..and it's goodbye

for now.

I'm throwing in the towel on the blog for the time being.

I'm not one who can write about writing. There's plenty of very good blogs out there that cover the agony and ecstasy of writing much better than I can. I'm not going to vent about politics or publishing because...meh, there's plenty of those blogs out there too.

If I can think of anything to blog about, I'll be back but, for now, no more Teasers, no more drivel. I gotta get my writing done and get my books out there...some time, somehow.

Thanks to those of you who visited and commented. Those comments have been greatly appreciated. Thank you for stopping by and reading my bits and pieces.

So, I leave you with this. This my favorite song from my favorite Elton John album (Madman Across the Water).

Peace out.

Grace is a bit put out - Teaser Tuesday

I'm back to working on 'Christopher's Medal' again, thanks to some excellent Beta feedback. As seems to be the problem with most of the stuff I've written, it lacked more conflict. I think it's a psychological thing, I feel guilty being mean to my characters.

So, I've bitten the proverbial bullet and thrown a few stones in the Path of True Love. This is from a shiny new chapter. Christopher takes Grace to a Very Posh Wedding at a Very Big House. Unfortunately, one of the guests is Christopher's odious ex-girlfriend, Pippa. She rubs Grace up the wrong way and Grace returns home with a bad taste in her mouth.

*********************************************************

Grace couldn’t shake Pippa’s words. She stared out of the window at the flat, south Lincolnshire landscape and stewed while Christopher drove on oblivious. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and understood why Pippa found it hard to let him drop. She just wished she could forget how much could keep them apart. Grace hated that Pippa had reminded her of it. Hated that she’d reminder her that she was nothing more than a glorified shit-flicker with working hands. The man driving the smart, sporty little car was out of her league. He belonged at dinner parties in big houses, drinking port and talking about rugby. He didn’t belong with her in her little cottage, with a take away for dinner and two filet steaks in the freezer.

“Are you all right?” Christopher turned onto the Fordham Road. They were nearly home.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It wasn’t worth explaining. Grace knew it would sound stupid. “I think I’ll just be glad to get home.”

His hand was warm on her knee. “Me too. I’m sorry I inflicted that on you. It won’t happen again.”

Grace folded her arms across her chest and watched the road. “Good.”

Back at the yard, evening stables was in full swing. The yard echoed with the sound of slamming buckets and the anxious whicker of hungry horses. Grace hurried into the house and inhaled the familiar scent of home. The faint smoky scent of bacon lingered in the kitchen and, in the living room, the cinnamon perfume of candles. Grace picked up her bag and took it into the bedroom.

“Grace?” Christopher stood in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

She unfastened her dress and scrambled out of it. “I don’t want to talk about it. It even sounds stupid when I think about it.”

“About what?”

Grace sorted through a drawer for a tee-shirt. “Nothing, forget it. I’m fine.”

“Grace, darling, you are not fine. You’re sorting though that drawer as if you’re looking for something to kill.”

She pulled the shirt over her head and paused. “I would like to kill Pippa. How’s that for an answer.”

“She doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“No., perhaps she doesn’t, but she doesn’t think I’m good enough for you and maybe she’s right. I’ve just spent the weekend in your world and I didn’t much care for it because it reminded me that I didn’t belong there.” She held out her hands, palm up. “These are my hands, they’re working hands. You said that once, remember? These hands are a constant bloody reminder that I don’t belong in your world. I’m a pretender.”

“Now you’re just being silly.” Christopher took a step towards her. His hands closed on her shoulders. “The only world that matters to me is the one you’re in. This house, this room, you…this is where I belong, this is where I want to be.”

Grace lifted her chin. “I want to believe that. I really do. But look at us, look at you. You’re an officer in some posh regiment. You visit my world but you don’t belong here.”

“Grace, stop talking like that. It’s bollocks.” There was an edge to his voice. His grip tightened when he drew her close, one hand cupped her chin. “Just…stop.” His mouth devoured hers, angry breaths drowned the silence. Christopher backed her to the wall while Grace braced her hands on his chest. She couldn’t find it in her to push him away, not when he pressed against her, all heat and fury. His tongue swept over hers, drawing her in, demanding her attention until she relented. Her breath fell into sync with his.

Teaser revised

It pays to post bits of your work, folks.

I had some feedback from yesterday's Teaser, pointing out things that this oblivious writer didn't think of. Thanks to those of you who took the time to read and comment. Yinz rock.

So, for kicks and giggles, here's the revised version.

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They ambushed us when we passed through a village. It was on the cards. The white flags of the Taliban fluttered from crumbling mud walls and people stared at us with blank, hostile eyes when the armored vehicles rumbled along the narrow, dusty lane. Captain Beaumont was quieter than usual, his mouth set in a grim line beneath three days’ growth of beard. I wanted to ask him what he thought was up but after a week in his company I’d already learned when to keep my journalist’s mouth shut.

After a few stints embedded with various regiments in numerous war zones, I’d developed a bit of a feel for trouble myself. I guess a kid would call it ‘Spidey sense’, I just called it my “Oh shit” sense. Neither me or Beaumont were wrong on this occasion.

They started firing at us from the rooftops, a couple of fuckwit snipers with nothing better to do than taking pot shots at British soldiers. Bullets pinged off the vehicles, spat in the dust and slammed into walls. The explosion came from the front of the convoy. Rolling waves of dust funneled through the alley. Our men returned fire in workmanlike silence but, beyond the uneven tattoo of battle one man’s screams cut through me like a fucking knife.

I tucked my shaking hands between my knees and prayed there wouldn’t be grenades. We were proverbial sitting ducks in armored vehicles of dubious construction. There was sod-all in the APC to hide under. We just had to sit it out and hope there were no IEDs. At moments like this, it was hard not to imagine my paper’s headline ‘Journalist Evan Harrison killed in ambush’. I wasn’t ready to die. I was thirty-two and had issues that needed to be resolved.

“Call in air support.” Beaumont barked into the radio. “Tell them to hurry the fuck up. I can’t send the fucking medic in while those fuckwits are firing at us.”

I didn’t hear the reply but, given Beaumont’s choice language I didn’t think the choppers would be too long. I felt lousy sitting there listening to that poor sod scream when no one could do a thing to help him until the snipers were nailed. Our lot were doing their best and a sharp, pained yelp made me think one of the snipers was hit but the other kept firing, erratic bursts into the shooting gallery. As the long, turbulent minutes passed, my fears of grenades and IEDs faded a bit. The insurgents would’ve used them before now, rather than waste bullets. Perhaps I wasn’t going to make the headlines in the wrong way…this time.

I watched Beaumont. He gnawed at his thumbnail while he peered through the slatted window. His dark eyes were a study in contained agony and fury. I don’t know that I could even being to understand or try and describe what he was feeling. I liked the man. I was also a sucker for brown eyes. Sometimes I wished…never mind.

The roar of the incoming choppers shattered the impasse.

“Thank Christ for that.” Beaumont spoke into his radio. “All right, send in the medic. We’re clear.” He took his helmet off, ran his hand through his spiky hair and sighed. “I hate this fucking job.”

A new start - Teaser Tuesday

Revised version posted 5/12/10

So...um...poor Fin and Angharad, they're left hanging again.

I couldn't resist starting revisions on 'Stolen Summer' I started at the beginning. Taking Beta comments in hand, I needed to expand on Evan's experience in Afghanistan and lay the groundwork for stuff which happens a little later in the book.

So, here's the new start.

*******************************************

They ambushed us when we passed through a village. It was on the cards. The white flags of the Taliban fluttered from crumbling mud walls and people stared at us with blank, hostile eyes when the armored vehicles rumbled along the narrow, dusty lane. Captain Beaumont was quieter than usual, his mouth set in a grim line beneath three days’ growth of beard. I wanted to ask him what he thought was up but after a week in his company I’d already learned when to keep my journalist’s mouth shut.

After a few stints embedded with various regiments in numerous war zones, I’d developed a bit of a feel for trouble myself. I guess a kid would call it ‘Spidey sense’, I just called it my “Oh shit” sense. Neither me or Beaumont were wrong on this occasion.

They started firing at us from the rooftops, a couple of fuckwit snipers with nothing better to do than taking pot shots at British soldiers. Bullets pinged off the vehicles, spat in the dust and slammed into walls. The explosion came from the front of the convoy. Rolling waves of dust funneled through the alley. Our men returned fire in workmanlike silence but, beyond the uneven tattoo of battle one man’s screams cut through me like a fucking knife.

“Call in air support.” Beaumont barked into the radio. “Tell them to hurry the fuck up. I can’t send the fucking medic in while those fuckwits are firing at us.”

I didn’t hear the reply but, given Beaumont’s choice language I didn’t think the choppers would be too long. I felt lousy sitting there listening to that poor sod scream when no one could do a thing to help him until the snipers were nailed. Our lot were doing their best and a sharp, pained yelp made me think one of the snipers was hit but the other kept firing, erratic bursts into the shooting gallery.

I watched Beaumont. He gnawed at his thumbnail while he peered through the slatted window. His dark eyes were a study in contained agony and fury. I don’t know that I could even being to understand or try and describe what he was feeling. I liked the man. I was also a sucker for brown eyes. Sometimes I wished…never mind.

The roar of the incoming choppers shattered the impasse.

“Thank Christ for that.” Beaumont spoke into his radio. “All right, send in the medic. We’re clear.” He took his helmet off, ran his hand through his spiky hair and sighed. “I hate this fucking job.”

“Yea.” There wasn’t much else to say. One of his men was hit and screaming like a stuck pig because we got jumped in a place where we shouldn’t be.

A Homecoming - Teaser Tuesday

So, after a long drought, lots of staring at words and, finally sending what I'd written to the lovely Amy Bai for a little advice, I've finally returned to Fin and Angharad's story. I churned out 4,000 words on Sunday and spent some of Monday, tidying up and rearranging things. I'm still not sure where this is going. I have a rough idea and I'm not ready to abandon them, because I'm quite fond of Fin. :)

Anyway, this is part of the 4k marathon. Fin has been away, summoned to the north of the Kingdom of Dumfries to see his dying father. Angharad had more or less given up on him returning. She's about to get a happy surprise.

For the record: Minn sal is Old Norse for 'my soul', minn astir is 'my love' and minn kona 'my wife'. Angharad only knows the meaning of the latter.

*******************************************

For a moment, everything else disappeared, lost in silence. The fire was a dim flicker and Angharad looked at her husband, drenched and pale. His eyes were dark and unreadable.

“Minn sal.” His voice was a whisper.

“Husband.” She wasn’t sure the word left her mouth. She ran across the hall, a rustle of straw and a whisper of skirts and hurled herself into his open arms.

“Angharad, minn astir.” His grip was fierce. His heart pounded against her breast.

Angharad thought he’d break her in two. She took a deep breath and held onto him. “I missed you. I thought you were never coming home.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice shook. His breath was warm against her skin and his hands brushed her veil away. “I’ll never leave you again, minn kona.”

She wanted to cry. Instead she kissed his cold cheek. “See that you don’t.”

“Never.” He stepped back and Angharad returned his gaze.

“You need feeding,” she said, touching his face. “You’re too thin.” The dark crescents beneath his eyes were like bruises.

“I need you.” There was fire in his voice.

“You have me,” she replied.