I’m Kicking NaNoWriMo’s Ass! (And I hope you are, too!)

Greetings, readers!
Anyone else above 40,000 words on their NaNoWriMo projects? I’ve fallen back in love with Albuquerque, my project for this NaNoWriMo. It’ll also hopefully be either my next release or one of my next couple releases. I’ve had a couple of really good ideas for short stories the past week or so and I might write one or two of those up while I work on editing Albuquerque and writing Mortality. Once I’m less focused on speed-writing I’ll be able to do more stuff and post more things out there.
As much as I hate trying to focus on one project, I’ve actually really fallen in love with Albuquerque. The characters and the story keep evolving and I mean it’s evolved from a mediocre Twilight-esque pile of poo (minus sparkling vampires) to something almost Stephen King-ish.
I’m really getting excited to finish writing it though. I wanna focus on other things. I want to be able to work on Stella’s Saga again. I also want to work on the first sequel to Albuquerque (beware, I smell a long ass series). And some short stories. Because that’s my medium of choice.

Writing, writing, writing, but will I ever have any news again?

Well I do, actually!
Destruction Productions has a brand new work that we've put out this past week. Spy by Steve E. Dukette. It is $2.99 kindle edition. In about 3 months it will be available through Smashwords (and all the retailers that Smashwords reaches) as well as through the Nook. We're hoping to have it formatted for paperback within the next two weeks, and it should be only $5.99 or $6.99 available through createspace.
Beyond that, there's a lot of writing being done. I'm hoping to have some new stuff to show you within the next two weeks.

Writing progress #1

The snow had fallen all night. I knew, because I’d sat up watching it. Now, as the sun began to peak through the clouds at the horizon, the snow was just beginning to let up.

Twelve inches of fluffy white snow coated my front yard- and my car.

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know who I am?” she asked, her voice taking that awkward squeak that only teen girls seem to be able to produce.

“Let me guess,” I said, “You’re some sort of angel sent to change my course back to whatever some bullshit god wants?” She giggled a high-pitched, ear-splitting giggle reminiscent of the sound two wine glasses make when clinked together.

“I suppose, in a sense, you may be right. I mean, at one time in my existence, I was an angel. Me and that ‘bullshit god,’ as you called her, had a bit of a falling out. I took it a bit more literally,” she said, casually checking her fingernails.

“What?”

“I’m the dark Lord Satan.” Her eyes shot to me, a smirk on her lips.

“No, really.” I rubbed my forehead skeptically.

Her expression turned serious, her mouth twisting into an inhuman scowl. “You think I can’t choose the vessel through which I experience this world? Am I supposed to be some middle-aged man who runs a tobacco company and donates money to organizations that club seals?”

“At least then you might have a decent voice,” I countered. It was truly difficult to take her seriously. She’d assaulted me with pompoms, for fuck’s sake. I was glad that she’d dropped those chasing me, though. Otherwise, there was a good chance I’d have one being forced down my throat by now with the looks she was giving me.

“Oh, burn,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Well really, what can you do as a bimbo cheerleader who’s still in high school that you couldn’t as a CEO of a megacorporation or something?”

“As if I’d give you my whole plan. You children sure are predictable. You’ll just have to wait and see.” It was then that I noticed it- her skin was glowing. In some spots it was only a pale white-ish glow that made her look even paler than she usually did, but in other spots it was orange and it nearly obscured all of her natural skin tone.

Maybe she really was Satan.

Living Will Cover Reveal + More News!

I've uploaded Living Will to the Amazon Kindle store, so it should be live in about 12 hours. Until then I can point you in the direction of Twitter where you can retweet one of my tweets at @skrain_dukat (Read the tweets, it's one of my recent ones) and get a free e-book copy of Living Will! So far there's only one spot gone, so the next nine people who retweet the tweet will win a free pdf copy! (You will need to @ me some contact info (a dummy email or screenname or something, that or DM me or message me on my facebook page) so I can email you your copy!
Without further ado, here's Living Will's cover!

Little Too Much Partying...

Yeah, sorry about that, I meant to post the conclusion to "The Bump" yesterday, but I ended up partying a bit too hard, and I never finished the ending of it, so it will be up within the next 48 hours.  Sorry!

Tuesday Excerpts and Why I Love Faygo Cola

Have I got a treat for you! If you like reading stuff, and like reading MY stuff, you'll love the following two excerpts:

Fatima:

1. Nikki

Growing up in an upper-middle-class suburb of the Minneapolis/Saint Paul metro area, I had led a moderately sheltered life. Our class didn’t know what diversity was until a Hispanic girl moved in at the end of the sixth grade, and two colored boys in eighth grade. Even then, everyone was Christian. We learned about other religions through Cable-In-The-Classroom programs and a couple of speakers from the local churches, but there were only a few of us who had ever met anyone who wasn’t Christian.

That was until the first day after Christmas vacation in tenth grade. It was just after first hour that I saw her. It was all I could do to avoid staring at her. Her skin was olive and her eyes were intense. She was about as tall as I was, and I was nearing five feet eight inches. But what caught my attention wasn’t her skin or her eyes, no, it was the way she was dressed.

She wore a long black robe-like thing that was accented with little gold flowers at the wrists and the bottom hem. When she lifted her arms to reach into her locker, I could see that she was wearing a dark purple long-sleeved shirt under it. What struck me dumb was the silky, purple cloth she had wrapped around her head and neck. At once, it was both mesmerizing and terrifying. Wasn’t that what the terrorists wore? The ones that crashed the planes into the towers? My thoughts raced, my heart pounded. A quick glance around proved that I was not the only one who felt this way. Even the Hispanic girl was whispering and pointing at this new girl. I wanted nothing more than to walk over and yank that scarf of the girl’s head.

I was still working up my nerve to go over and tell this new girl, this terrorist wannabe, off when the bell rang, and I had to bolt down the hall to class. I would have to deal with this threat later. Maybe at lunch.

I slid into my seat at the back of my math class just as the teacher, Mr. Warden, walked in. I sighed, relieved that I had avoided being marked tardy. The sigh was cut short, however, when I caught sight of the person walking in just behind him.

“Great,” I growled under my breath. My best friend, Shelly Johnson, shot me a clueless look, and I quickly scribbled a note on the back of an old worksheet and shoved it into her hand.

“Look at her. She’s a terrorist; we have to do something. How could they possibly expect us to accept her?” said the note. I watched her eyes widen in horror. I nodded when she met my gaze again, and then motioned for her to hand it to our other best friend, Kiki Newman. She read the note, looked up at me with an eyebrow raised, and then re-read the note.

“Everyone,” Mr. Warden said, interrupting our little meeting, “This is Fatima Sarraf. Her family’s just moved here from New York.”

“Looking for a new target? Didn’t give your God enough of a thrill when you trashed the twin towers?” Shelly catcalled. I tried hard to stifle a giggle. Mr. Warden shot us both a harsh look, but the girl didn’t waver. Her confidence infuriated me, so I added, “She’s probably here as a spy for the Taliban! I wonder when her beard will come in?” Shelly and Kiki both jerked forward, roaring with laughter. A few others laughed as well, but stopped abruptly as Mr. W spoke next.

“That’s it, you three, down to Mr. LeMay’s office. Now. Fatima, I apologize for their behavior. We aren’t all like that.”

As I gathered my books, a task made much more difficult by the fact that I was laughing uncontrollably, the girl spoke. “It’s all right, Mr. Warden.” Her voice was soft, and I had to look up at her. It was impossible not to see that her confident façade had slipped. I could see tears welling in her eyes. I grinned fiendishly. This is gonna be easy.

Mr. LeMay, the Principal of Cedarcrest Senior High (our school), was a pushover. We weren’t too concerned as we walked from Mr. Warden’s class to the front office.

“Oh my god, Nikki, I seriously thought I was gonna have, like, a heart attack or something when you shouted that!” Kiki said when her giggling finally subsided. I high fived her and laughed.

“I thought she was gonna lose it! Did you see her? I bet if Mr. W hadn’t been such a little girl about it, we could’ve got her to leave the school,” I replied with a smirk. “We’ll get her.”

We stopped just before turning down the hall that led to the main office and huddled together. “So, we go in there and we play it cool. We say that the terrorist was totally buggin’ out on Kiki before class so Shelly and I had to do something. Okay?” I said in a stage whisper. The others nodded in agreement, as we made a pact to back each other up on this.

Fatima Sarraf was going down.

----

What do you think?  Interested in reading the rest of the story? It is currently available for free at smashwords.com if you follow this link. It won't be free forever, so go download your free copy quickly! And reviews are always welcome.  :)

And now, the other excerpt. 

Jessie:

“Bye Mom, Dad!” Jessie called over her shoulder as she slipped her shoes on. She was out the door in a flash, skipping happily down the street toward the bus stop. Up ahead she could see a few of her classmates also approaching the stop, and she wondered if they would talk to her that day. She slowed down so she wouldn’t pass the others, and held her messenger bag tight against her side. Would she finally make a friend?

At the bus stop, Jessie held her distance. She had always been awkward around other kids her own age. In the last two grades, there had been certain people who’d teased her about her shyness. But since those people no longer attended Cedarcrest High, Jessie thought she might stand a chance. After all, it was her senior year, and things were bound to be different. At least that’s what she told herself.

She glanced around, trying her best to look “normal.” The boy closest to her was bouncing a basketball while talking on a cell phone. A group of girls a few feet from her was gossiping about something the cheerleading captain did over summer vacation. Sitting on the curb, furthest from Jessie, was a boy she’d never seen before.

For reasons she didn’t quite understand, the new boy made Jessie nervous. She decided right then and there that she would avoid him as much as possible. She played with her hair, letting it fall in thick brown waves on either side of her face. Nobody seemed to notice her. She couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. A cold wind stirred up the few red and yellow leaves that had already fallen, whisking them quickly through the small group of high school students. Jessie twitched at the sensation of one of the cold, slightly damp leaves smacking her in the side of the head.

Her hands flew to her face, fingers working frantically to get the leaf out of her hair. It was a few moments before she threw the leaf to the ground, shaking her head in an effort to clear her brain of the sensation. She looked down the street to see if she could spot the bus, and that was when she realized the silence that had fallen over the other teens. She froze, heart pounding, as she heard a junior girl, Natasha Hart, ask, “Your name’s Jessie, right?”

Jessie nodded once, trying to determine her course of action. It had been years since anyone had actively sought her out in a crowd for any reason other than to tease her. She was ready to bolt at the first sign of hostility. But when she looked at the other girl’s face, all she saw was sincerity and innocence.

“My name’s Natasha, but everyone calls me Nat. Um, you took gymnastics in middle school, didn’t you?” The girl was enthusiastic, that Jessie could never deny. She stood just shy of five feet tall, appearing almost childlike next to Jessie, who was pushing six feet. Natasha was blonde with beautifully tanned skin, whereas Jessie had a thick tangle of brown-black waves that fell to the middle of her back and her skin was too sensitive to tan.

“Um, yeah,” Jessie said, her voice barely above a whisper. Nat’s smile only seemed to grow wider, showing more of her perfectly white teeth. If Jessie’s memory served her, Natasha came from a rather wealthy family with a large house on the river. Why is she talking to me? I’m not anywhere near her league. Give me a 15 foot ladder and two yardsticks taped to each other and I might be able to prod the bottom of her league, Jessie thought rather bitterly.

“Well, um,” Nat paused, biting her lip and looking back to her friends, most of which were still gossiping about summer vacation. She cleared her throat and continued, “We, uh, the cheer squad that is, were wondering if you would be interested in trying out this year? We’re down a couple girls after that whole pregnancy thing last year, and since you already took gymnastics you’re like way overqualified, so you should totally try out.”

“What?” Jessie blurted, almost cutting Natasha off. She cringed immediately, knowing she just likely blew her chance at whatever the other girl was talking about.

“Try out for cheerleading. Please? We really need more girls, and I really think you’d be a good addition to the team.” Natalia looked over to her friends and motioned for them to come over. “I mean, you’re totally tall, you’ve got that great hair, and your legs go on for miles.”

“You’re gonna try out for the squad?” another blond girl, Felicia, asked as she approached. She held her hand out to shake Jessie’s. “I’m Felicia. You’re Jessie, right? I think we had math together last year.”

----------------

Jessie will be out before the end of 2012. It is going to be YA/Horror. 

Faygo Cola is terrific. It tastes just like Pepsi or Coke but it's 99 cents! Hot damn! Plus, that's 24 oz size. So you get more for 99 cents than you get for almost 2 bucks in any other brand.

/Shameless plug for a brand I enjoy.

Flurries and Hot Chocolate

I'm all cozy in bed with my laptop, working on chapter 2 of "Jessie." It's supposed to snow on and of all day and night today, so that's cool. I ended up getting my Christmas shopping done last night. Got my dad a phone card. He's really hard to shop for, so I opted for practical.
I'm going to open this blog up to guest bloggers, so if you're interested, I will post guest blog entries on Fridays, along with the normal Friday entries. Comment if you are interested.
I'm also thinking of doing themed days on this blog, so it doesn't get stale. Like Monday Book Review, Tuesday Excerpts, Wednesday Book Covers, Thursday Polls, Friday Links, and Weekend Recipes. Is there anything you'd like to see on my blog? Let me know!

Long Blog is LOOOOOOOOOONG and full of excerpts!

Okay, so it isn't really all that long as far as me talking about stuff, but it is long and filled with excerpts from things that are coming out relatively soon that AREN'T in the Sketchbooks series.

My Sister's Keeper

My story starts with a birth, and will end with a death.  It's not my birth, and it won't be my death.  Though I sometimes wonder if it really wasn't.

On a cold November night, in my family's house- a large, ancient farmhouse that was falling apart- my mother gave birth to a little girl with curly, black hair.  She fell in love with her immediately, and named her Harmony. 

Unfortunately, that was also my name.  My mother seemed to have forgotten about her other daughter.  Me.  The moment I saw that baby for the first time, I knew that it was either her, or me.  There would not be enough love or affection for both of us.  At just shy of five years old, I had discovered that which many children fear at some point in their life:  my parents didn't love me.

For the next three years of my life, our lives, the two girls called Harmony, I would be referred to by my middle name, Anne, while my little sister, my mother's perfect child, would be referred to by our shared first name. 

“But Mama, I'm Harmony, I don't want to be called Anne,” I whined at breakfast one morning.  It was the middle of summer, I had just turned seven years old, and I had my hair in pigtails.  My father intervened on my behalf.

“Yes, Rachel, there must be some other name we can call Harmony Jane,” he called from the breakfast table.  In her high chair, my little sister cooed and made a mess of her baby food.  I scowled at her from across the table.  My mother came out of the kitchen with a displeased look on her face.

“Her name is Harmony Jane,” she replied, serving my father with a heaping plate of bacon and eggs, “and that is what she will be called.”  She disappeared back into the kitchen. 

“You know how I feel about that, Rachel,” my father said, “We already had Harmony Anne, how do you think she feels about having to share her name?”

“Anne should be glad that I didn't send her to live with your sister when Harmony Jane was born, James,” my mother said, giving my father a stern look as she emerged from the kitchen yet again and placed a plate of food in front of me.  She sat down across from me, next to my little sister, and scolded, “eat your food, Anne.” 

“Annannannanna,” said my sister through a full mouth of food, and my mother smiled adoringly down at her. 

“See?  Even your sister knows you're called Anne,” she said in a most patronizing tone.  I shoved my chair back, denting the wall where the chair hit, and ran out of the dining room.  My mother was furious, and spanked my bare bottom so hard I feared I would never be able to sit again. 

Two days after this incident, my aunt, Jeanne, came to claim me. 

My father hugged me and kissed my forehead and gave me his old fedora hat- it smelled exactly like the farm, with hints of his favorite cologne- and a small bouquet of flowers that I had helped to grow. 

My mother gave me a stiff, one-armed hug, sniffing, haughty, keeping Harmony Jane glued to her hip.  My two-and-a-half-year-old sister saw me wearing my father's hat and immediately began fussing, reaching out to grab this one thing that was mine and mine alone.

“I'll take good care of Harmony for you, James,” Jeanne told my father, helping me to load my belongings into the trunk of her car:  Two dolls, one small suitcase full of plain dresses, an extra pair of shoes, a down pillow, a half-finished crocheted scarf.  Before I got in the car, I latched myself to my father's leg, begging not to be sent away.

“Please Daddy, I don't want to go away.  I'll be a good girl, I'll be good.”  My father didn't say anything, but picked me up, all 58 pounds of me, and gently carried me to the passenger door of Auntie Jeanne's car.  He was a big man, tall, and made of all lean muscle.  He had rough, leathery hands from working on this farm for the majority of his life.  But when he held me or my sister, he was amazingly gentle. 

I cried as I rode away from home in that car, and didn't stop crying for nearly a week.

~~~~~~~~

Mortality

The soul makes a terrible sound when ripped from its human body. A scream, a whisper, the last gasp of a good cry, followed by silence: this is the closest approximation I can give you to its exact sound. After life has ended, it is all you ever hear. For all the worry one could give about what happens just after death, it is really quite simple, even if I was an anomaly.

I came upon that which could only be described as “God” shortly after death, as most people are wont to do. I was floating, or maybe simply existing, in a black void for what seemed to be an eternity before I happened to spot a shapeless figure that seemed to be made from light. It came closer, or I floated to it, and I could suddenly understand what had happened to me. However, it seemed confused by my complete lack of memories of a life as it probed deep into my being.

The being consumed me, and I could feel it trying to figure out what to do with me. As I waited for a second, or a millennium, my every sense was overloaded with pain, pleasure, suffering, anger, and just about every other human emotion. Thoughts took on words as hundreds of millions of voices filled me with what I could only describe as prayers. Please bless Mommy and Daddy and Kitty-poo and… No, please, please no, don’t take her, oh God why… Thank You, Lord, for the little girl You’ve blessed us with… God, grant me the serenity…

I didn’t want anything more than for the voices to stop, but would have gladly kept them had I known that I would be reduced to only hearing souls escape their hosts.

I wouldn’t learn my fate until long after I had begun to think that I would go mad for hearing so many people die. The God creature spit me out, and I woke up to see blue skies and countless faces staring back at me. I realized, quite abruptly, that I was no longer floating in a void. Faces veered dangerously close and then veered away from me. The numbness of floating was slowly replaced with pain. The pain became more and more unbearable as I realized that I was human again.

“Hold on, paramedics are on their way,” I heard someone shout. Other voices overlapped it, and for a moment, I remembered the anxiety that had engulfed me when I had been able to hear all that praying. That was when it occurred to me that I could remember the afterlife. It also occurred to me that I didn’t know anything about my life up until this point.

A young woman’s face came into view, very close to mine. “Robert, Rob, can you hear me?” she asked. I realized she was speaking to me. I blinked, unable to control my mouth enough to reply. Her face was familiar and warm, and I knew that her name was Cassandra. “Oh, Robert, please be all right!” I felt a warm hand against my face, and it was stunningly obvious to me that she was my girlfriend. The knowledge that hit me was sudden. My name was Robert Marcus Sanders; I owned a chain of convenience stores that my father had gifted me. I was 27 years old and had been dating Cassandra Vera Carter for more than two years.

~~~~~~~~~~~

 Elizabeth Hayes

Chapter 1 – 1864

She lived on a large tobacco plantation in the Deep South with her parents, older brother, and three sisters. She was, in his opinion, absolutely perfect. He had watched her grow from a small girl with unruly blond curls, into a beautiful, pale young woman. He waited, biding his time, hiding in the shadows, occasionally offering to help as an overseer on her family’s plantation just to get closer to her, using assumed names and taking great care to change his appearance as best he could each time. Her name was Elizabeth, and she had just turned seventeen.

The Civil War raged on, far north from the plantation and the girl. Elizabeth’s father was a firm supporter of the Confederacy, and the stranger knew it was the perfect opportunity. In the beginning of summer, just four short weeks after Elizabeth’s seventeenth birthday, he came wandering up to the main house of the plantation, dressed in standard military fashion.

A house slave greeted him at the door and quickly shuffled off to find the man of the house, Thomas Hayes. “What can I do for you,” Thomas asked as he approached the young man, his voice trailing off, fishing for a name. The young man offered his hand.

“Franklin’s my name, Jonathan Franklin,” he said quickly, shaking Thomas’ hand firmly, “I’m on my way up to join the fight, but I’m weary, and I’ve a long walk ahead of me. Would you be so kind as to allow me to rest here a night?” The younger man, the wolf in soldier’s clothing, was ruggedly handsome, with a nose that had obviously been broken a few times, stubble that could use a good shave, and piercing blue eyes. He was almost as pale as the girl he sought at this plantation, but there was a hint of a tan to his skin.

Thomas looked him over carefully, a plan coming together in his mind. “Jonathan Franklin, hmm?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jonathan replied eagerly.

“How old are you, son?” Thomas asked.

“Eighteen, Sir.”

“Eighteen,” Thomas echoed. He motioned for Jonathan to come into the parlor, and called up the stairs, “Elizabeth, would you come down here, please?”

“Coming, Papa!” Elizabeth replied as she closed her diary. Since turning seventeen, she had kept a very careful record of everything she did, as she felt that to be a very ladylike thing to do. She placed the diary beneath her pillow, and raced out of her bedroom to the main landing above the front entryway of the house. Looking down, she saw her father walking into the parlor, followed by a man she had never seen before. As she watched, he suddenly looked up and made fierce eye contact. She flushed bright red and quickly averted her gaze as she started down the stairs.

Before she followed the men into the parlor, she quickly smoothed her dress and ran her hands over her hair to quickly fix a few tangles. “You called for me, Papa?” she asked from the doorway. She curtsied when both men turned to greet her, and Jonathan Franklin bowed his head.

“Yes, Elizabeth, I would like you to give Mr. Franklin a tour of our home. He will be spending the evening here before continuing north to help defend our rights,” Thomas said, and Elizabeth felt her skin flush again. She took a step forward.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Franklin,” she said shyly. Jonathan gently took her hand and kissed the back of it.

“The pleasure is all mine, Elizabeth,” he said, looking into her eyes. “You have a lovely daughter, Sir.” He turned his attention back to Thomas.

“Please, call me Thomas.”

There was a short, awkward silence before Elizabeth spoke, “Shall we start our tour?” Thomas nodded encouragingly, and Jonathan smiled warmly.

“Certainly. Lead the way, Miss Elizabeth,” Jonathan said, his voice low and seductive. Thomas watched as Jonathan took Elizabeth’s arm and escorted her out of the room.

“Well, this is the foyer, as you may have guessed,” Elizabeth giggled, “through that door back there,” she pointed behind the staircase, “is the kitchen. Up here,” they began walking up the stairs to the second floor of the three-story house, “is where my sisters and I have our bedrooms.” She led Jonathan along through the hallway to the room at the end, and she opened the door very slightly. “This is my room,” she said, squeezing his arm. His smile turned to a devious smirk. His plan was working; the girl was already showing interest in him, as was her father. It would not take much to get his way.

He peered into the room, wrapping his hand around Elizabeth’s, causing her to blush once more. Her bedroom was painted a pale pink, with linens dyed to match. She had a small writing desk and a simple wooden chair in one corner, and a huge armoire to the side of the door. “Beautiful,” he murmured. They wandered along back to the staircase and ascended to the third floor.

“My parents’ bedroom is up here, as is our attic,” Elizabeth continued to give her little narrative of the tour.

“Has this house been in your family long?” Jonathan asked, feigning interest in the tour. He couldn’t have cared less about the house; it was the girl that he was unable to take his eyes off of.

“My Grandfather built it when my Papa was a little boy,” Elizabeth replied, smiling a shy little smile. She was having a difficult time keeping her focus off the gentleman she was with. “Are you really going off to fight in the war? Aren’t you afraid of getting killed?”

The innocence in her question took Jonathan by surprise. He let go of her arm, gently pulling away from her grip, and turned to face her. Lost for a moment in her big doe eyes, he carefully thought out the next words he would say. He carefully reached forward and brushed a thick tangle of curls out of her face, allowing his hand to linger against her cheek. Elizabeth should have pulled away, this was not very well-mannered behavior for a young man who was alone with a lady, but she couldn’t seem to find the strength to move.

“So innocent,” Jonathan whispered, his voice barely audible. Elizabeth couldn’t look away from his eyes, astounded at how blue they were. They were almost hypnotic. He stepped closer, their faces were only inches apart. “The only thing I fear, right now, is this moment ending, Elizabeth,” he murmured. The girl wanted nothing more than for their lips to meet, and it shocked her to realize this. She found her feet again and inched closer, slowly closing her eyes.

Thomas Hayes came to the third story landing just as the two teenagers kissed, and ripped Elizabeth from the man’s grasp.

“I see you’ve gotten more than just a tour of my home. I suggest you leave, Mr. Franklin.”

~~~~~~

As you can plainly see, I have been a very busy woman. Lots and lots of writing done, lots and lots more to go.  

It's 3 AM and I should be doing anything but this

And yet I choose to waste my last few minutes before going to bed on blogging. I've only written about 100 words of fiction today, and that has to at least be up by 40X tomorrow and the next day and the next day. Why? Because I'm behind on just about every writing project I currently have. But then again, having to work double time often produces pretty good results from me, I'm good with pressure.
Bossman comes back from his epic long vacation tomorrow, should be back by Monday. Cannot wait to have him back, working with no real manager? So not fun. I'm a person who needs that leadership structure if I'm gonna be working teh retails.

Aside from that, I only have one thing to say with this blog: Reviews. Now, downloads are nice, books being bought are awesome, but it's all pointless if I get no feedback whatsoever. A "hey, this book rocked!" would be nice, as would, "Oh my god this person can't write worth a shit!!" The fact that I've had 1 (seriously, only ONE) review since I started publishing is kinda disheartening. Please, if  you have read my work, PLEASE REVIEW. I cannot get better if I don't know what I need to improve on.