Return to Storytelling

 

                    A Return to Storytelling

Wow, I can’t believe it’s been over a year since I sat down to write a blog. I will catch you up on what’s happened during that time at the end of the blog. First, I want to get back into sharing my writing journey. That is the reason why I started this blog so long ago.

As some of you might remember, I suffered a serious setback to my writing ability after open heart surgery. Eventually I started writing again but without the passion I felt when writing before. The harder I tried, the more stilted my stories became. I tried to make up for my lack of imagination by focusing on grammar. As a result, I ended up with two-dimensional stories that were well written.

I eventually finished writing the second book in my Queen of Darkness series and sent it to my critique group for review. They felt it was a good story and very well written. I haven’t touched it since. It just doesn’t reflect the voice of my storytelling. That has changed.

Without being totally aware of what I was doing, I would spend an hour agonizing over a single paragraph searching for the perfect wording and also be grammatically correct. In the past, I could write several pages in an hour, and with a little tweaking, be happy with the result.

While the other manuscript sat on a shelf, I decided to start the second volume in my Eyes of the Deluti series. I wrote and submitted chapter one to my critique group even though it still didn’t feel right. With only a few complaints, most thought it was fine. Why was I unhappy?

One of the senior members of our group, a retired editor, commented on how much better my writing was compared to years before. That hit home. The proverbial light bulb appeared over my head and I realized I’d lost my passion for telling a story. I’ve loved numerous stories that weren’t written perfectly but the story tugged at my imagination. That’s what’s been wrong. I’d forgotten how to be a storyteller.

I set that aside and rewrote the chapter. It may not be perfectly written, but it’s so much better with real emotions and a well developed setting. I now have a story I’m happy with. I submitted the new version to my group to see what they think.

I found my voice. I’m a storyteller again.

 

Just a quick recap of the last year if you’re interested. I began having real trouble breathing, but since I’d developed pneumonia, the doctors attributed my breathing difficulties to that. Once over the pneumonia, the problem persisted. My cardiologist assured me that my heart was fine and the problem was definitely in my lungs. A number of tests later, no issues were found in my lungs. My cardiologist told me I needed to lose weight and exercise more.

I know my body pretty well and knew something wasn’t right with my heart. Several minor heart attacks later and he still didn’t believe anything was wrong, but agreed to a stress test since I was adamant.

The stress test indicated that the entire left side of my heart was not functioning correctly. DUH! Into the hospital for an angiogram and they found that one of the bypasses put in several years ago had collapsed. Another surgery to repair the blocked artery and things are much better. Almost a year of reduced blood flow weakened my heart so I still experience difficulty breathing sometimes.

I now have a different cardiologist.

 

About the photo: Story maps should have a number of the things listed, and don’t need to be professional. You’re a writer, not a cartographer.

 

A short scene from my newest story. Thanks for reading.

 

 Regis nodded. “But it was too much for the Princess. She jumped up beside him and drawing blood from every wounded man and animal, friend or foe, she sent a lance of crackling red energy that completely engulfed the staff. It resisted for a moment, and then exploded taking with it all the monsters. Every one of the enemies’ men fell over dead. After healing Aldan, she crumpled on top of him, completely spent.”

Unable to withstand the intensity in Monica’s eyes, Regis looked away. He drew a shaky breath and continued just above a whisper.

“Monica, not one of the wounded survived. They were sacrificed to provide Odessa the power needed to save us. We returned to the capital with only the living and the dead, including your brother and every senior member of the court. She believes she killed her man, Jon, even though Aldan tried to tell her Jon died earlier while protecting him. The price of our victory was high, but the cost to Odessa’s soul is unimaginable.”

The sound of an anguished scream from above ripped through the quiet inn, knocking out half the candles. Monica was up, her chair clattering to the floor and halfway up the stairs before the scream abruptly ended.

 

 

 

Stage Direction

 

   First, let me update you on my health situation. It’s been several weeks since my last post as I’ve had to undergo a number of tests and doctor appointments. The good news is my lungs are in excellent condition for a 72 yr old who smoked for almost fifty years. Most of the previous tests on my heart indicated no issues, but a little over a week ago, I had a heart stress test. The results of that test showed a definite problem, not with my heart itself, but with the blood vessels around it. It appears I might have another blocked artery or a problem with the bypass from five years ago. I’m scheduled for an angiogram in a couple weeks, which can’t come soon enough. Both me and my cardiologist wished it was sooner as it’s getting harder and harder to breathe. The problem is it can be a seven procedure and the hospital can only schedule several of them a day. We’re hoping it will require nothing more than a stint, but another surgery is also possible. I do not want to go through that again, but what choice will I have?

 

   Alright, on to this week’s topic: stage direction. This question came up in one of our last critique group discussions. What is it? Stage direction is when the author describes in detail every move a character makes while performing a common task. For example; “John stepped up to the curb, looked to the left and then to the right before stepping down onto the street. Carefully, he crossed the street, stepped up to the sidewalk and turned to his right to face the store he wanted. He approached the door, grasped the door knob in his right hand and turned it to the right to open the door. Once inside, he carefully closed the door and turned to face the store owner.”

   Now with less stage direction and more description; “John lifted the collar of his jacket as high as it would go and hurried across the street. The promise of warmth in his father’s shop didn’t stop him from carefully negotiating the frozen ruts in the street. Once inside, he greeted his father with a smile.”

   I know this isn’t perfect, but I hope you get the idea. We all know how to cross a street and don’t need it spelled out to us. It does help if we know why he crossed the street.

   During one of our critiques, several folks had a problem with the author writing how his character turned to talk to his partner. They felt it wasn’t necessary as people normally turn to face the one they are talking to, we don’t need to be told. I disagree.

   So much depends on the scene and what the characters are facing. If the main character feels threatened, they will not turn away from watching out the window or door to talk to someone. If, however, they feel safe, they will turn away and face the person they’re talking to. This tells me a lot about how the character is feeling without actually telling me. A person lying on the floor in pain will not automatically turn to the person they are talking to. Whether or not they turn to the person tells me a lot about how they are feeling.

   A certain amount of stage direction is helpful during a scene with a lot of dialogue. This prevents what I call, “talking heads”. All the reader sees in their mind while reading is a pair of heads talking to each other. Have the characters move.

   Most aspects of writing are governed not by rules so much as guidelines. If you like to follow rules, always be consistent, and keep things to a minimum. I write in a way that makes sense to me and matches what I like to read. Some will like it also, while others will not. Such is life.

   Thanks for reading.

   A short scene from one of my stories. Enjoy.

“Worried I be, little one. What we do if guard not letting me see King? I only one ogre be, humans are many.”

Emma ignored the ‘little one’ for now, knowing how upset he was. Sebastian had never experienced this kind of prejudice before. “I’m worried too, but we’ll do what we’ve always done and find a way to complete our mission. Now quit slouching, you’re an ogre and a good one, even if you are hairy and ugly.”

The ogre sat up straight and smiled down at her. “Thank you, Emma. It is even more important now for me to talk right. Tell me more of these humans.”

The sun shot up in to the morning sky, and soon hung directly over their heads. They had separated on uncertain terms years before, and took this opportunity to renew their friendship. An inn appeared strategically located halfway between the Capitol and Brighton Ferry. Seeing the look of apprehension on Sebastian’s face, Emma grabbed his arm.

“C’mon, let’s stop for a bite to eat. The more we learn about how people feel, the better prepared we will be once we reach the Capitol.”

With a sigh, he guided the team into a field next to the inn where other wagons sat awaiting their owners. At the front door, Sebastian reached out to push it open, motioning for Emma to enter and quipped. “Age before beauty.”

She stuck out her tongue, kicked him in the shin and then hobbled inside followed closely by the chuckling ogre.

A look of surprise crossed the faces of the patrons as the two entered, but no fear. The innkeeper rushed forward while wiping his hands on his apron. “By the Eyes, it has been too long! I’m honored, friend ogre. Be welcome in my establishment.”

His hand engulfed by the ogre’s, he turned to Emma. “You are also welcome, young woman. Are you here to speak for the ogre?”

“The hairy oaf can speak for himself. I’m here because I’m hungry.”

What Now?

 

   First off, I realized my goal of posting a blog every week was beyond my capabilities right now. Writing is still difficult and I need to concentrate on continuing the stories I started years ago. Also, I seem to have reached a new stage in my journey of grief, All the distractions and major changes to my life are over, and I've got nothing to stop the painful memories.

   The first year or so was spent dealing with all her possessions, making sure her friends and family got the things she wanted to give them. Sorting through mementos that only had meaning for me and her was difficult. She had saved practically every card she'd received over the last thirty years and hundreds of pictures. Several photo albums ended up in the garbage as everyone in them had passed and her two nieces never knew them. That hurt. I felt like I was throwing away her life. 

   The worst experience had to be dealing with the crematorium representative. He couldn't get his gurney down the hall and into her bedroom, so I had to help him carry her body out of the room and down the hall and watch him zip up the body bag. That horrible memory is burned into my brain and will be there forever.

   With my income slashed the state was no longer paying me to care for her, we had to sell the house and find somewhere else to live. I don't think I could've stayed in the house much longer anyway. It felt so empty and she had taken all the joy with her when she left. If you've ever had to sell a house, you know what a nightmare that can be. First you have to find an agent who seems to know what he or she is doing. Then comes the de-cluttering and multiple trips to storage. Of course, all the problems with the house you've been putting off for years have to be fixed, and finally staging. We couldn't afford a moving van so the trips to storage felt never ending.

   All our work paid off as the house sold in three days, and the Lord was definitely watching over us when we found and closed on a mobile home we could afford. It's in an old park with to amenities, but as the saying goes, beggars can't be choosers. At least we didn't have to spend weeks in a motel looking for a home.

   Chris was one of those people who made friends everywhere she went. She not only had a bunch of friends here in our hometown, but had made many more friends when her husband moved them an hour or so north. This required two memorials. The bigger one locally was more formal, included her few surviving family members, and was held in her favorite church. The one up north was more intimate and personal, and held in a small club house by a lake.

   Since I probably knew her best, and we had discussed many times over the years what she wanted for a memorial, my participation in the planning for both memorials was expected. We had kept our relationship relatively quiet here in our hometown, not wanting to take the chance of upsetting her family or friends at church. Her friends up north were well aware of our relationship and encouraged it. I found out later that the family knew but didn't care and her really close church friends knew. The others only knew me as the man who took care of her and had nursed her back to health.

   The memorial up north meant so much to me. Around twenty of us sat in a circle, sang some of her favorite songs, and read some of her favorite scriptures. The rest of the time we went around the circle and folks shared how much Chris had impacted their lives. They all wanted me to share special moments and adventures from the years we had spent together. That was incredibly hard, and still is, and I had to stop many times to wipe away tears. Everyone understood and was patient with me.

   I began attending her church and they accepted me with open arms. Nothing will ever fill the emptiness in my heart, but it does help to make new friends who try to understand. You can never truly understand until you've gone through it yourself.

   I don't know if my next blog will continue along these personal lines or if I'll share some of the struggles trying to discover my writing groove again. We'll see.

   Included here is a little bit of a memory I wrote about the morning she took me to the hospital for my open heart surgery.

   Thanks for reading.

 

3:15 am   I closed my eyes.

    After an hour, I opened my eyes again to try and focus on the clock.

3:16 am   Crap. I might as well just get up and shut off the alarm. The light was still on in the bedroom as my wife had yet to come to bed, which didn’t surprise me. Maybe she had changed her mind and would come to the hospital.

   In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror wondering if I’d ever see it again. What choice did I have? I would die soon without this surgery so I just had to face my fear and go through with it.

   As I rinsed the last of the shampoo from my hair, I felt a slight change in the air as someone opened the door to the bathroom. I knew who it was. The shower door slid over just enough for her to poke her head in.

   “Good morning, Sweetie. You’re up early.”

   “I couldn’t sleep either, plus I wanted to make sure you were up.”

   I couldn’t see her clearly without my glasses, but when she sniffed, I could just imagine her scrunched up nose.

   “I hate the smell of that disinfecting soap they make you bathe with. Reminds too much of all the surgeries I’ve had. Bring your butt over here so I can wash your back.”

   “Just my butt or can the rest of me come along?”

   She smacked me.

   Once dry, we wrapped our arms around each other and shared a quiet embrace. She pulled away just enough to search my face. “Scared?”

   “Yes”

   “Me too. I don’t want to lose you.”

   We embraced again and shared a long, passionate kiss as if it would be our last.

   “I’ll go warm up the car. Meet me in the kitchen when you’re ready.”

   Once the door closed behind her, I closed my eyes and prayed. “Dear Lord, I don’t ask for much, but please get me through this surgery with no complications. Amen.”

   Out in the living room she was talking to my wife. “It’s not too late if you want to take him to the hospital.”

   “No, thank you. It’s time for me to go to bed. I’ll come by and visit later.” With a ‘Good Luck’ over her shoulder, she disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door. We shared a look, shrugged, and headed for the car, a small bag over my shoulder.

   We arrived early for my 5 am check in time, but the hospital was already bustling with activity. Hand in hand, we waited by the fake fireplace along with several others who probably felt the same apprehension as I did. Nothing showed on our faces however.

   A young nurse soon arrived to escort me to the lower levels of the hospital into an area partitioned by curtains into separate cubicles. The woman who greeted us was all business and efficiency. She pointed at the stainless table covered with a single white sheet. “We have a lot to do to prepare you for your surgery. So, if you would undress and lay down on this table, we’ll get started.”

   After helping me undress, and waiting for the nurse to insert the two IVs in my left arm, Chris pulled over a chair and held my hand the whole time until they carted me away.  Having been through over thirty surgeries herself at the same hospital, the senior nurse recognized her and let her stay for the rest of the process.

   The other nurse quickly returned and they went to work. At one point the older nurse glanced over at Chris and asked, “Are you his wife?”

   I smiled as this was something we had dealt with for many years. A sad smile on her face, she answered, “In my heart. But no, we are not married.”

   Nothing more was said as I lay there naked while they inserted two more IV’s in my right arm, shaved practically every inch of my body, and used a black marker to draw lines and pictures on me. I began to wonder if I was being prepared for surgery or as a sacrifice to some pagan god.

   Finally, the surgeon poked his head around the curtains, “It’s time.”

   Mask over my mouth and nose, the last thing I heard was, “I love you. Come back to me.”

Dealing With Loss

 

   This weeks blog is of a personal nature with not much emphasis on writing. Although, in a way, writing this is a positive step in my journey of healing from minor brain damage and the burden of grief. 

   On January 14th, 2022, I lost the woman who made my life complete. Loving her was fun, adventurous, and so rewarding. I suppose we could have been considered soul-mates. Unfortunately, that's not as wonderful as it sounds. The two of you are so focused on what is best for the other person, you loss sight of your own needs. It's like two people standing at door, going nowhere, saying, "You first", "No, you first."

   When we first met in high school, it felt so right and natural when we held hands. A habit we continued for the next fifty years no matter where we were or how we felt. Marriage was never in the cards for us. Sometimes it was best for her if we didn't marry, and sometimes best for me. The idea of marriage came up many times over the years,

   Born with a hereditary, incurable kidney disease, the chances of her living past the age of thirty were pretty slim. This was long before transplants and dialysis made it possible to extend her life. She did not want to have children and pass on the disease to another generation. I really wanted children so getting married after high school wouldn't work for either of us.

    With a dismal future ahead of her, she decided to live life to the fullest and go out with a bang. This was the time of sex, drugs, and rock & roll so off she went to Los Angeles. She fell right in with the "IN" crowd in Hollywood for the wild life. I married her best friend, joined the Navy and settled in San Diego.

   After several years of working for an escort service, being a David Carradine groupie, she hooked up with a rich young man from New Orleans. None of this brought her any happiness. Then our relationship came to mind. The more she thought about us, the greater the desire to find me. I had never stopped thinking about her.

   Don't ask me to explain it, maybe our spirits were linked, I don't know. She headed for San Diego, even though she had no idea if I was there or not. Once there, a quick check in the phone book and there I was. She showed up on our doorstep and lived with us for awhile. My wife was understanding at first, but eventually became jealous of our relationship and asked her to leave. Even so, she became a major part of our family. She agreed to be our children's Godmother, went camping with us and helped my wife with the kids when I went overseas.

   I left the Navy and moved my family back up to Washington. My soul-mate followed about a month later. She eventually got married, but we still spent time together when we could. When her husband and my wife had an affair, the topic of marriage came up again. By this time her future life expectancy had greatly improved due to advances in treatment. She wanted to pursue her life-long dream of raising horses. I didn't much care for horses, even though I would always go riding with her when she asked. I was heavily into building and racing cars. We decided not to ruin our close relationship with marriage.

   We always knew when either of us was having difficulty dealing with life. Regardless of whether or not we were married, a weekend get away, or road trip of one or two weeks reset our lives. It's like we created some kind of energy between us when we were alone that just made life better.

   By the time we reached our sixties and she had divorced her second husband, both of us were experiencing declining health. I remarried my first wife strictly for financial reasons as I could no longer work and Social Security wasn't enough to live on.

   The state decided she could no longer live on her own and put her in a nursing home. When I found out, I went to her case worker and asked what I needed to do to get her out of that home. She told me I would have to complete the training to become a certified home care aide. So that's what I did and brought her home to live with us. 

   The next ten years was a special tine for us. When she contracted a deadly virus and the medication they gave her attacked not only the virus, but also her joints, I was there for her. It hurt me so bad that I could do nothing to ease her pain. When your kidneys have failed, pain medication no longer works. All I could do was sit and hold her hand while she cried. Several years later, after my open heart surgery and I was pretty helpless, she returned the favor and took care of me during recovery.  

   It still amazes me how our relationship grew and matured over the years. A partnership I've never experienced with anyone else. We talked about anything and everything. Nothing was off limits. We shared things we'd never shared with anyone else. I always felt like we were anchors keeping each other from drifting away. Now my anchor is gone and I'm adrift. The memory of her passing in the middle of our conversation that morning still shatters me. The memories still hurt.

   I've included a poem I wrote six months after she passed.

   Thanks for reading.

Grief has no boundaries

 

When will it end?

The memory of you sends me spiraling into an abyss no amount of tears can fill.

I feel like I’m wearing an old suit ten sizes too big for the emptiness of my life.

Every day I try to focus my mind on something, anything with meaning.

Every night I cry myself to sleep when nothing has changed. You are still gone.

Why am I still here?

The vision of your life fleeing from your eyes while I held your hand is burned into my brain and haunts me.

What did I do wrong?

I was supposed to take care of you.

I failed.

How can a broken heart be healed when half is lost?

The pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt before as I’m being crushed by the unbearable weight of emptiness.

When will it end?

   

Grammar vs Story

 

   When you read a book from a new author, what is more important to you, grammar or story? Fellow writers almost always focus on grammar or sentence structure. On the other hand, most of the non-writers I've talked to always look for a story line the engages them right away or provides some entertainment. Even if they are fairly well versed in grammar, they don't focus on mistakes as they understand no one is perfect.

   Unfortunately, there comes a point where the grammar is so bad, even the most forgiving reader can't continue, no mater how good the story sounds. For this reason I believe it's important for every writer, regardless of level, to have a partner who can read for mistakes and give feedback. For writers just starting out, a writer's critique group can be a huge asset. For one thing, they are free, and secondly the variety of feedback is only limited to the number of members in the group.

   Your first book is always the most critical. I believe most readers will expect it to be a little rough. The important thing is that it's written well enough to draw the reader into the story and keep reading. Folks will expect improvement in the next books as your proficiency as a writer improves or you take that next step and hire an editor.

   What's interesting is that once you've established a following by publishing a large number of books, readers become less interested in grammar. I've heard many readers comment about how bad the grammar was in the latest book put out by their favorite author, but they loved the story anyway. Odds are most of us will never reach that level of popularity so we better get used to writing our stories with the best grammar possible.

   Just some of my thoughts on the subject. What are yours?

   Another short piece from one of my stories I hope you will enjoy.

   Thanks for reading.

                                                            *        *        *

Moshere watched the display of youthful joy and innocence, shook his head, and trotted back to the crest of the ridge to keep guard. He was much older than anyone knew, and was quite aware of the amulet the Maudwan wore and the power it contained. His family had been recruited to help hide and protect the amulet when it had first been entrusted to the nomads.

Early on, when they still roamed the plains and lived in tents, it was decided a small wooden box could too easily be lost. The tradition evolved where the youngest son of their leader would wear the chain around his neck. Unfortunately, since they had no Deluti blood, the chain wouldn’t grow as the young man grew, eventually choking him to death. At that point, the chain would fall loose and then be placed around the neck of the next youngest son. And so the cycle continued.

As with many of the Elder Races, Moshere was able to see past the illusion that hid the amulet Navon wore, and he could sense the power of a Deluti which surrounded him. He also knew if the Amulets were once again appearing in the world, it meant that war would soon be upon them.

As much as he loved his Shadhuin brothers, he knew with their prejudices and distrust of anything different, it would be difficult to protect the young Deluti and his companion. Moshere understood that if something were to go horribly wrong, Navon had the power to destroy the city and all within. The uncomfortable feeling that he was making a mistake ate away at the confidence he’d held for so many years.

Zoom Meetings

   

 I am not a big fan of Zoom. I think it goes hand-in-hand with the current trend of texting rather than actually talking to someone. Has society become so afraid of relating to others on a personal level, and have we lost the art of reading body language. When texting, we certainly don't have to worry about the other person knowing what we really feel since they can't see you.

   My writer's critique group used to meet on a regular basis at the local pizza parlor. Three to four submissions to critique was normal and we usually finished up on time. In the same amount of time on Zoom, we usually only have time for two. The critiques felt more engaging and personal compared to how they feel talking to a computer screen. Some folks always came a little early to share questions or just to catch up with the other writers. Others might stay late to discuss issues brought up during the critique. Sitting next to each other around a table made it easy to pick up on emotions and read body language. That is almost impossible when all you can see is a person's head. 

   It's also important to point out that when someone takes the time to dress and drive to a meeting, they are investing their time for a purpose. They want to get the most out of their time spent at the meeting. I get the feeling sometimes that folks during a Zoom meeting are not as focused on what's going on and their thoughts are drifting to their surroundings and thoughts of what needs to be done around the house gain their attention.

   Meeting at a location that also served food is a plus. We never had a problem with others eating during our critiques. Why is it that some people try to hide the fact that they are eating during a Zoom meeting?  Others can't wait for the meeting to be over because they are hungry and want to go eat. 

   Maybe Zoom works well for business meetings where facts and figures are discussed, but writers deal with emotions, feelings and visions. It's difficult trying to share your thoughts and feelings with a computer screen. I hope that someday we can go back to at least one in-person meeting each month.

   As always, I would love to hear your thoughts on this topic.

   Another short scene for you. Enjoy.

   Thanks for reading!

Odessa turned away and whispered, “And here you are, saddled with a spoiled, headstrong Blood Witch who murders men without a thought.”

He took the empty bowl from her unresisting fingers and placed it along with his own on the nearest fallen tower stone. He stood before the Princess and held her hands gently in his own. Odessa raised her eyes to his, tears streaming down her cheeks. Leaning down, he kissed her softly on the lips, gathered her in his arms and spoke quietly.

“Witch is a state of mind fueled by your fear and the fear of others. You and I are mages, nothing more and nothing less. Do you think I don’t notice the occasional fear in people’s eyes when they look at me? What is to stop me from becoming like Mage Robric and using my power for evil?”

A ray of sunlight burst through the trees and lit Odessa’s face as he held her at arm’s length. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, Princess. Whatever the future holds, my life will forever be molded by your love for me. Our hope for an army at our back when we return home is now only a dream. But I haven’t forgotten my promise to you. I will find a way to take back your kingdom.”

She reached up and cupped the side of his face. “Have I ever told you, you are a special person, Aldan Beaverson?”

A smile lit up the young man’s face, threatening to outshine the sun. Aldan took her by the hand when Commander Regis called their names. “Come, it isn’t over yet. There are still some difficult decisions to be made.”

Writer Isolation

   

   As writers, we have a tendency to isolate ourselves while trying to conjure up an interesting story. I know not all writers do this, but the majority of the ones I know, do. It isn't always a bad thing when writing until it becomes a habit. That can have a negative affect on you and your writing. 

   It's important to have a place to write without distractions and the option of silence or soft background noise. I purchased an old boat at auction that provides me with a quiet place to write. When we spend too much time there, we lose the input of human interaction. While most of our stories revolve around make-believe worlds or fictitious versions of our own world, interaction between characters remains the same.

   How we relate to others determines how we write the relationships our characters experience. Men normally write their stories from a male point of view, and women write from a female point of view. Thar's one of many reasons why men have difficulty writing romance. 

   I had the opportunity this last weekend to participate in a men's retreat. I had never been involved with one of these before, so I had no expectations. It brought back memories of forty years ago. I was stationed on a ship and spent months in the company of a group of men. I realized just how much I'd missed the comradery and fellowship.

   It became clear to me that I was using the isolation as a writer as an excuse to avoid making new friends. I believe it's important to have a close friend who will share the truth with about how your story is developing. Family is nice but they normally don't tell you what they are really thinking. A close friend will also tell you if they think you've been isolating yourself for too long.

   If you don't have someone you would consider a close friend, I encourage you to reach out to those around you. Now that I realize what I've been missing, I will reach out to those I just met hoping to find a connection. You might be surprised, they might be searching for a friend also. And if it doesn't work, no problem, just try again.

   With two daughters and five grand-daughters, I feel my character interactions between men and women are fairly well written. I hope the interaction between my male characters improves as I spend more time with the men I've just made friends with.

Another short scene I hope you will enjoy.

Thanks for reading.

  

When the sobs finally subsided, she raised her puffy eyes to him and searched his face. “Jon was my only friend while growing up in the castle, and I killed him. Why?”

It took all of Aldan’s will not to fall into the emptiness that hovered just past the green expanse of her eyes. Brushing the tears from her face, he kissed her on the forehead and comforted her in the circle of his arms.

“You did not kill him, Odessa. Jon died because of the actions of a mad, power-hungry mage. If you had not taken advantage of the power made available to you, we would all be dead. How many would have died in this kingdom before he was satisfied? Rest now and regain your strength. Morning will soon be upon us, and many questions will need to be answered.”

Taking her silence for agreement, he carried Odessa to the base of the tower, that had already been cleared of bodies and laid her on a sleeping pad. Satisfied she was resting peacefully; he climbed up on the tower base and extinguished his light at a signal from Regis.

Re-energizing the defensive matrix with a quick spell, Aldan pulled out the small book, spoke the Words of Power, and watched the Tome return to its proper size. The rest of the night passed quickly as he studied a completely new set of spells. The idea of sleep never crossed his mind.