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Sharon’s note: I re-invent the wheel a lot. You’ll hear a lot of good advice out there, and it doesn’t do a lick of good if you don’t internalize it. You’ll never understand an idea until it’s your idea. I’m putting this out there in the hopes that it’ll help someone, because they are at the right time in their life to need and hear it. Warning: Writer is still technically supposed to be taking a break while writing this, but insists it doesn’t count.

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Because of my condition, I really have to watch my physical energy levels. It sucks, but so is life. What I forget to do is look after my mental well being from time to time.

Don’t get me wrong, I love to write. I actually get a little depressed if I don’t write for too long. Something to remember though, writing is like any other form of exercise. Sometimes you need to switch things up so you don’t get overly tired, and sometimes you need a little break.

I once wrote for eight hours straight. Not breaks except to use the bathroom and refill my water. I even ate at my computer. I made A LOT of progress, but when my husband came home he thought I was having a MS relapse because I was acting a little disoriented and looked like I’d been hit on the head with a hammer.

I did my own personal novel in a month challenge, just to see if I could. 67,000 words in 31 days. I did it, but I was brain fried afterwards. I didn’t put another word on paper for like three weeks.

In both those cases I pushed myself mentally, but because it was a conscious effort, I remembered to take a break afterwards.

I do a lot of writing. A lot of it is for the blog, but also side projects. I have one novel I’m doing heavy edits on, while also working on the sequel (I don’t know if this is the greatest idea, but it appears to be working for me, so I’m doing it), plus a few assorted other little creative projects. 

At the start of this week I sat down at my computer and just didn’t want to write. It wasn’t writer’s block, I had ideas, I just didn’t want to. I spent a grueling hour making myself write about a hundred words, then I gave up. I was off of work that day, so I took a nap. Then I read some of a book I’d been meaning to. Then I spent a few useless hours playing a fiddly but brainless little computer game while listening to a steampunk opera (I highly recommend Paul Shapera). 

I felt worlds better, which made me realize something. Even last time I’d taken a vacation, I hadn’t stopped writing. It had been months since I had spent a day without doing some kind of writing related activity.

So I took the week off. I played video games I hadn’t played in a while. I found new shows to watch. I read new books. I listened to highly lyrical music, which I can’t do while writing. I took the time to absorb other people’s stories without having to work on my own. And you know what? I feel great.

Because I took a little time to let the well of inspiration refill, I am ready to hit the keyboard with renewed zeal and fresh ideas. 

Moral of the story:  It’s okay to take a break if you need it. Just remember that a break means resting, not quitting.

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Sharon’s note: Everyone handle’s stress differently. Some people can handle hell with surprising grace, and some people crumble the second things get hard. Life isn’t easy, and there’s no shame in struggling, but you need to find a way to cope. Figure out what you need to cope, because giving up on yourself is not acceptable. Warning: Set up for story time.

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I fiddled on the head set and tuned into my station. Ronnie was trying to keep poor Brian calm while the werewolf was howling in the background.

“It’s okay, Ronnie, I’ve got things. Go and see what you can do for the other operation,” I said as I started down the road.

“Where are you?” Scepticism practically dripped from his voice.

“I’m on a mobile headset. I’ve got it, Ronnie.” 

“Alright,” He said, and disconnected. Ronnie may not know what I was up to, but he had more pressing matters.

“Okay, how are you holding up, Brian?” I made myself smile while I spoke, hoping it came across in my voice.

“It’s literally drooling on the shield.” Panic wasn’t far away for poor Brian. “And I think your guy is about to pass out.”

Ethan wasn’t holding out as long as I’d hoped, but there was no help for it. “That’s fine, just give the tail over to, what did you call her, Barbara? She can hold it until she’s about to go, and in the meantime, try to relax as much as you can. Tell the kids to rest too. The more rested you are the longer the circle will hold.”

“How can I relax when there’s a foaming werewolf literally five feet away from me?”

“Is he actually foaming?” I crossed my fingers for some good news.

“Yeah. Oh, god, is he rabid?” The pitch of Brian’s words rose.

“No, no. This is a good thing. It means he’s getting tired. He’ll attack the shield less if he’s tired and that means it will last longer. Besides, are you really worried about rabies? I think you have worse problems at the moment.”

The joke worked, startling him into a strangled laugh. “Yeah, I guess. Help is on the way, right?”

“As we speak,” I said, punching the gas a little harder. “So, tell me, Brian, what do you do for a living?”

“What? Why are you asking that now?”

“Because you sound a little stressed out and I thought a little idle chit-chat would help.” I laughed, because people don’t laugh if things are too serious. It helped a little more, because he laughed again, this time more normally.

“Yeah, I guess I’m kind of upset.” I heard giggling in the distance.

“What’s so funny?” I was genuinely curious.

“The werewolf is peeing.” Brian said flatly. “The boys think it’s funny. I have to say, I’m having problems appreciating the humor.”

“Meh, kids are weirdly resilient.” I sighed. “Their parent’s weren’t in the group that went down, were they?”

“No. They’re brothers, and their parents told them they had to go on this walk to commune with nature while Mommy and Daddy went to town to have a romantic evening. If we live through this I bet no one will ever complain about all the time they spend playing video games again.”

“Probably not. So back to the subject at hand, what do you do, Brian?”

“I work in retail. Nothing interesting.” I could hear his shrug. “What about you? Is this what you do all day?” 

“All night, but yeah. It’s not the best paying work, but it’s very rewarding.” I fought not to let him hear my impatience as I stopped for a red light. “Oddly good health benefits.”

“How’d you get into it?” 

I shook my head and smiled. “Nothing interesting about that. I’m a second generation Hunter, or I was until I had an accident. It took me out of field work and put me permanently on coms.”

He hesitated for a moment then asked, “What happened?”

I generally didn’t like talking about myself, but if that’s what he needed to hear right now, so be it. Besides, I set myself up for that question.

Hard Hunting
Pt 1     Pt 2     Pt 3     Pt 4     Pt 5     Pt 6     Pt 7     Pt 8    Pt 9    Pt 10     Pt 11     Pt 12     Pt 13     Pt 14     Pt 15      Pt 16     Pt 17     Pt 18    Pt 19     Pt 20     Pt 21     Pt 22

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James’s Note: This story is partially about tyranny. It’s also about when people have to fight back. Sometimes, though, it’s hard to figure out the right way to fight, and it’s not always the way you think.

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Israel dropped Dean, who would have been gasping if he needed to breathe at all. Cesar finally spoke up. “I think I can settle this. Want to come with me into the back room? I got something to show you.”

We followed Caesar through several other backstage type areas, until we finally came to a storage room. Dean made an excuse as soon as we left the VIP lounge and went in search of some space that didn’t contain Israel. The storage room was filled with pallets, which were filled with crates. Caesar hefted one easily and plunked it down on a table in the corner. He pried the lid off with his fingers, the nails making a screeching noise as they came loose from the wood. Out of it he lifted what looked like a Russian Surplus AK-47, and a box of rounds for it. 

Cesar tossed the bullets to me. “Have a look at those. They’re white phosphorus rounds. They call them dragon’s breath for a reason. Even Master vampires don’t shrug that shit off.”

He had a point. Those rounds are particularly nasty. They burned white hot, and even water wouldn’t put them out .

“And what makes you think you’ll be able to hit a master with even one of these things before he makes you eat the rest of the box?” I asked.

Cesar nodded over to a group of crates in the opposite corner. They were labeled, C-4: Danger High Explosives. There were a lot of them.

“Take out whatever building they’re in with enough explosives, and the fire damage is likely to knock them down enough pegs for us to get our hands on them. We’ve also got a few ideas I don’t plan on sharing with you. The point is, when we start taking down master vampires, you’ll know it.”

I sighed heavily. He had an excellent point. He also had a bloody arsenal, and every intention of starting a war in my city. 

Have I mentioned I don’t like vampires?

Israel showed every sign of developing a migraine. He rubbed the bridge of his nose looking like a man whose son has built a sandcastle in the living room by transporting the contents of his sandbox there one bucket at a time. 

“Caesar, you’re better than this. The kind of bloodshed you’re talking about unleashing, it’s not going to be good for anyone. Even if you win, and that’s a big if, there is still going to have to be some kind of government over the vampires. We can still do this peacefully. We build our government from the bottom up, and start edging the elders out naturally. By the time they realize they’re losing power, it’ll be too late. You’d probably even get a little bit of the bloodshed you seem to want so bad. It would just be too late for them to win.” Israel sounded like he would have been desperate, if he wasn’t just so tired.

Caesar crossed his arms over his huge chest. “You know I got a lot of respect for you, Israel, but you don’t understand the realities on the ground. You might not be a Methuselah, but you’re an elder in your own right. They hesitate before they start shit with you. Down here, our only view is the bottom of the boot treading on our face.”

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James’s Note: This is the start of a new feature for the Blog. This will be a series of articles about all the things I’ve learned on my journey as a writer. I’m by no means an authority, but hopefully you’ll at least enjoy hearing about what I’m learning along the way.

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(Tldr: If you’re going to put politics in your story, make sure that it is an organic part of the storyline, that the politics belong to your characters, not you, and try to be as nonspecific as possible. The broader the better.)

Everyone wants their story to have a message. That’s a wonderful thing. The problem is, when dealing with any kind of sensitive topic, like politics or religion or the like, it’s really easy to come off sounding like a pretentious, preachy jerk.

Well, here are a few ways to avoid annoying the crap out of your audience.

1. Make sure the issues belong in your story.

If you are writing a romance, issues about sexuality, morals and even race can make a lot of sense. Something like the right to bear arms or capitalism probably doesn’t.

Make sure you’re telling a story, not taking time out from the story to give a lecture.

2. Make sure the politics belong to your characters, not you.

No one cares about your opinion.

I know, that sounds harsh, but it’s true. Even if you’re a famous writer, the only people interested in your opinion are the people who already agree with you. You’re not changing anybody’s mind.

Now, what can change people’s minds, is a well-written story that introduces them to new ideas. 

If you’re going to talk about important issues, make sure you do it by having your character interact with those issues and showing their feelings.

There’s a ton of examples of this. Star Trek did it really well. But it was never Gene Roddenberry telling us what he believed. 

It was Kirk or Picard telling us about the values of the Federation. It was alien races presenting their philosophies which might be weirdly appropriate to modern day issues.

Same thing with 1984, or any other dystopian future novel, up to and including the Hunger Games.

They talk about the issues of their own world. If that happens to reflect our world, that’s for you to decide.

In my Witcher Man series, many of the characters make social, political, and philosophical statements. They talk about conformity, oppression, government, and morality.

Those aren’t necessarily my views, they belong to the character. If they happen to reflect my own view, well that’s for you to interpret too.

As my wife, Sharon Gray, has remarked, don’t stop the story to yell at your audience.

3. The Less Specific You Can Be, the Better.

In a lot of writing groups, I see amateur authors kicking around the idea of writing about 2020 and its elements.

I get where they’re coming from, but this is a terrible idea. If you write about very specific events, your writing will become dated pretty fast.

Just look at a lot of Stephen King’s novels. Some of them managed to be fun nostalgic 80s stuff, but a lot of them are just incomprehensible to anyone who either wasn’t alive at the time, or isn’t really well read on the time period he’s writing about.

Not that historical fiction isn’t a thing, but that event that is going on right now that you think is so important will probably be completely forgotten.

Take the Arab Spring. It was a huge event when I was a young adult, everyone talking about how it was going to change the world, or at least the face of the Middle East. It was on the news constantly and even featured a cool video of a guy running over people on a camel.

Now, I bet you’ll have to Google it to even know what I’m talking about.

So, if you want to write about current events, keep it broad to increase the appeal.

Don’t write about coronavirus, write about pandemics.

Don’t write about black lives matters, write about characters experiencing racism.

You absolutely should write about Murder Hornets. 

Murder Hornets are awesome and I’m still mad we skipped them in our 2020 apocalypse bingo.

If you do this part well, your writing will be surprisingly timeless.

In Discworld, Terry Pratchett talked about police, and how they should do their job. He even talked about how they handle riots and the like.

Now, I bet he had some specific riots from England in mind when he wrote that. But he didn’t talk about that, he just talked about what makes a good policeman.

 As a result, if I read you certain sections of his work, you would swear he wrote it today.

I’ve actually been experiencing a little of this with my story, Witcher Man and the Case of the Guillotine Society.

It features oppressive governments, civil unrest, the morality of rising up against tyranny, and even mentions giant killer hornets.

Sounds like 2020 right?

I wrote all those elements like four years ago.

But I wasn’t talking about current events, I was talking about real philosophical issues. 

And hornets.

That’s why certain parts of Mark Twain’s writing can be read today and sound like he was telling the future.

It’s because as long as you’re talking about the broad human experience, stuff really doesn’t change.

4. This last part is just my personal style, but I submit it for what it’s worth.

Outside of my stories, I try not to talk publicly about my personal political positions. At least not in any way that is tied to my platform as an author. Small as it is.

Some of that is because people really don’t care about my opinion. Waving a flag to indicate my position isn’t going to change anyone’s mind.

Some of it is because my work, hopefully, has a broad appeal to lots of people who may or may not agree with me politically.

Once, Michael Jordan was asked why he didn’t speak out more politically.

He said because both Republicans and Democrats buy his shoes.

Hopefully, I handle issues in my story fairly enough that my own political position isn’t just glaringly obvious.

Although, I do use some phrases, like the non-aggression principle, that if you Google them, will probably give away my position.

But that’s just me. Stephen King, Larry Correia, and a bunch of other writers sure like screaming about politics.

And they are a lot more successful than me, so what do I know. 

So, that’s one way to talk about politics in your stories. Not saying this is the only way to do it, but it ‘s certainly the way I prefer for authors to handle politics in the stories I read.

At the end of the day, write the story you want to read.

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Sharon’s note: The actual book this was supposed to be from starts when Molly is a teenager. It’s probably going to be a YA novel. I’ve got too many other projects going on right now, but I’m thinking for right now about doing some shorts about her and Kitty in her childhood. What do you guys think? Warning: Author has been looking at pictures of baby mountain lions and really wants to pet one.

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I ran to the hall closet to get Daddy’s kit. Seizing it by the handle I dragged it to the kitchen. It was big and heavy, but I was strong and determined to save the kitty. Maybe if we saved it, Daddy would let me keep it.

As Daddy started unloading the bucket, and I tugged his robe. “I’ll be the nurse!”

He bit his lip, then squatted down beside me. “This isn’t like when we fixed your bear, Baby. This will be really messy and a little scary. You can leave any time you want to, but make sure you really want to do this before we start.”

My heart swelled and I looked Daddy square in the eyes and swore, “I will stay with you the entire time and we will save the kitty.”

Daddy got to work. He cleaned and tucked and stitched and winced a lot. I was really queasy, it didn’t smell good, but I stayed and helped the entire time. I handed Daddy things, fetched him trash bags and some plastic razors from the bathroom, and petted the kitty’s head to calm him and let him know that we were there to help.

“It’s okay, Kitty, I’m going to save you,” I whispered in his ear. The ear twitched, the fur tickling my lips. I grinned up at Daddy. “He heard me.”

“Sure he did, Baby.” Daddy fastened the last bandage and stepped away from the counter. “Well that’s the best I can do for right now. George is supposed to be home tomorrow. If your kitty makes it through the night, I’ll have him come over to check him over.”

“He’ll make it.” I patted Daddy’s leg. “He wants to live. I’ll go make him a bed.”

“Molly,” Daddy hesitated, looking at Kitty who was just laying on the table and wheezing. “Baby, we can’t keep him.”

I seized his bathrobe, looking at him with wide eyes. “But Daddy, we have to! He came to us and we saved him.”

He squatted next to me again. “Baby, I know you want to keep him, and you were so brave today. I will talk to Mommy when she gets home about taking you to the shelter to pick one out, but we can’t keep this one.”

“Why not?” I stomped my foot.

“Mainly because I’m not sure it’s actually a cat.” Daddy looked at Kitty and licked his lips. “I think it’s a baby mountain lion.”

“Cool!” I bounced on my toes, then scrunched my face. “Wait, he’s mostly black. Mountain lions aren’t black.”

“Well, I think this one is. Besies, do you remember what I told you about our town?” Daddy stood up and tossed his gloves it the trash bag. 

“It’s a special town and the Woods are dangerous and that’s why we never go past the white stone ring.” I rolled my eyes. “What does that have to do with Kitty?”

“Like you said, Baby, he doesn’t look like a normal mountain lion. I think he’s from the woods. As soon as it looks like he’s going to live, we’ll call the wildlife rescue. They can take care of him until they can release him into the wild.”

“But . . . but . . .” I snuffled and clutched at Daddy’s robe. Then I had an idea. “We can’t send him away because we’re responsible for him.”

“What?”

“You told me that there are rules for dealing with the people in the Woods. That following the rules keep us safe.” Daddy raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything, so I continued. “Mommy read me a story that said that if you save someone’s life, you are responsible for them. It’s a rule. We have to follow it if we’re going to be safe.”

“Have to talk to your mother about what kind of bed time stories she’s reading you,” he mumbled. “I don’t know Baby. Your mom and I will have to talk about it.”

“Okay,” I said, rocking back and forth on my heels. Once Daddy said he had to ask Mommy, I always won. “I’ll just make the kitty a bed.”

“Yeah, sure.” Daddy looked down at his robe. “Look, I’m going to go take another shower. Go ahead and make him a bed, but don’t try to move the kitty on your own. Leave him on the table for right now.”

As Daddy left I leaned over the counter to whisper in Kitty’s ear again. “It’s okay if you’re magic. I know we’re still going to be best friends forever.”

I kissed the top of his head, and the Kitty’s eyes cracked open. They were the prettiest shade of gold. He purred once then closed his eyes again.

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Sharon’s Note: So, all my research says that prologues are a no-no. The story starts where it starts and that’s where you go from there, no skips. This is one of those rules that I dislike, but I’m willing to abide by. So, here’s the prologue from one of my books in the To-Be-Written pile. It’s broken up for release because it’s an entire chapter and we try to keep posts under a thousand words. Warning: Magic Pixie Dream Girl Main Character.

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There was no one to stop me. Mommy had to go to work early on Saturdays and Daddy was taking a shower so no one would complain if I got dirty. I had my brand new plastic bucket that Daddy had bought me, and had loaded it with a spade and a paint brush. All the essentials for digging up dinosaurs.

I smirked at my reflection in the window. Daddy had bought me an adventuring outfit. I had a plastic safari hat, khaki shorts, and a black tank top. I looked like Laura from the video games Daddy liked. The only thing that didn’t look right was that I had blond hair, and glasses. Daddy said that it was ok, because hair color didn’t matter and glasses made a girl look pretty like Mommy. He also said Laura probably had to wear glasses sometimes too. Laura was a tuff girl and adventurer. I was going to be too.

Armed for hunting dinosaurs in the dirt, I opened the back door and . . . there was something on the doormat. At first I couldn’t tell what it was. It was red and brown and black and furry where it wasn’t wet and smelled bad. It looked kind of like roadkill, but how did someone hit a kitty on our porch?

The mass of the doormat heaved and wheezed. All the bits and pieces pulled together in my head and when I finally saw the whole I tilted my head back and shrieked, “Daddy! Daddy, come quick! There’s a hurt kitty!”

Before I even finished yelling, Daddy came rocketing around the corner is his bathrobe. His hair was still wet and there was shaving cream under one of his ears. His eyes darted around for the threat as he skidded up to my side.

“Molly! What is it, baby?” He looked down at the poor kitty on the porch and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Yuck. I think it’s dead.”

“No, Daddy, I saw it breath. It’s hurt, Daddy and you have to fix it.” My Dad was a nurse. He worked in the ER and saved people’s lives all the time. I beamed up at him.

“Baby, it’s really hurt and in a lot of pain. . .” Daddy held his hands out in front of him. I grabbed them and jumped up and down. 

“That’s why it came here, Daddy. It knows you’re the best nurse in the entire world. You have to fix it, because it came to you for help.”

Daddy sighed heavily, letting his hands fall to his side while he looked at the cat. He bit his lip. “We can’t take him to the vet. George is out of town and the next one too far.”

“It’s ok, Daddy. I know you can do it.”

He wiped his hand across his face and pointed me to the hall closet. “Ok, baby. We’ll try. Go and grab the craft mat and put it on the kitchen table. I’ll bring in the kitty.”

I barely had the oil cloth in place before Daddy staggered in, carrying the cat, still on the mat. He mumbled under his breath, “Freaking big cat.”

“What else, Daddy?” I danced on my toes.

“Do you think you can carry my first aid kit?” Daddy’s first aid kit was specially assembled. It was everything a house could possibly need in a five gallon bucket. I nodded. “Go get it. I’ll call George.”

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James’s Note: I’ve been starting to dip into a little more fantasy, which of course is what this story is. I had the idea for this story while planning a table top role playing game with my wife. It’s definitely a different style than I’m used to writing but I think it turned out alright. Think of it as a little bit fairy tale, a little bit parable, and a little bit legend. Warning: Any resemblance to a certain tribe of horse mounted warriors from Game of Thrones is completely in your head and I won’t stand for this kind of slander.

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When I was born, my father was a Khan of the Golian horse tribes. In my first memory, he strangled a man with his bare hands. You see, the Khans did not rule by birthright, and only the strongest could lead. There was always some young warrior who thought he was stronger than my father. He made sure I was there for all his duels. I watched my father kill every challenger.

Because I was a girl, I could never be Khan. This never upset me. My father groomed me to be one of his generals. I was satisfied with that. Generals fight far less duels than Khans.

By my thirteenth year, I was taller than most of the men in our tribe. I was broad in the hip and chest, like my mother, but muscular like my father. I carried a two-handed scimitar in combat, even from my horse. From a gallup, I could swing it like a mowing scythe.

Just as I was almost old enough to ride with my father into battle, everything changed. An old witch woman had rode into our camp on a white mule. She told fortunes in exchange for food and precious things. A wise Khan always respects a fortune teller, and my father was never a fool. He gave her a golden necklace that he ripped from the neck of a desert king and invited her into his tent.

When he came out, he looked grave. Two days later, I sat in on my first Council fire. My father announced he was declaring war.

“With who?” asked his generals.

“Everyone,” he said.

We rode to war against every other tribe. After the first battle, my father shocked the tribe when he declared he was no longer Khan. He named himself King, and made a crown from the gold he took from the other Khans.

The Golian tribes had never had a King. We knew what they were. The lands we raided and sacked were often ruled by a king. The idea that a man should be above challenge and that his children should rule after him was foreign to us, but no one dared question my father.

Our warriors were strong and we were many. The other tribes fell before us. As we cut through the plains like a wildfire, the other Khans either bowed before my father or died. The tribes that wouldn’t join his new kingdom were slaughtered to the man. All their possessions were burned, save for the gold.

By the time I was a woman, my father was known by all as a King, and I was a princess. We were living in the palace my father took from a Ptomey trade prince when my brother was born.

The news ran through the palace like a fever. My brother had been born weak and stunted. His left arm was withered and he struggled to breathe. The midwife said the child should be put down, out of mercy. My father would hear none of it. The first man who suggested it got a broken jaw for his trouble. He picked up my brother, and cradled him in his arms. He named him Rasha, after a dead hero who could not be defeated in battle. The love in my father’s eyes was fierce and hard.

The next day my father took me for a ride. I knew what he wanted to tell me he had to be serious. It is said that anything important should be discussed from a horse.

My father told me that someday my brother would be King, but he would be King of a hard people. He said I would be my brother’s general and that he would need my strength. He didn’t ask me to love my brother, but he didn’t have to. I already did.

And so my brother grew up. He was plagued by bad airs and fluxes as an infant. He might have died before he learned to walk, but my mother loved him as fiercely as my father. She sent for a medicine woman from the mountain people she came from. The old woman they sent looked half a hag and half a twisted willow tree. She gave my brother poultices and willow tea for his fevers and herbal steams for his lungs. By the time he was five, he was as healthy as any boy, though still small and weak. She could do nothing for his withered arm.

When my brother began his training, father put him with one of his oldest warriors. The old man was merciless, but he was clever. He worked hard to make my brother strong. He also taught him how to fight stronger men. He taught him how to win.

By the time he was 13, my brother was a capable warrior. Not the best, but neither was he the worst. His teacher had trained him to exhaustion, and occasionally to collapse, but it worked. He learned to use a short one handed saber. He even studied the fencing styles of some of the coastal kingdoms. In their style, they fought with one arm behind their back. It didn’t matter that he only had one.

Of course he faced mocking from the other boys. When a giant of a boy tried to grab his withered arm, my brother’s foot flashed out and caught him in the crotch. Before he could recover, my brother slammed the elbow of his good arm into the boy’s face and rode him to the ground. He shattered the boy’s jaw and one eye socket before he was pulled off of him.

I was the only one who saw my father watching from his balcony. I was the only one who saw him smile.

On his 14th birthday my father presented my brother with a sword. When I saw it, my heart dropped into my stomach. It was beautiful, no doubt, sharp as a razor with a hilt decorated in gold and fine gemstones. The blade was long, almost as long as mine, with a handle too short for both hands. It was exactly the kind my father wielded. He famously mocked other men for not being able to swing it.

At first I thought he had given it to my brother by mistake. When I realized it wasn’t, I became so angry my vision went red. I could see the look of embarrassment and fear on my brother’s face. There was no way he could wield that. His good arm wasn’t strong enough, and he sure as all the hells couldn’t use his other one.

I spoke up to my father. I told him he was mistaken, that he should get my brother a sword more to his style. His hard look struck me silent.

He said his son was a prince and would wield a prince’s sword. Henceforth, he would use no other sword in training. I had to swallow my wrath. If it had been anyone but my father, I would have struck him to the ground. But I kept my silence.

My heart broke as I watched my brother struggle. His training had been going well. He wasn’t the best swordsman, but he was respectable. Now he struggled to even perform the most basic drills. I watched as he sweated and bled in the training yard, refusing to give up.

Finally, as my brother was struggling to use his new sword against a training post, my father strode into the training yard. He walked right up to my brother, and with his face as hard and passive as a marble statue, he demanded my brother give him the sword.

I could see the shame on my brother’s face as he handed it to my father. I looked on in shock as my father took this beautiful sword and, his huge muscles bulging, shattered it into over his knee.

My brother’s face was a mask of horror, until my father handed it back to him. What was left of the blade was the length of my brother’s arm and even where it had broken made a good cutting angle.

My father commanded my brother to continue training. To his credit, he did it without hesitation. With the sword lightened, it was no longer too heavy for him. A grin spread across his face as it flashed and danced in his hand, just like his fencing masters had shown him.

My father looked at everyone assembled, for a crowd had started to gather around. I will never forget what he said. 

“Just because a thing is broken does not mean it is not useful.”

My brother adored that sword for the rest of his life. When he finally became king, they called him King Rasha, the Shattered Sword. He made a good King. If a dual needed fighting, I fought it for him. I never lost in my brother’s name. This wouldn’t have worked for a khan, but it worked for a king.

On my father’s deathbed, he drew me close. He wanted to tell me a secret. Something he had never told anyone else in his entire life. He told me what the fortune-teller told him that night in his tent. It broke my heart that he couldn’t tell me from a horse.

She had told him that his son would be born crippled. That his son would never be Khan.

That is why he did what he did. That is why he changed our entire people and brought nations to their knees. He loved his son so much, before he was even born, that he forged a crown for him to wear.

They still tell stories about my father’s strength and ferocity. They even talk about his cruelty. But they know nothing of his love.

---

James’s Note: I got a chance to talk to Malcolm Campbell, Author of the fantastic true crime memoire, Callsign: Charlie One. This is his first self published novel and I wanted to ask him about the experience of self publishing. Later, I’ll be writing a review, which I am very excited to bring to you.

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Your book is self-published. Did you ever consider trying to get traditionally published and what made you decide to go with self-publishing?

Thanks James: I was taken on by a traditional publisher many years ago, which ended up closing and becoming hybrid for a book called “Culinary Magic.” 

On this occasion, I did not even attempt to contact an agent or a traditional publisher as my overwhelming feeling was to get this story into the world. 

I believe that my story is so unique, it stands strong on itself. It is now live on Amazon kindle and paperback breathing life into the true crime memoir genre, so my work is done.

Did you consider any other self publishing options first, or were you pretty sure you wanted to go with Amazon and KDP from the beginning? 

No, I did not consider any other platform but Amazon, it seems to be the number one place to get your book published and the process appeared straightforward and easy.

What was the main reason you went with Amazon?

It’s free and offers help formatting for paperback and kindle.

What did your editing process look like? Did you hire a professional editor? Did you use beta readers? What order was all of this in?

After my first draft, I sent three chapters to an editor who sent me back a highly polished great looking partial manuscript, which I was very pleased about. Then she sent me a contract for £1500.00. This was higher than i expected however i was prepared to pay to send out a great product. Once I had saved that amount, as a single father, I looked at my children, never having a holiday and decided to buy them a 24 day holiday with me in Thailand instead. 

Putting the book on hold, having doubts whether i would publish it due to unsettling truths i had revealed within the book and i was questioning myself “why” the need to tell this story was so great within me.

After three months of contemplation and motivation from my friends keen to read it, I decided to complete the 7th draft of self editing and premium editing software. Aware that this was perhaps not the best route, but felt the story was so strong and true it would act as a firm foundation for the book once grammar, punctuation, flow, style, voice and plot had been invested along with character development.

I sent it to three beta readers for feedback and this was appreciated.

However, even after this, i had a friend who still picked up a few corrections that were needed.

About how long did it take, from when you began your first draft, to book launch?

Well i had 19 years of thinking about doing it, then 15 months of writing, editing and proofreading until i was happy to launch. 

However, Amazon’s downloading template caused me a lot of layout issues as their automated system would space save and move around your approved upload after you had viewed it and pressed publish. Resulting in a book arriving in poor layout and formatting order. 

This was a nightmare and after phone calls to the US and still being unsatisfied, I employed a professional layout designer, who quickly made it look amazing and it is now available as I would like it.

Who designed your book cover? Talk about the process of having it designed, was there a back-and-forth process picking out the design, or did you design it yourself?

Amanda Jade designed it. She is an award winning designer who uses bold images and colours. We talked back and forth and she was excellent in every way. It was easy and professional with a two week turn around.

If you don’t mind talking about it, what were all the monetary costs leading up to your self publishing? How much did you spend on editing, cover design, and anything else that cost you out of pocket?

Sure so, editing £100.00, then editing software a further £60.00

Cover was around £150.00 but if i wanted the whole pack £235.00.

Beta readers free

Book trailer: £150.00 and i was so happy i gave him a £30.00 tip

Layout and formatting £53.00

Promotion and advertisement:

Book advertisement on book websites around 30 of them cost £30.00

Roku TV advert with my book trailer £35.00 for two years running

What went wrong along the way? What surprises did you run into?

Self doubt: Fighting this was my hardest barrier. Who would want to read it? Why? Why from me? Will it just sit in the Amazon graveyard of 30,000,000 books?

The truth: So hard to write a book that you will publish that is partly filled with regretful actions on behalf of the author. It took a lot of courage and deep soul searching to come to the conclusion that the reader deserved to hear the truth, no matter what.

Amazon’s template for paperback: Nightmare! Will I ever use it again? No!

What would you do differently in your next book?

My next book will be just as powerful, true and controversial where I am hoping my readers will respect my books for the undiluted truth about the topics I write about.

I might look at going traditional published for my next two books as I hold the belief that they are strong enough to secure an offer in the nonfiction field. But we shall see.

Any advice for someone looking to self publish?

If you have a book in you with a passion to complete the project then do it.

However, prepare yourself for an arduous journey, I have found writing the first draft only 10% the other 90% is what follows.

Self doubt is a tough one

Continuing to write when you don’t feel like it

Self discipline/removing and working through self doubt

Working self editing was enjoyable for myself, but tedious and eye opening

Plot, structure, character development, flow, voice, POV, beats and tempo of the story. Luckily my story was all true so it was clear to get it down into the first draft.

If you can afford an editor go for it, but you learn more by doing it yourself, albeit risky.

Hire a formatter and layout designer

Try to have an author friend who can support you along the journey. I was very lucky to find a dear friend and author who supported my doubts and encouraged me to push forward and I feel privileged to call her my friend: Joann Bailey.

Finally, it’s a learning curve, you’re going to make mistakes, it’s your first book, of course you will. Take it on the chin and use positive energy to move forward finding a way to overcome your barriers.

It’s a great feeling publishing a book. Last night I was interviewed for a one hour slot by a six times number one best selling true crime author who having read my book, introduced me as a “great writer” and said “it’s a great book.”

Never in my wildest dreams did I think someone as successful as he is, would ever say that about any book I ever write, let alone my first.

I am excited to see my book selling well and my personal messages congratulating me from readers that have read my book is heartwarming, so leave something behind before you die and a little part of you will remain eternal x

My Recommendations for learning to write:

Stephen King: On Writing

James Scott Bell: Plot and Structure

Brandylin Collins: Getting into Character

Annie Dillard: The Writing Life

William Zinsser: On Writing Well

Rick Bragg: All over but the shouting

Kelly Notaras: The Book you were born to write

Dr Wayne Dyre: The Power of Intention

Writers and Artist Yearbook 2020

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James’s Note: I love the idea of vampire nightclubs. It’s just a trope I never get tired of. I also love casting my character’s as different actors in my head. Caesar would definitely be a young Micheal Clark Duncan. I think Ryan Reynolds would make an awesome Witcher Man.

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In a show of proof that the universe is indeed kind and benevolent, our furtive conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the two vampires we had apparently come to see. One of them was huge. His head was cleanly shaven, and his skin was as black as the simple, sensible t-shirt and jeans he wore. He casually took up a position leaning against the wall. The other was an almost total contrast. His skin was fashionably vampire pale, his black hair tied up in a man bun he no doubt thought made him look like a samurai, but it made him look more like a soccer mom. The fact that his vintage leather bomber jacket looked uncomfortably like mine was making me question my fashion choices.

Israel nodded to the lighter, and indeed smaller, of the two. “Thanks for seeing us, Dean. This is my friend, Daniel. He just wants to ask you a few questions about Elder Morgaine’s death.”

I noticed as Israel spoke, he watched Dean’s face carefully. Apparently I wasn’t the only one interested in what Dean’s reaction to this news might be.

His reaction, as it turned out, was to light up like a kid on Christmas. ”Wait, wait, wait, you’re telling me Conchobar is dead? Someone actually managed to off that worm-eaten old rot bag? Hot Damn!” 

He clapped his hands together triumphantly.

“This calls for a celebration. Jewel, tell the bartender to give everyone a round on the house.” Dean motioned to the red-headed bartender. She nodded professionally and disappeared into the back. 

Dean turned back to me grinning. He was showing fang, which is usually either a sign of over-excitement, or just a younger vampire who’s not learned how to control his bodily functions yet. “So, who did it? I want to send him a bottle of scotch, or a hooker, or a hooker carrying a bottle of Scotch. Whatever’s his preference.”

“They think we did it, or they wouldn’t be here” The vampire pushed away from the wall. His voice was deep and resonant, which matched his aesthetic perfectly. This guy might be young too, but he was already working on that vampiric class.

The look of shock on Dean’s face was transparent. “You think we offed the old bastard?” 

He actually snorted. “I mean we would have, but we never got the opportunity. Someone beat us to it.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m pretty sure you guys couldn’t take out someone like Conchobar. He’s a little out of your league. But someone sure wanted me to think it was you and I’d like to know why.”

Dean’s eyes hardened suddenly. Oh great, I was dealing with a hot head. “Look here, blood bag. You think we couldn’t whack a master? One day soon the revolution’s going to start, and then the blood of the masters is going to fill the streets.”

He was trying to intimidate me. He took a step forward and tried unsuccessfully to loom. I crooked an eyebrow and didn’t even get up from the couch. “Good luck with that whole revolution thing, but if you had tried to take on a vampire like Conchobar, the only blood would have been the blood he wiped off his mouth after he was done with you.”

Several things happened all at once. Dean lunged forward no doubt intending to seize me in a show of vampiric might. He was fast, but I saw the move telegraphed way ahead. It doesn’t matter if your opponent is faster than you if you start the race before they get in their car to drive to the track. Besides, he was vampire fast, not master vampire fast.

I had my hand on my revolver, prepared to introduce Dean to a type of bullet of my own invention, but I never got the chance to finish pulling it. In a blur of motion far too fast for the eye to see, Israel had risen from the couch, struck Dean like a thunderbolt in a reasonably priced suit, and had him pinned up against the wall by the neck with one hand. Dean was struggling, but Israel was barely exerting himself.

Israel’s expression was cool and exhausted. “Dean, I’m going to explain this to you again. The non-aggression principle states that we only use violence to prevent violence. Touching a human who back talks you is a No-No. Your use of force, justifies my use of force.”

His eyes went steely for just a second. “So calm the fuck down before I rip your goddamn head off.”

Dean’s eyes were wide with fear as he nodded. The other vampire, who I would later learn was named Caesar, hadn’t moved from the wall he was leaning against. Apparently Dean getting strangled wasn’t a cause for concern. I could understand that.

---

Sharon’s Note: There’s a corruption of an old Irish proverb that I love. “A lady accepts the things she cannot change, and changes the things she cannot accept.” I try to live by this. No, you can’t fix everything and sometimes you will fail, but if you can’t accept the way things are, you at least need to be able to say you tried. Warning: Author is on her soap box . . . again.

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On my way to the armory I grabbed a cart. Leaning on the cart took some weight off my legs and stress off my back. I didn’t want to admit how much easier it made things. I swore under my breath as I came to keypad protected room where we kept most of our supples. Seth had positioned his chair in front of the door, waiting for me with a raised eyebrow and a stern look.

I swallowed hard. “Move, Seth.”

“You know how I knew you were going to be here?”

I slammed my hand on the edge of the cart. “Damn it, time is life here.”

He plowed right ahead, not listening to a word I said. “I knew you’d be here because you’re a Hunter, which means you are a stubborn idiot who doesn’t know when to let something go. I will get out of your way if, and only if, you promise me you have a plan and are not going out there just to die.” 

I ran a hand through my hair. “I have something like a plan. Look, I promise I’m not planning on dying tonight, but what’s left of my team is out there. They’re dying and no one else is coming. I can’t just leave them there. So . . . either get out of my way or or I clock you outside of the head and leave your unconscious ass inside the vault for someone to find later.”

Seth shook his head, laughed bitterly, and moved his chair to the side. “Go on. You’re being stupid, but that’s part of being a Hunter. Hell, if I wasn’t needed here I’d be loading up with you, so I’m stuipid too. If I don’t see you again, I’m proud of you.”

“I . . . Seth . . . Thank you. That . . . that means a lot to me.” I turned away from my mentor and punched the code in the door. He started back down the hall towards the insanity that was the bullpen. I should have said something more, but I couldn’t. If it was true that girls were better about talking about their feelings, you couldn’t prove it by me. Besides, seconds counted, and Seth knew that. 

I started loading supplies onto my cart. While I snagged a few special goodies, I kept my pickings light. Anything I brough, I would have to move, and I wouldn’t have the cart.  I brought my favorite rifle, some silver ammo for it, and some of our more expensive magical medical supplies for my team. I also grabbed one of the portable radio headsets. 

As I was just about to take the cart out the door and into the parking lot, I stopped. Frank was walking out of the bathroom and stopped.

“When I heard what was going on with your team, I figured you’d do this.” His voice was low and his smile was sympathetic. 

I clenched my fists and teeth before I forced myself to relax. “Frank, I need your help . . .”

“I knew you were going to ask.” He slammed his remaining hand against the wall. “Damn it! I can’t Joy, I just can’t. I know you think I’m weak, and maybe I am, but if I go with you I’m going to get you and your team killed. I’m a nervous wreck and the only place I’m any good to anyone right now is here. It’s pathetic and I’m sorry but that’s the way it is.”

Frank wouldn’t look up from the floor and his shoulders were trembling. There was such shame on his face that it took away a lot of my loathing for the man. Whatever disgust I felt towards him, his was a hundred times worse. 

I shook my head and chuckled humorlessly. “I was just going to ask you to open the door so I can get this outside.”

“Oh.” Surprise made him look up, but his sheepish smile didn’t completely cover his sadness. “Yeah, that I can do.”

He held the door open for me, and even helped me load up my car. Before he took the cart back in for me he mumbled, “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” I said, and closed my door.

Hard Hunting
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