Hey Everyone!


Eeek! *blushes* It’s been a long time since I’ve posted, but I’m trying to be better about it…trying!

To start, I’m taking part in this wonderful thing called the Writing Process Blog Tour. So, WELCOME! Thanks for stopping by my station 🙂 It’s a unique opportunity for us writers to delve deep into our souls and answer those daunting questions which force us to analyze our “sacred” writing process.

Image  Thank you, Wendy for inviting me to join in! I met her at the San Francisco Writers Conference and discovered that she’s a vivacious and talented writer! You can read about her process here: http://wbterrien.com/my-writing-process-blog-tour


What am I working on? 

Right now I’m working on my third novel, a literary fantasy called The Persistence of Memory. Elliot Willow hasn’t spoken for 31 years. But when the fates give him a second chance to right his mistakes and atone for the past that haunts him, Elliot must discover the strength to find his voice again.
How does my work differ from others of its genre? 
Well, I work in a lot of genres: YA, Adult, New Adult, etc. But one thing that undercurrents all my work is the trials and errors of what it means to be human. I write about how people struggle to uphold their sense of humanity and how easily it can be lost. I’m inspired by the struggle to maintain the self. Also, I tend to discuss the different versions and perversions of humanity, the people on both sides of the fence who dabble with right and wrong on a daily basis. I love the untapped perspective, the killers and the rats of society—what’s their story? Do they still have any humanity? I like the tainted individuals and my work is never one sided. You may think you know a hero, or hate the villain but there are no heroes and villains in real life, and everyone balances on both sides of the line. I would say other writers are afraid of their dark side but I’m not. I have two muses: a princess and a maniacal, voodoo priest.
Why do I write what I do? 
In February, I won a scholarship to attend the San Francisco Writers Conference. It was an AMAZING experience and I only wish it had lasted longer. I won the scholarship by writing a short essay on “Why I Write.” It’s the best way I can sum up my thoughts about this question.
Underwear Inspirations
It’s always amusing to me when I tell people, “I’m a writer.” They give me a half smile, half incredulous gawk, because to them, it seems an illogical profession these days. It’s akin to the taboo “actor,” or saying you plan to fund an underwater voyage to Atlantis. But people often forget that almost every aspect of western culture and society is based on the writings of some misunderstood person. Machiavelli’s The Prince, shaped the modern political landscape. The writings of dissenting philosophers created new religions. Laws, money, music, traditions, rebellions, all have their roots in writing.
To me, it’s crazy that something I do in my underwear while lying in bed eating frosted cookies and listening to Beyoncé, has all that power. But it does. Now why does all this history matter to me? Because I’m an artist. I create things. So I want to create change. As cheesy as it sounds, as a citizen of the world, I feel it’s my duty to make it better. And the best way I know how is through writing—by following the examples of thousands of outcast scribes and authors before me. I may not write the next Catch-22 in my skivvies, but perhaps my work will spark some imagination and inspire my readers. Plus, you never know. 238 years ago, Thomas Jefferson could have been munching on teacakes in his small clothes, probably on a feather bed, humming Mozart, while he drafted the Declaration of Independence.
How does my writing process work? 

Ha! That’s a good one. Writing process? Honestly, I don’t really have one. Inspiration comes from the merciful gods above in tiny drizzles every so often–droughts are frequent. I think about the idea until it morphs into a beautiful beast that claws free from my skull. Then, when I get into my zone, I just pound through my work. I’ve started outlining my novels now, but I don’t ever write the book in order. When I sit down to write, I pick a section and work on that. I do a lot of research for the novels, reading similar books, books on the subject, online articles, etc. I can spend months researching because I like to get every exact detail correct in my narratives. I don’t use any applications, just Word on my baby–my mac.

Well, that’s me in nutshell–or a blogshell. Huh? Huh! Not even a titter? *smh*

Next up on the Writing Process Blog Tour are three extremely talented writers who will share their writing process either today as well, or on May 5! They’re pretty awesome, so you won’t want to miss out. 🙂  Later today and on May 5th, be sure to check out them out: Karl, Tara, and Margaret. I met all of them at the incredible San Francisco Writers Conference this year.

Image  Tara Sim is a native of San Francisco, which has its own distinct smell — a blend of sea salt, eucalyptus, and Chinese food. She regularly swallows fog. She is also an alumna of Hollins University, which is one of the best schools in the country, and you would be a gentleman/lady to not suggest otherwise. Currently she’s immersed (read: obsessed) in sprucing up her novels for publication, which is a Trying Business, but she can’t deny it’s rather fun. She loves to write and loves others who write. She loves to talk about writing. She loves to read. She loves to write about reading, and read about writing. And, most of all, she loves to ramble.

Image G. Karl Kumfert is an idealist technocrat with a passion for teens and storytelling. He wrote his first novel, The Tavern Priestess, because he wanted to explore issues of faith, race, power, and social justice in an allegorical setting that is approachable by mainstream youth. His goal as a writer is to create stories that are entertaining, thought provoking, contemporary, and authentic. He writes stories for his own family to read.

Image Margaret Mayo McGlynn is a graphic designer, writer and copywriter. She is working on her first YA Fantasy novel, set in modern day Princeton, Bermuda and Rome, about a 16 year old girl who must learn magic to save her dad from evil wizards. She was born in New Jersey and grew up spending summers in Bermuda. She loves Fantasy and Science Fiction, languages, history, food and wine, professional cycling, snowboarding, and travel.


Looking through the new edits of my book and feel like I might take a trip through a maze with an axe.

Chapter One:

A Friendly Gathering

“How is one to live a moral and compassionate existence when one is fully aware of the blood, the horror inherent in life, when one finds darkness not only in one’s culture but within oneself? If there is a stage at which an individual life becomes truly adult, it must be when one grasps the irony in its unfolding and accepts responsibility for a life lived in the midst of such paradox. One must live in the middle of contradiction, because if all contradiction were eliminated at once life would collapse. There are simply no answers to some of the great pressing questions. You continue to live them out, making your life a worthy expression of leaning into the light.”

~Barry Lopez


“When life gives you a hundred reasons to cry, show life that you have a thousand reasons to smile.”

~ Unknown




Present Day


Astrid was there. Again. The same warm coffee filled cups throughout the cramped café. The same couple flirted in a crowded corner. The same barista flicked long strands of sweaty hair out of her eyes like they were lingering flies. And across the room from Astrid, there she sat—Astrid’s dream-self—staring at the trendy antique clock hanging above the glass doors with mounting impatience. Astrid casually watched her dream-self for a bit. The girl did nothing exciting except sip her latté and examine a chipped nail. Both Astrids were very bored.

But Astrid’s dream-self was also angry. Whoever she was waiting for was late and Astrid could practically hear the obnoxious tapping of her foot. The girl was even pursing her lips. Astrid rolled her eyes and prepared to leave her self-absorbed dream version when something outside the window of the shop caught her attention.

“Grandma?” Astrid looked perplexed. Yes, the elderly woman was standing there, swathed in a yellow gown, but something was horribly wrong. A faceless man dressed all in white was forcefully dragging her grandmother away. The man was towing her towards a strange, foggy, black abyss. Astrid freaked out and frantically searched for help. But no one seemed to realize she was there. She ran up to her dream-self and tried to rouse her twin. Nothing. Her twin looked back with vacant, angry eyes and drummed her painted fingers, completely consumed in her own world.

Astrid glanced out the window again and saw the man almost had her grandmother at the edge of the fog. She abandoned her other self and sprinted after the kidnapper. Panting, she chased the two, begging for the man in white to release her loved one. All three were on the edge of the abyss, but just as Astrid reached for the hostage’s hand, the man stopped, pointed a gun at his victim’s head, and pulled the trigger. Then, he jumped into the ebony mist. Astrid sat there, holding her grandmother’s dead body in her arms, suddenly covered in warm pee, screaming hysterically to her dream-self who still sat inside the café sipping away.

Then she woke up.

“Meow. Meow. Meow!”

Astrid bolted up from her bed, breathing heavily into the whiskery face of her cat.

“Meow!” He screeched.

“Peanut! Gah!” The orange fur-ball brushed his head against her shoulder. Astrid pushed him away, rubbing her eyes, and tried to get back to sleep. It was useless. The second she shut her lids, she had vivid flashbacks of her nightmare. “Ugh!” She looked at her clock. Oh, hell no! She thought. 8am. On a Saturday. You’ve got to be kidding me. She grabbed a pillow and screamed into it.

“Meow.” Damn this cat. Damn my dreams. Peanut pawed at her hand as she clasped the pillow. She gave in and stroked his long neck as he purred contently. Selfish animal. He pranced around the house like he owned it, demanding attention and love when he wanted it with no regard for others. After a few minutes, Peanut decided he’d had enough and jumped off her bed and out of her room. “Thanks. Now what do I do?” She was a kitty booty call. Looking at the clock again, she rolled her eyes, and then crawled out of bed to her bathroom.

She flicked on the dull fluorescents, and stared at a foggy, makeup-splattered mirror. Her reflection wasn’t very promising. Her caramel eyes had lids like limp spaghetti, covered in black scraps of used liner; her tawny skin was chapped and flaky with bits of last night’s drool clinging to her pouty lips. Her curly reddish-chestnut hair flared and flattened at unflattering angles.

Astrid wished she could blame this new look on wild parties with large quantities of stolen booze, but her life wasn’t that glamorous. She sighed, grabbed her brush, wet it, and then gave up and jumped into the shower. A few minutes later she emerged, less frazzled, and far fresher. She threw some mousse into her hair and tossed it in a messy bun.

Once dressed in sweats, she closed the dream-box on her antique dresser, enclosing the nightmare, and hoping fruitlessly it would work this time. She cracked a few joints and grabbed the dream journal that she’d bought last week off her dresser. She spelled out “Day 15,” at the top of a new page and wrote her entry. It was the same as before, except now her subconscious must have hired a special effects artist because the blood dripping dramatically from her grandmother’s head was new, as were the bits of skull that shattered sideways hitting the floor like dirty crumbs. Astrid no longer felt like sobbing every time she woke up. Desensitized, she was now just angry at her subconscious for torturing her every night. It was a song she couldn’t skip. It was the same dream for over two weeks, and now she had sound effects, squirting blood, and even a cinematic slow-motion sequence as her grandmother’s head was blown off. Her movie just got better and better.

The icy gold of her necklace brushed softly against her protruding collarbone. She lifted the tiny dancer figurine to eye level and pondered its details for the thousandth time.  It had been a gift from her grandmother when she was born. It was delicate, all gold with a tiny clever smile and a ruby leotard, skirt and shoes. The dancer’s arms were raised in a high fifth position, gracefully balanced atop her body, and her feet posed in relevé. It was a beautiful, yet simple piece. It had been with Astrid her whole life, and kept her afloat.

Astrid finished her entry and headed downstairs. Her mother would be up and her father, Colin, already at work. Her bedroom was in the corner of their modest four-bedroom craftsman house. One of many on their quaint, suburban street, at least the interior design changed every few blocks. Wooden floors, recessed lighting, bold colors, furniture made with organic materials, and a large quantity of artwork all made it a modern home in a contemporary neighborhood.  

Jessie feigned a heart attack at the sight of her daughter up at this hour. “Did aliens take away the real Astrid in the night?”

“Ha-ha-ha.” Astrid mocked. “Peanut woke me up and I couldn’t go back to sleep.”

Jessie stood over the stove, scrambling a pan of eggs. “Same dream?”

“Every night.” Astrid shrugged and sat on a metal stool at their marble kitchenette. Jessie wanted to hug her but knew Astrid wouldn’t like that.

“Well, I found something that might help. It’s on the table.” Astrid raised her eyebrows questioningly, but went over to the investigate. On top of their handcrafted ebony dining table, was a dream-catcher—an old one, with blue and black feathers and a black string. There was something carved on the top, too, but she couldn’t read the Cherokee writing. “My dad gave that to me when I was a kid. I use to have bad dreams too. It has my name engraved in our language. I didn’t know where I put it, but I found it finally last night. I should have given it to you earlier.” Jessie laughed sardonically. “One of my few family heirlooms.”

Astrid scrutinized the dream-catcher, wondering about the person who crafted it. Could it have been a great aunt of hers? A cousin? What would they think of her owning this? It must have been hard for her mother to give this to her…Jessie had so few things left. When she was shunned for marrying Colin, she wasn’t allowed to keep much.

“Thanks, mom.” Astrid hugged Jessie and ran upstairs to put the dream-catcher over her four-poster bed.

As she exited her room, she veered away from the stairs and walked tentatively down the creaky, tangerine-colored hallway towards the last room on her left. The door was closed. She tried the brass knob. It was locked. She exhaled, relieved. After the first nightmare, she’d gone into her grandmother’s old room and Jessie found her there, curled up on the floor, near hysterics. After that, Astrid had avoided the room, afraid of her uncontrolled emotions. And apparently, Colin had feared the same thing and locked the door.

The room didn’t have anything in it. Technically speaking, it was a guest room and had all the necessary accoutrements like a bed, dresser, and IKEA mirror, but no guest stayed in there and all the furniture was unused. Astrid wished it was at least haunted, but instead the room felt empty, void of any life. It reminded her of how she felt the last time she’d been in there, a year ago. It was the night she learned the news and she had just gotten home from the hospital. Her parents were downstairs on the couch in shock.

A few months prior, her grandmother, a spry and spunky old woman, had taken a stray bullet for a stranger’s child. Quite the heroine, she’d paid the ultimate price and was in a coma, dying slowly, until eventually one day, she just let go.

Astrid went into the lifeless room filled with oxygen tanks and IV stands. They had a live-in nurse stay with them—Sophia.  It cost Jessie and Colin all their savings, which didn’t matter until Jessie’s firm laid off all its junior partners.

Astrid had looked around the room and cried. She cried for the first time since hearing the news. She cried until she fell asleep in her grandmother’s empty bed. Then she woke up the next morning and never went into the room again—until these dreams.

“You finished packing?” Jessie asked when Astrid returned to the kitchen. She was vigorously chopping some vegetables for dinner. The sharp slap of her knife, bubbling cauldron on the gas stove, and faint bluesy tunes on the radio colored the normally quiet atmosphere with a warm melody.

“Nope. I’ll do it tonight. Any interviews?”

Jessie half smiled. “Nope.” She walked over the stove and shoveled some eggs onto a plate and handed them to Astrid. “But they’ll come. You remember Carol right? Heavy-set woman? She applied to over 500 jobs before she got the one she’s at now. I haven’t even hit half that, so I got time.”

“Not that much time.” Astrid muttered, under her breath. Jessie gave her a warning look.

“That’s for me to worry about. Not you. I’m still the parent here.”

“But why won’t you let me work? I could do that modeling job and then pay for all my own stuff and save you and dad the money.”

Jessie snorted and dropped her knife. “Ha! Like we’re letting you do that music video shit. I see what they want. No way. You’re too smart for Hollywood. You can help by getting good grades for Harvard. Just do your school work and stop being a smart ass to your teachers—no matter how stupid they are.”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “Yea, yea, yea.” The point had been argued to death but she was convinced her parents would cave eventually. They needed money and she needed to start her career. Harvard could wait. It was mutually beneficial and completely logical.

Taking her plate, she went into the living room, plopped down on their plush velvet couch, and turned on Saturday morning cartoons, hoping her bad mood would dissipate before Phillip came over. She hated taking her anxieties out on him but it seemed to be all she was doing lately. He had enough to worry about at home without her stupid drama.

Pouting over her food, she tried to absorb herself in pointless characters and decided that this was another rocky road and vanilla ice-cream morning.  

Hey Guys! As is with anything, my plans are taking a bit longer than I anticipated. Thus, to roll out the red carpet before the release of my debut novel, I’m going to post some excerpts from it. Let me know what you think!



Chapter 1

Prologue:  The Beginning, 1976

The car was nearing 100mph. The little boy’s tiny white hands clutched desperately to the front seat’s leather interior, and his big blue eyes stretched wide in terror. He tried to mouth his fear, but was too hypnotized by the flashing desert road. The car swerved precariously and he let out a small squeak. The Elder driver looked down at him in concern, and gently held his wrist. This increased his panic as She was now driving one-handed. He unlaced his fingers from Hers and pulled his knees up to his chest. The speedometer fell by ten. He breathed easier. The old Woman’s shrewd blue eyes crinkled. She patted his head, pulling some blonde strands from his wet eyes. He glanced up at Her, pleading silently. Her head returned to the road and She raised the volume of the radio. Seasons in the Sun cooed gently, as dying rays danced rainbows across the window. He tried to listen to the song but all he could hear was the pumping of his heart and the squeaking of the tires—and far, far away, the twinkling of a siren.

The pedal roared and the car lurched forward, gunning far past 100. The boy put his head between his legs, panting madly. He looked up only when the smooth surface underneath him started to shake and jump like frying popcorn. The Woman had turned off the main road and was now blazing through the golden sand. She kept Her course straight, aiming for a strange glimmer in the distance, as Her grandson bobbed along. The drive was endless, pierced occasionally by the siren call across the barren fields. Neither predator nor pray gained any leeway. Finally, when the sun began to dip below the horizon, She nudged Her grandson to face forward. Her withered finger pointed ahead, as She croaked, “Look.” There was a lake—a monstrous lake as far as the eye could see. It stood, still as a stone, and quiet, too quiet.

She got out of the car and walked over to the water’s edge. The little boy stayed behind, clinging desperately to the door for stability. The water was opaque. A passing zephyr shimmered across the surface. This place was chaste, protected from external perversion. She breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of freedom. Real freedom. So many years. So many years had passed locked behind doorways, staring at strange faces, unable to see the wonder of a sunset without the fear of night. Running, always running, towards what? There was never a destination to Her road. But now, standing at the edge of this lake, She knew her path was always leading Her here. This would be the beginning and end of Her tale.

The scattered rocks glowed in the setting sun a burnt red. The rocks’ fiery lights ignited and danced on the water’s surface like a circus of parading light. Shapes formed and colors blended as the glowing circus’ green clowns came out to perform with purple acrobats on their shoulders, lending a helpful yellow hand. Pink elephants and orange monkeys clamored on center stage, shifting and colliding with invisible cages. Red and white tigers roared with joy and their indigo trainers guided them into the ring of life. The mahogany mountains turned a deep black, their golden crowns fading with the sun.

She looked out onto this world with parades and tight ropes shining in Her gaping blue eyes. She felt young again, remembering the way the moist forest beds smelled outside Her small cabin in Siberia, the shade of the great Larch tree, and the warm scent of sweet burning wood—before the knives came and fire was no longer sweet. Small tears leaked out of Her lids. The sandy wind blew past, warming Her scarred skin. A smile crept upon Her chapped lips, and She opened her arms, letting the breeze blow through Her gray hair. She smiled again and looked nostalgically back at the little boy who would become a Man. He had let go of the door and walked tentatively forward a few feet, waiting for Her to instruct him like She always did. One day, he would understand that She did this for him.

She tore Her brown dress aside and tossed Her hole filled heels in the water. There are no barriers at the beginning.

The soothing gust blew by again—a signal. The lake was no longer quiet. The legion of cars in her wake drew closer: they were coming.

She walked over to the boy and kissed his soft cheek. He stared into Her eyes and She smiled encouragingly. He would not assume Her fate. He would not be used. “Remember what I taught you, never again.” She whispered. He nodded, a ball of pain stuck in his throat. Even as a child, he knew his destiny was to continue Her vision.

Then the Ring Master joined the circus and the crowd screamed.

There was a novel that changed them all….

And then there was the novel that started it all…

Welcome to MY novel!

I’m an up-in coming author–or that’s what I’m suppose to say. I’m just a gal, dorkqueen extraordinaire, but with the heart of an old British woman.  Read my work and I hope you enjoy!

My first novel, The Death of Us All will be coming out this January! Stay tuned for updates!


Leave some comments, follow my fv, laugh at my twitter, live your life.