department because nobody knew it was being done and it is flagrantly illegal. Those days are especially entertaining.
I cannot tell a lie—I do check my emails, my blog and Facebook during the day. Sometimes this prompts me to get straight to work when I get home. More often, it prompts me to take a nap to gather the energy to get to work. Then, after courting my muse with an hour of watching something like Game of Thrones or my current love, Yellowstone, I become the keyboard warrior. This may involve actually hitting keys or it may be a case of staring longingly at my monitor, waiting for inspiration to strike. If I have a work in progress, inspiration usually strikes. If I don’t, it’s a matter of sorting out the dozen books that all want to come out AT THE SAME TIME. It’s like choosing among your children. Eventually, one of them outshouts the other.
That lasts till about 10 p.m., when the same four dogs inform me in no uncertain terms that’s it is time for biscuit and bed.
So this, my friends, is the exciting life of a writer, or at least this writer. At one time, it was punctuated by long stretches of caring for a barn full of horses, which I did happily for fifty years. But it’s time for a rest. You may, however, see some of them making appearances in my books. They are many happy memories.
Born to a mysterious Celtic woman and a Roman father in Britannia, Domi seems destined for a life of ignominy until he is adopted by a Roman tribune. When he is forced to choose between his native land and his adopted one, and between the living and the dead, which will he choose?
Enjoy an Excerpt
Brittania, 60 A.D.
The boy knew Moire was dying. For some time now she had lain on her cot, not eating, barely drinking, complaining of a pain in her side like a beast trying to claw its way out. She was skeletal because she did not eat even when he brought her food, and stank because she could no longer clean herself. It was the same with the animals when they grew old and their time had come—their coats matted, their eyes grew dim. He knew death when he saw it.
It was a sad thing for animals to die so they could be eaten, but why people should die was a mystery. He had often wondered, but had to be content with the Druids’ explanation that they would be taken up by the Tree of Life, to come again. He needed a Druid.
He knew that Moire had hoarded coins in a small box beneath her cot against such an eventuality. Bound by honor, he had never filched a single coin even when he would have liked a sweetmeat to relieve his tedious diet. She did feed him and he had some gratitude for that. He was not a slave, but yet was not her family, so his position had always been tenuous. He supposed she hadn’t been obligated to offer him anything, so he had been honest and worked hard for his keep. But finally, this day, she told him to take out her pathetic horde.
“When I am gone,” she said, “boil the eggs.”
“Boil the eggs?” he repeatedly dumbly. It was the kind of remark that always infuriated her. They had lived together, widow and foundling, for all of his eleven years since his mother had come into the village, far along in labor and claiming no kin. The women had helped her out of kindness, but understood her predicament when she said the baby she delivered came from rape by a Roman. Such a child could be exposed if she wished it, but Moire had asked to have him, pointing out that she had no husband or children to care for her in her old age. And so she had brought him up after a fashion, but they had never understood each other.
“They will keep in the shell if you do not crack them,” she said, more patient than usual. “Take care of the animals and then wrap the eggs and some oatcakes. When I am gone, take them and go to Cloin the Druid. Give him my money and tell him I need burial. Then go south.”
“South?” He was completely confused.
“To the Romans,” she said. “You look like one of them. They may take you.”
About the Author:
Fantasy poetry driven by myths and legends has been my passion for as long as I can remember. I was published in poetry before catching the romance writing bug. I bring that background to my writing along with a lifelong addiction to horses, an 18 year career in various areas of psychiatric social services and many trips to Ireland, where I nurture my muse. My published works range from contemporary fantasy romance to fantasy historical, futuristic, science fiction and historical romance. Currently I live in rural Pennsylvania with a “motley crew” of rescue animals.
Buy the book at Amazon.
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