Gatekeeping Through Editing By Sean R. Frazier (@TheCleftonTwain)

I’ve seen a fair amount of gatekeeping and author shaming going on around the writing community lately and it’s made me a bit angry. Much of it has come from editors and has been directed at self-published authors.

 Now I fully understand the value of a good editor. Editors work hard and deserve to get paid just like anyone else who does a job. They provide a valuable service and can make a book shine in ways we never imagined.

 I’m not going to lie, many of them are also really expensive. What they do is time-consuming and takes knowledge and skill so, yeah, they should absolutely charge what they’re worth. But what if you can’t afford an editor? Should you not be allowed to self-publish your book?

 Well, the obvious answer to that is “you should always be allowed to self-publish your book.” Don’t ever let anyone tell you differently. The gatekeeping and author-shaming floating around out there needs to be addressed, because it’s sending out a pretty terrible, elitist message.

 Sadly, much of it comes from the very editors who want you to hire them and this seems like the absolute worst sales pitch imaginable. I’ve seen at least one say a writer should expect to go into debt to hire their services and that it’s 100% worth it. I’ve seen other tell authors not to bother publishing if they don’t hire an editor, and that their work will be “garbage.”

 This is all false. The only worth to take away from these people is now you know to avoid them. They’re gatekeeping solely to sell their services to you. Telling you your hard work is garbage unless you hire them is essentially being a bully.

 And, yes, you totally can and should self-publish even if you haven’t hired an editor. For one, beta readers can sometimes help you with editing in simple ways if you find the right betas. You can also hire a proofreader for a whole lot less than a full-blown editor. Proofreaders will look for grammar and spelling mistakes but usually won’t go in depth into the story and point out inconsistencies or things that didn’t work. But betas will often do this for you.

 Tools like Grammarly or even just a word processor’s spell/grammar check functions help a whole lot. They may not be a replacement for an editor but they are accessible to everyone and work well.

 Some authors are excellent self-editors and can do all the heavy-lifting themselves. I find this to be the rarest of circumstances but these authors do exist.

I, in fact, published my first book—The Call of Chaos—without having hired an editor. My betas were thorough and I combed through it many times. It did still have some typos and errors that a couple of readers noticed, so I made the decision to pull it and find the money for a proofreader before I re-published it.

But only two readers apparently even noticed the problems, let alone cared about them. And, for the record, I’ve seen errors in just about every traditionally published book I’ve read.

 No matter your skill level, it always helps to have a few other sets of eyes on your manuscript, helping you polish it up—betas, friends, an editor, whatever. But you should never take the advice of someone who tells you to go into debt just to hire them. It’s ridiculous. Even the best-edited book has very little chance of making several thousand dollars in profits.

 In the end, your book is YOUR book. If you want to publish it, you should never be prohibited from doing so based on a lack of an editor. In the end, the readers can decide the quality of the book, edited or no.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Sean R. Frazier on Twitter @TheCleftonTwain.

The Joy of Eating By Alex Noonan (@lx_borden)

I was 28 when I discovered that I had an eating disorder. It happened inconsequentially and without much ado. I Googled something, there was a small “click” inside my brain, and then my life changed.

If you ask my family, I’ve always been a “picky eater,” but that explanation was never satisfying to me. For me, “picky eater” implies choice, and I’ve never felt as though I had that. But, I was also never able to develop another succinct way to describe what I was actually experiencing.

I could only use mouthfuls of words, like, “I avoid going to friends’ houses for meals and parties where they’ll serve food.” Or, “I need the name of the restaurant. I have to check the menu before we go.” Or, “I’ve eaten the exact same foods every single day for years, and I dissociate while I eat to avoid getting sick of anything.” 

It was a feeling, more than anything, and nobody really knows what to do about those. Nor do many people have the patience to hear about them. So for a very long time, I simply ignored the problem and worked around it.

Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder is relatively new to the DSM-5 and used to be called “Selective Eating Disorder.” It primarily affects children, presumably because now, children can be treated for it and avoid carrying it into adulthood. And it’s characterized by what is essentially any number of food anxieties. 

We’re worrying if the food was prepared correctly, if we’re going to choke on our food, if we’ll get sick from the food, or have an allergic reaction. We agonize over what a menu will be like and what we’ll do if we can’t find food whose texture, appearance, smell, and flavor all align with our very specific and narrow tastes. We have lists of safe foods and lists of “danger” foods. We have panic attacks over the mere thought of eating certain things.

And many of us do not want to live under the control of ARFID. We do not want to pick the restaurant all the time or to avoid them altogether. We want to go to a birthday party, or a cookout, or a first date, and not be concerned about whether there will be food we can eat. We want the thrill of trying a new food we’ve never tried before on vacation. We want to let it all go and enjoy eating.

For my entire life, I have avoided food as much as possible without starving. Feeding myself was a chore, a task that one must accomplish at regular intervals. I would often be frustrated that health science hadn’t progressed to the point where I could simply take a pill and be done with eating for the day. The only foods I ever really took pleasure in eating were baked goods and sweets.

I didn’t understand this almost sacred devotion to food that I would see in media or in other people I knew; I found the concept fascinating and alien. From a young age, I would watch cooking shows like Emeril Live, Rachel Ray, Good Eats, and Unwrapped. Later it became shows such as Hell’s Kitchen, Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives, Chopped, Worth It, and Parts Unknown. 

I watched like an anthropologist, at times trying to imagine how the dishes smelled and tasted. Once, when I was in high school, I watched a marathon of Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives and made a list of all the meals Guy ate that sounded like they’d be tasty. It made my mouth water. But I made no move to actually attempt to eat any of it

Then at 28, I started to meet with Dr. Moss, a dietitian. She confirmed the diagnosis I had discovered for myself by mistake. And for the first time, someone asked me a lot about how food made me feel, and I told her: bad. 

I told her about my childhood experiences, of friends’ mothers who wouldn’t let me sleepover. And about my parents making me sit at the dinner table all night when I wouldn’t eat what they served. I told her about the embarrassment of being a teen and young adult who can’t explain why they mostly eat chicken nuggets, even at Olive Garden. I told her I wanted to travel, or maybe be a vegetarian, but those things and so much more felt entirely out of my grasp.

I felt trapped by rules my body was making without me, and I was starting to lose interest in my small roster of “safe” foods. Every night before dinner, I was having emotional meltdowns over the prospect of having to eat yet again. I wanted to understand the joy of eating. I wanted to feel like less of a burden to everyone around me, but I was also terrified of what would happen to me if ARFID took my good foods away from me, too. I wanted to know why I was like this, but more importantly that I could change.

I took small steps, utilizing talk sessions with Dr. Moss and exposure therapy to “danger” foods--mostly vegetables--and slowly, I saw a change. Some of my fear began to drop away. Then the panic attacks before meals subsided. After over a year of meeting regularly, I began to see significant shifts. I was not only unafraid, I started feeling bold. Adventurous, even.

One day, I got an ad on TikTok for HelloFresh, the meal kit delivery service that probably all your favorite podcasts advertise. I’m not sure why this HelloFresh ad was so different than all the others I’d seen, but this one hit me hard.

This service would give me a list of meal options I could choose from every week, removing the anxiety I would get around deciding what to make for myself. They would deliver the ingredients for these meals weekly, so I wouldn’t need to determine a week’s worth of meals before going to the grocery store. I could select meals with foods I wanted to try in them. Because I would only get enough ingredients to make two servings, I wouldn’t have to worry about wasting a large amount of food if I didn’t like it (or couldn’t go through with eating it).

I would get to maintain complete control over every aspect of the meal, from selection to cooking to assembly, down to what on the plate I put into my mouth. I took the discount code and downloaded the HelloFresh app to order my first set of meals. 

When I explained my plan to Dr. Moss the next time we met, her eyes went wide, and my heart fell. Oh no, I thought, maybe it’s too much.

“That…” she started slowly, “...is a really incredible idea.”

My first box arrived six months ago with four meals, two servings each. Preparing to make the first meal made me feel like I was on my own Emeril Live, despite never having cooked something that didn’t come frozen. 

I got to use kitchen utensils I hadn’t previously known the name of and was surprised to see that I owned them. The recipe card instructed me to “pick fronds of dill,” and I had to Google what that meant--I understood fronds in theory but not in practice. I had to YouTube “how to mince.” Then, later, I had to look up, “is it true spaghetti sticks to the wall when it’s done” (no). But that night, I ate something I made from scratch, containing several things I would not have typically eaten, and it was delicious.

I was downright giddy. My partner high-fived me. The following night for dinner, I felt untouchable, like I had cracked the secret to life when I repeated the process. By night three, I found myself sagely nodding as I ate, finally understanding the reason why there is not a pill you can take to be full all day. I could see why people would not only tolerate but even enjoy eating. I was enjoying eating.

On night four, I decided to push myself and tried some broccoli. It was probably the world’s smallest piece of broccoli, but I cooked it, willingly placed it on my plate, and knowingly put it into my mouth. When I swallowed it, I almost cried with joy. It tasted so… green. And I didn’t throw it up! I didn’t take another piece, but I felt like I could have, and that in itself was such a delicious victory.

I felt so damn happy.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Alex Noonan on Twitter @lx_borden.

Keeping Up Appearances By Tangela Williams-Spann (@Twillspann)

I knew when I woke up, the day was going to be an issue. 

I knew I was headed toward a depressive episode. My energy had been changing over the past few days and I could feel my plane beginning to descend. However, I knew what was on the agenda and I had to be in front of people for a few hours. I steeled myself for the day ahead of me.  

As I moved through the world that morning, I was met with smiling faces and pleasant voices.

“Happy Mother’s Day, Tangie!”

“Hey, you too.” 

My mask of false happiness was firmly in place. Pretending to be just like everyone else was a skill I’ve perfected over the years. I was somewhat prepared for this. I went along giving pleasantries and false smiles as much as I could until my strength gave out. After a couple of hours of watching families celebrating their matriarchs, I couldn’t be bothered to maintain appearances anymore. I fast-walked back to my car and choked down sobs until I got home.

Mother’s Day happens regularly. My mother, who is amazing, was ready and I exchanged gifts with her the day before. It’s one of those days that people can plan for and prepare themselves accordingly

Some people anyway. 

My husband and son had opted to be unprepared. 

I told them that I was wasn’t mad; that I hadn’t expected much from them anyway. Which was only a half-truth. I was expecting nothing and that was what I received. Shouldn’t have been a big deal. Normally, it wouldn’t have been, but my mood was bottoming.

Clinical depression is one of the most common mental illnesses. More than 3 million cases are diagnosed in the U.S. every year. It comes in a variety of forms and can be aggravated even more by life’s circumstances. You might already hate yourself when the seasons decide to change. Now, it’s a struggle to leave your bedroom for 3-6 months. Depression makes you question your ability to behave as a functioning human being. Toss a newborn into the mix, and you shut down when you realize that you are responsible for keeping this tiny human alive when you were having trouble doing that for yourself. 

It isn’t to be confused with normal sadness. Your cat might run away. You get a flat tire on the way to work. Your boss is a jerk. Things happen and can get you down. However, the difference comes in how long you remain in your sadness. You must remain in the same headspace most of the time for at least two weeks to be considered depressed. Depressive episodes can last for weeks, months, or years at a time. Usually, being retriggered by life’s events. 

Another tricky thing about depression is that it presents in many ways. Most people would recognize the overwhelming sadness as depression, but it looks different for everyone. Certain people stop caring about things that they love. Others might stop eating or taking care of themselves. Additional symptoms of depression include:

• Irritability

• Feelings of guilt, worthlessness, or helplessness

• Decreased Energy or Fatigue

• Difficulty concentrating or making decisions

• Difficulty sleeping or sleeping too much

• Restlessness

• Aches or pains, headaches, cramps, or digestive problems without a clear physical cause and/or that do not ease even with treatment

• Increase or decrease in appetite

• Thoughts of death or suicide

If you notice any of these symptoms persisting for two weeks or longer, please contact a medical professional. There are a variety of treatments available depending on the severity of your depression. Especially, if you are thinking about suicide. That is a very final solution to a temporary problem. Please seek help if you are having thoughts of suicide or self-harm. There are a plethora of helplines with trained people to listen to your concerns. 

I’ve sought treatment for my depression for years and I can say that it is mostly under control. The combination of talk therapy and medication helps me to get through most days. Despite this, I’m still human and I still have rough times. There are days when I hate myself. Days that I want nothing more than to stay locked in my bedroom and I forget to eat. 

There are days when I can’t put up the fight to remain happy and I sink into self-loathing. I call this condition “bottoming” and due to my years of tracking my habits, I can tell when it happens. I also have a plan to tackle it. I created a self-care plan for myself when the world becomes too much. 

I am prepared and as a result, I know what I need to do for myself.

Before I get to the “don’t look at me ever again” phase, I have a heated blanket at my desk that I can become a burrito with. I keep an emergency supply of hot chocolate over my stove. I have video games and movies readily available when I don’t think staying alive is worth the trouble. In my case, distraction is the name of the game. I must keep myself out of my head to survive.

After my teary drive home, I prepared myself some hot chocolate and made a delivery order for a dozen chocolate chip cookies. I picked out a book from my shelf and wrapped myself up in my heated blanket. If no one else was going to make me a priority, I guess I would have to. 

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Tangela Williams-Spann on Twitter @Twillspann.

THE DEAD WARS: Escaping Punishment in 17th Century FRANCE By M. Andrew Faraday (@DeuxLips)

The Prologue

Charles II has just lost the battle of Worcester. He can’t flee to Scotland because Cromwell’s forces have cut him off. He flees to France instead. Mazarin, the head of the French government, wants to secure Charles because of the many Royalist sympathizers who support him and his claim to the English throne. Mazarin sends out his French special forces, called the Archangels to reach Charles before Cromwell gets to him first.

One member of Mazarin’s special forces named Ariel secures Charles, but Cromwell’s naval fleet in the Caribbean discovers the nucleus of a zombie army that they then deploy to France to destroy Charles and his Royalist sympathizers.

The Lord Protector and the Spy

“Major-General Lambert we have decoded the message from our spy in France.” Major-General Skippon said, handing the deciphered letter to Lambert.

“Come with me as I take this to the Lord Protector.”

“Lord Protector, our spy’s message in France has been deciphered.” Lambert said entering the large audience chamber.

“Read it.” Cromwell, The Lord Protector commanded.

“Nicolas Fouquet  

Louvre Fortress, Christmas Day 1654

To Your Highness, Lord Protector of England, Scotland and Ireland,

Your floatilla successfully landed and deployed your undead agents in France at Le Havre. The rumor is Charles is under the protection of Marshal Currie’s platoon and is barricaded in Rouen Cathedral because a large infected horde of walking dead prevents them from returning to the safety of Paris. The Principal Minister Mazarin is preparing a large force to send to rescue them. You should deploy a force as soon as possible to reach Currie and Charles before Mazarin’s force gets to them first. It has been snowing heavily here and the Winter storm will slow the rescue effort. Also Marshal Turenne and Prince Louis, the Duc de Bourbon have defeated Mercy at Nordlingen and are expected to be heading back to Paris. You need to hurry lest Turenne’s and the Duc’s forces join up with Mazarin’s rescue force and Marshal Currie’s force and together you will have no chance of destroying Charles.” 

Nic.Fouquet

“Have three warships with marines sent out to cross the Channel and instruct them to storm Rouen Cathedral and blow it to pieces with the ships cannons. You must pick the right people to get the job done!” Cromwell said to his major-generals Fleetwood, Skippon and Lambert.

“Charles is a traitor like his father. He took up arms against the good citizens of England. We will get to Charles before Mazarin’s rescue mission!” Lambert said.

“Lord Protector, one of our spies from France has just arrived to see you.” Major-General Fleetwood said.

“Send him in.” Cromwell said.

“My Lord Protector, I saw the traitorous Charles II arrive in France. He is being protected by a French assassin named Ariel. It was she who killed two of our agents and delivered Charles to Marshal Currie.” Peregrine, the English spy said.

“Show me where on the map this happened.” Cromwell said.

“Here Lord Protector, at Le Havre.” Peregrine said.

“The spy here says he is protected by a French assassin. What are your recommendations?” Cromwell asked his Major-Generals.

“Who is the French assassin?” Charles Fleetwood asked.

“She calls herself Ariel.” Peregrine said.

“Special forces.” John Lambert said.

“Yes. All the French special forces are named after Archangels.” Fleetwood said.

“She is tough. We need more men.” Peregrine said.

“Are you all in agreement, major-generals?” Cromwell asked.

“Mazarin will deploy a full regiment to rescue Charles and Marshal Currie’s platoon and take the road to Paris.” Lambert said.

“Lambert is right. If the Seine river is frozen and my sources tell me it is they will take the road to Paris from Rouen. Otherwise the French would have transferred Charles to a ship and sailed him from Le Havre to Paris. Our only chance is to stop Charles and the assassin is at Rouen.” Fleetwood said.

“Especially before Turenne and the Duc de Bourbon arrive back in France with their large armies.” Skippon said.

“Is it at all possible that Charles will not take the road to Paris and instead take some long circuitous detour to Paris?” Cromwell asked.

“Possible Lord Protector but not very likely. The Rouen road to Paris is easier for a large regiment of soldiers to travel by.” Peregrine said.

Arrival of the Zombies to France

Cromwell’s flotilla crossed the Channel overnight and arrived at the French coast early in the morning hours while it was still dark. The English captain of the flotilla signaled his English watchman ashore with three raised lanterns. The English watchmen replied in kind.

Approaching the ships the four English watchmen on reconnaissance patrol under Corporal Peters noticed sixty-six cages with a  few persons inside each of the cages on the barges.

“Say what’s this Captain? Are you delivering prisoners?” Corporal Peters asked.

“Lord Cromwell is going to use terror tactics to beat Charles and his royalist sympathizers.” Captain Bryce-Sully said coming down from his ship.

“They look sick.” Corporal Peters said pointing to the men in the cages.

“Help me get them out of the cages!” Captain Bryce-Sully ordered his sailors.

“Corporal it would be best for you and your men to stay well back. Maybe leaving the area would be best.” Bryce-Sully said.

Corporal Peters moved his squad back some distance but still close enough to watch what was going on.

The sailors pulled the long iron rods away which were holding the cage doors locked. As the cages opened the sailors dropped the iron rods and ran quickly back to the ships as if in terror. Once all cages were opened Captain Bryce-Sully gave the order to sail away back to England.

Corporal Peters noticed the sick prisoners all started running in all different directions. There was something about the haste Captain Bryce-Sully was leaving in that frightened him. He led his squad back to the safehouse.

The Cathedral

“I hear rifle fire. It is coming from Rouen Cathedral.” Charles said.

“That is where we are going. My orders are to deliver you to Marshal Currie and his platoon at Rouen Cathedral.” Ariel said.

As Ariel and Charles got closer to the fighting they could see Currie’s soldiers she was to make contact with.

“Stay low and stick close to me. We are going into the Cathedral.” Ariel said.

Using cover around the perimeter of the Cathedral Ariel and Charles managed to reach Currie's post.

“We are here to see Marshal Currie. I am Ariel. I am the contact. Here is the package.” Ariel said to a posted sentry.

“Follow me closely and step where I step and I will take you to see Marshal Currie.” The sentry said.

Ariel and Charles followed the sentry’s command and looking around at the fighting up close it appeared the regiment was fighting against civilians many times their number.

“Marshal Currie, sir, the package has arrived, sir.” The sentry said saluting.

“Ariel you are right on time and what a hell of a time you picked.” Currie said.

“It is good to see you too Marshal. I’d like you to meet His Majesty Charles the Second, King of England, Scotland and Ireland.” Ariel said.

“I am honored. It was tragic what happened to your father. What happened at Worcester?” Currie asked.

“Thank you Marshal. The key to the defeat at the battle of Worcester was when Essex’s men captured Fort Royal and turned the Royalist cannons to fire on the city, and how Thomas Wentworth, the Earl of Cleveland persuaded me to escape by St. Martin’s gate whilst he led a Royalist cavalry charge as a diversion.” Charles said.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Ariel asked.

“Sit down both of you. We were expecting Cromwell would give battle between here and Paris. Once your majesty is in Paris Cromwell can’t touch you because you will be safe in the Louvre Fortress with many royalist sympathizers. My men expected this skirmish. At first there were a dozen English marines against us. Then some strange, sick civilians started to attack them as well as us. They carried no weapons. They just started to bite and tried to eat the soldiers. We wasted a good deal of ammunition on them. It seems one has to fire at or bash their heads or blow them up to pieces to kill them. After a while we were fighting twice as many infected civilians as we were the English because those that got bitten, even a few of our own soldiers became infected and started trying to cannibalize their fellow men at arms. It is The Devil’s business. Fortunately I feel we have now the situation under control, however with the snowstorm and how deep the snow is, we would be slowed down and in an exposed position. I cannot take Charles to Paris today. We will have to barricade ourselves in here and wait out the storm.” Currie said.

“Does Paris know to send you reinforcements?” Ariel asked.

“No.” Currie said.

“It is 70 miles to Paris. I can go and tell Mazarin to send help.” Ariel said.

“This Cathedral keeps ski and snowshoe equipment in the Winter for their parishioners. I will give you two of my men to go with you.” Currie said.

“Thank you.” Ariel said.

“I need two volunteers?” Currie asked.

Two soldiers raised their hands, Pierre and Jean-Marc.

“Do both of you know how to ski?” Ariel asked.

“Yes.” They both said.

“Let’s go. It will take us about eight hours to reach Paris. It will be dusk as we arrive. We are going to ski back to Le Havre and get to the Seine. We then will ski on the river as it is frozen over to Paris. Here take some of these.” Ariel said.

“Grenades! These will come in handy.” Pierre said smiling.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Jean-Marc said.

Ariel nodded to Marshal Currie that they were ready.

“Open the doors and let them through.” Currie ordered.

The large ornate doors of Rouen Cathedral were opened.

“Good luck!” Charles yelled.

As the doors shut behind them there was heard immediately the sounds of grenades going off in rapid succession.

“Bon chance Archangel.” Currie said.

Once Ariel, Jean-Marc and Pierre reached the harbor at Le Havre and the frozen mouth of the Seine river they made faster time but many more hundreds of the zombie horde were chasing after them. However zombies could not get traction on the iced over river and more often than not slid off their feet and onto their faces. Ariel, Pierre and Jean-Marc treated them as skiers on a slalom course by just skiing around them.

“I see Notre Dame!” Pierre said.

“We’re almost there.” Jean-Marc said.

The Battle for the Louvre

The trio reached Paris very tired and hungry. They headed for the Louvre, a fortress converted into a palace, and where the Ministry of State, Defense and Intelligence was located, and also where the young and as yet uncrowned French king to be Louis XIV and his mother Queen Anne lived. 

There was a small bakery near the Louvre and it was open. There Ariel bought pastries, sweets and coffee and shared these with Pierre and Jean-Marc. What they did not finish eating they filled Ariel’s satchel which was now nearly empty of grenades and ammunition.

At the Louvre fortress the three checked in with the guards on duty. Most knew Ariel already. They were allowed to proceed with an armed escort to the Ministry of Defense where Armand-Jean, Secretary of Defence greeted them.

“Ariel, Marshal Currie never returned with the English heir. Charles” Armand-Jean said puzzled.

“Marshal Currie is barricaded in Rouen Cathedral with the English heir Charles who I delivered to him. We have to deploy a rescue mission immediately as Currie has almost no ammunition, no food, and has lost more than half of his men.” Ariel said, barely able to stand any longer.

“Come sit down all of you over here.” Armand-Jean waving them to a large table with many chairs.

“Bring wine, bread and meat at once.” Armand-Jean said to a guard as he poured large glasses of Cognac for Ariel, Pierre and Jean-Marc.

“Do you know which English General has Marshal Currie surrounded?” Armand-Jean asked.

“No English army. Cromwell has used a biological weapon. A flotilla landed from England with infected individuals who infected our citizens. The infection causes madness and cannibalism. Cromwell has resorted to terror tactics.” Ariel said after she drained the glass of cognac.

“Bring me the Principal Minister at once. Tell him it is urgent.” Armand-Jean ordered a guard nearby.

“It has not reached Paris but the infected horde grows.” Ariel said.

“The zombie army.” Jean-Marc said.

By this time Mazarin, the Principal Minister and head of the government had entered the room.

“It has reached the outskirts of Paris. The terror has reached Paris just not yet the Louvre. The residents of the outskirts of the city are rushing here now. All of you follow me to the roof now.” Mazarin commanded.

They all climbed up the stairs to the roof of the Louvre fortress as dusk was turning to night.

“Because of the snowstorm it will take these creatures longer to reach us but it is only a matter of time.” Mazarin said.

“Astonishing the chaos going on at the outskirts of the city.” Ariel said looking through a spyglass.

Jean-Marc told Mazarin and Armand-Jean what he witnessed while stationed in the Caribbean and of Cromwell’s quest to create a zombie army.

“I was stationed in the Caribbean. Once Cromwell had sent an expedition fleet but we defeated it. Only later we learned that Cromwell’s men were interested in some ancient beliefs and wanted assistance to create a zombie army. His fleet captured Jamaica but it was a diversion and not the real purpose why they were there.” Jean-Marc said.

“Zombies?” Mazarin asked incredulously.

“Yes, that is the native term for them. They are the dead who feast on the living and recreating more living dead.” Jean-Marc said.

“Cromwell really has sided with the Devil!” Mazarin said.

Ariel, Pierre and Jean-Marc were shown to their rooms, though they preferred to all sleep together in Ariel’s room. Ariel had all the meats, bread and wine sent to her room. After the three ate they went and bathed together. Then the three got on Ariel’s bed and made love. This bed they found was very comfortable.

“Get up! Get Up! Get dressed and follow me.” A guard commanded the three sleeping in the bed.

This rude awakening startled Ariel, Pierre and Jean-Marc. They dressed quickly, still half asleep.

“What happened? What time is it?” Ariel asked.

“How long were we asleep?” Jean-Marc asked.

“Not long enough.” Pierre said.

They followed the guard up the stairs that led to the rooftop.

“Look!” Mazarin said to them pointing at the zombie horde below.

They saw in disbelief as over a million zombies had the Louvre Fortress surrounded down below at street level.

“This is what you were talking about Ariel. The infected dead horde have arrived.” Mazarin said stunned.

“We will need to fight our way out of Paris to get to rescue Marshal Currie and Charles.” Ariel said.

“Can it be done?” Mazarin asked.

“Yes. Have you brought all the weapons and ammunition from the supply depots around the city into the Louvre before the zombie horde arrived?” Ariel asked.

“Yes.” Mazarin said.

“Have your grenadiers position themselves on every balcony and every corner of the rooftops and unleash the thousands of explosive fire bombs at the heads of the zombie horde below. Light them up on fire and burn them back to hell.” Ariel advised.

Mazarin gave the order.

Ariel, Pierre, and Jean-Marc joined the soldiers in the battle for the Louvre, against the zombie horde by throwing fire bombs and raining grenades at the zombie horde below. There was nothing of them left at sunrise except piles of charcoal corpses.

“Principal Minister you must send the French Navy into the Channel to destroy all of Cromwell’s commercial and military vessels from perhaps delivering even more of the infected zombies to our shores!” Ariel said.

“Agreed. Who do you want to command the rescue operation for Marshal Currie and Charles?” Mazarin asked.

“Give the command to Lefleur.” Ariel said.

The Zombie Attack

“We are about to head out Ariel.” Marshal Lefleur said.

“Wait one minute!” Armand-Jean said.

“Where is Marshal Turenne and the Duc of Bourbon now?” Mazarin asked.

“Near the Ardennes and close to the river Meuse.” Lefleur said.

“While you are extracting Marshal Currie, you must make contact with Turenne and the Duc telling them they must accompany you back to Paris.” Mazarin said.

“Why?” Lefleur asked.

“Because we are going to blow up the bridges to the city.” Mazarin said.

“We are sending our Navy to do a sea evacuation of you, Currie, Turenne and the Duc de Bourbon.” Armand-Jean said.

“The Seine is frozen over. How will we be able to sail to Paris?” Lefleur asked.

“The storm has lifted and the ice is melting. By the time Turenne and the Duc reach you and Currie, which could take a few days and the Seine will be navigable.” Mazarin said.

“I would like to send Ariel to find Turenne?” Lefleur said.

“A wise choice.” Mazarin said.

Marshal Lefleur’s regiment mustered out of Paris, and left the Louvre fortress going past the Parliamentary Gate and the Bastille.

“This is where the Duchess of Montpensier had the guards turn their cannons on Turenne, allowing the Duc de Bourbon to escape. They were on opposite sides then during the Fronde rebellion.” Lefleur said to Ariel who was riding beside him.

“Turenne and Mazarin do not get along?” Ariel asked.

“They don’t really like one another.” Lefleur said.

As they talked they saw the estimated million charred bodies of the zombie horde everywhere they looked from the night’s battle.

“Have you ever served under Turenne?” Ariel asked.

“I was with him at Mergentheim. The only defeat Turenne has ever suffered.” Lefleur said.

“Who defeated the great Turenne?” Ariel asked.

“Field Marshal Franz von Mercy.”

“Is he facing Mercy now?” Ariel asked.

“Yes, the dispatches came back that Mercy was killed in battle and Turenne and the Duc de Bourbon won at Nordlingen. They’re on the way back by now. He and the Duc together would have had 7,800 infantry and 9,200 cavalry and 27 guns.” Lefleur said.

“They should be invited to the king’s coronation. I want to be invited to the coronation of Louis XIV.” Ariel said.

“That won’t be for some years yet but you probably will.” Lefleur said.

“You think so?” Ariel asked.

“Yes as staff on security duty.” Lefleur said and they both had a good laugh. 

After reaching near Rouen Cathedral the zombie horde appeared in great numbers, first out of the tree lined road on Lefleur’s flanks.

“Rifle squadrons form a square. Fire at will.” Lefleur commanded.

“Marshal Lefleur, we have an enemy at our rear!” Ariel said.

“They’re trying to surround us. Grenadiers split up to flanks and rear. The rest of you fire at will.” Lefleur commanded.

“Keep the cannons hot and the bombs flying! I am going now to find Turenne.” Ariel yelled over the din of war as she took her horse and sped north-eastward into the forests.

“Incoming!” Lefleur screamed as the zombie horde crashed into the square formation and all sides.

“Cavalry secure the rear!” Lefleur ordered.

Lefleur’s two cannons blasted hundreds of the zombie horde into bits of flesh scattered all over the field of battle. Lefleur finished off any of his wounded soldiers who would turn into the undead. He would either shoot them in the head or take his sword and chop off their heads. Ariel stopped and turned her horse around for one last look at the mayhem. She saw through her spyglass that Pierre was badly bitten, and was turning. Just about when Lefleur was raising his blood stained sword to dispatch Pierre a bullet struck through Pierre’s forehead coming from the woods.

“Goodbye dear friend.” Ariel said. 

The Bombardment

“Ahoy Captain, three English Warships ahead sir!” The lookout way up on the mast yelled.

Captain D’Argent looked through his spyglass and saw for himself the enemy.

“Beat to quarters!” D’Argent ordered.

“All to battle stations!” The First Officer Lezle said.

The English warships, The Witch, The Hours and Spectre, anchored in the Port of Rouen began a cannonade bombardment of Rouen Cathedral, their primary target.

D’Argent and his French fleet maneuvered in for the kill.

“Ahoy Captain English rowboats with marines rowing ashore.” The lookout yelled.

“We’ll just continue to sail behind them while their ships are anchored and blast them to the bottom of the sea.” D’Argent said to Lezle.

“How did the English know to get here before us?” Lezle asked.

“Because they have very good spies in very high places in the French court.” D’Argent said.

D’Argent’s ship, the Le Mort, now in range and behind the three English warships struck, killing blows, causing massive loss of life and damage. Unable to raise their anchors and move away, the English sailors began jumping into the sea.

“Sharpshooters shoot those sailors trying to get away!” D’Argent yelled over the din of the cannon fire.

Cromwell’s three warships were sunk to the bottom of the sea.

“Cheers for the Captain!” Lezle said and D’Argent received the cheers of his sailors and officers.

“We still have a job to do. We have to transport soldiers under Marshal Currie, a regiment under Marshal Lefleur, the army of Turenne and Prince Louis Duc de Bourbon, and the heir to the English throne.” D’Argent said to his crew.

“Lezle take some marines and go ashore and see if Turenne and the Duc have arrived. If they have secured the English heir, and tell them to come aboard at once as ordered by Mazarin. Then you take charge of the evacuation and get those soldiers off the beach.” D’Argent said.

The Great Turenne

Marshal Lefleur pressed on after his serious skirmish with the zombies which had killed half of his troops. He was now close enough to Rouen Cathedral to see perhaps sixty thousand zombies surrounding the Cathedral.

“Look there off to the side of the Cathedral, a French cavalry officer is signalling to come over.” Jean-Marc said to Lezle.

“I will go.” Lefleur said as he spurred his horse and trotted over into the woods.

“We need to be very quiet. We will go indirectly in case of spies.” The French cavalry officer under Turenne’s command said to Lefleur.

Lefleur followed the cavalry officer who led him to Turenne and his camp of 5,600 infantry and 7,100 cavalry.

“Marshal Lefleur, how good it is to see you again. I am so relieved you made it here.” Turenne said.

“I am glad you made it through too!” Ariel said.

“Ariel told me about the fight she saw you and your men were in with the zombies and she told me she did not think you or your men would survive it.” Turenne said.

“I lost half of my soldiers. We almost did not survive the zombie surprise onslaught.” Lefleur said.

“Ariel has filled me in on the rescue mission to get Charles, Currie and his men, out of the Cathedral. Also Mazarin’s plan to blow the bridges to the city and for us to use a naval sea evacuation to get back to Paris.” Turenne said with the slight speech impediment that was familiar to Lefleur.

“The bombardment stopped! I don’t hear the bombardment anymore.” Ariel said.

“The English warships have been defeated by the French fleet!” Turenne said. 

“So we have our naval transport standing by.” Ariel said.

“But the size of the zombie horde, how do we get through them?” Lefleur asked.

“Here is the plan. We have dug a long deep trench that we will draw the zombies to. Once the zombies fall on the spikes in the trench we will light the trench on fire. Meanwhile our cannons will blast the zombie’s flank. Lefleur your men will go down to the beach and secure the harbor. Once we have cleared the zombie horde Ariel and her team will enter the Cathedral and extract any survivors. We will all meet at the harbor for transport.” Turenne said.

“What of the Duc’s army?” Lefleur said.

“The Duc de Bourbon left right after our victory at Nordlingen. I have no idea where he is. I sent several scouts out to find him. None have come back. If he is smart once he sees he cannot ride into Paris because the bridges are gone he will go to our allies in Bavaria and wait out the Winter there.” Turenne said. 

Lefleur made his way back to his men accompanied by Ariel. Turenne sent out his decoys to draw in the zombie horde.

“The zombie horde has taken the bait!” Ariel said.

“Turenne is the greatest general in Europe!” Lefleur said.

One hundred and fifty of the fastest running soldiers in Turenne’s camp were now being chased by the undead. 

“Planks down!” Turenne ordered.

The soldiers ran back over the deadly trench by way of the planks.

“Planks up!” Turenne yelled as the last soldier crossed to safety.

Now thousands of the undead fell into the trench and became impaled on the spikes.

“Not too bright are they.” Turenne said to himself.

“Turenne’s cannons are coming next.” Ariel said to Lefleur.

The wait was not long as Turenne launched a withering cannon fire that mowed down the remaining zombie horde to absolute obliteration. 

Ariel noticed Turenne had his cannons named after the Erinyes in Greek mythology.

The cannons stopped and the signal for Lefleur to secure the evacuation site was given.

“Bon chance!” Ariel said to Lefleur as Lefleur led his soldiers to the port and beach, Ariel led her team into the Cathedral to get Charles and Currie. 

The trench with the impaled zombies was set ablaze.

The Sea Rescue

Captain D’Argent looking through his spyglass and seeing the disembarked 700 English marines and the remainder of the English sailors who abandoned ship on the beach now could see the French occupying the harbor and moving down to the beach once the cannon fire stopped. Lefleur moved his men cautiously. Limbs and body parts, hands, legs, heads could be seen strewn in all directions, remnants of the zombie horde. 

“Marshal Currie! Charles!” Ariel shouted pounding on the cathedral door.

Slowly the barricade was removed and the doors opened.

“Ariel!” Charles said as he hugged her strongly.

“Charles! Where’s Marshal Currie?” Ariel asked.

“Dead. The bombardment we took knocked down some roof beams and stones and Currie was hit in the head. We could not save him.” Charles said sadly.

“We are leaving but before we leave I want all of you to drink water and eat something we brought for you to get your strength back.” Ariel said.

The soldiers began eating and drinking ravenously.

Ariel passed out the last of the ammunition.

“We are heading to the evacuation site. There are boats that will row us to the ships ready to take us to the safety of Paris.” Ariel said.

The soldiers got their things and headed out of the cathedral where Turenne was waiting on horseback. Turenne’s horse had a beautiful coat of gun metal grey.

“Let’s go.” Turenne said.

“I hear gunfire.” Ariel said.

“Lefleur is in trouble.” Turenne said, spurring his horse towards the action.

The 700 surprised English marines and a number English sailors attempted to repulse Lefleur’s men off the beach and out of the harbor.

“Cavalry attack!” Turenne ordered.

“Attack!” Lezle yelled as he led his French marines in support of Lefleur in a counter-attack against the English forces on the beach.

D’Argent could see the English marines caught in a vice between Turenne’s cavalry, Lefleur’s soldiers and Lezle’s marines. Then something strange caught his eye. A very large bear came running out of the treeline and onto the beach. A zombie bear.

“Kill it!” Lefleur yelled.

The large zombie bear ferociously attacked and killed any French or English soldiers within reach, who then reanimated as zombies.

“Sharpshooters fire on the beach.” D’Argent ordered.

“We are out of range Captain!” A marine sergeant said.

D’Argent looked at his maps. He saw the shoals were right in front of him and he could not get any closer to shore to help the situation.

“Ariel duck!” Charles said he swung the butt of the rifle at the bear’s head.

The infected bear met the swing with one of his own shattering the rifle.

“Move!” Lefleur said, pushing Charles out of the way while firing a pistol shot at the bear’s head. The shot went through its head as the bear rose up on its two back legs. No time to reload Lefleur reached for his sword and thrust it upwards through the lower jaw and up into the skull killing the monster bear, who fell forward. Lefleur sidestepped out of the bear's mammoth fall.

D’Argent could see Turenne’s cavalry was now in control of the harbor.

“Marshal Turenne, I am first officer Lezle on the ship Le Mort. I and my marines are here to escort you, Charles II, and the Duc, Prince Louis to Captain D’Argent on the orders of Principal Minister Mazarin. Captain D’Argent destroyed three English warships and we must leave this area at once.” Lezle said.

“Turenne, you, Charles and Ariel go now and I will cover the evacuation.” Lefleur said.

“Royalty before an old relic like me.” Turenne said to Charles.

“Talent before royalty. I want your soldiers to see you were the one who led me to safety. I will follow you Turenne.” Charles said.

“Ariel can you change his mind?” Turenne said.

“I will go first and then the two of you can fight over who will help me into the boat. How’s that for chivalry?” Ariel asked.

“Come Charles we both will help Mademoiselle Ariel into the boat.” Turenne said.

“Chivalry! I like it!” Charles said laughing.

“Lefleur you have command of the evacuation. You will be the last to leave.” Turenne said.

“Please tell me you are going to add a bear to your escutcheon.” Ariel said to Charles as they reached Le Mort.

“What a monster that was. That was close. Lefleur will get an honor for it. I will see to it!” Charles said.

“Welcome aboard! I am Captain D’Argent.”

“Thank you Captain!” Charles, Ariel and Turenne said.

“Ariel we meet again!” D’Argent said hugging Ariel.                  

“Your Majesty, King Charles II you are most welcome...” D’Argent began speaking but stopped. Taking out his spyglass he surveyed the evacuation site, and saw another general on horseback, just coming out of the woods with his large army. A zombie army.

“Turenne who is that?” D’Argent asked.

“It is the Duc de Bourbon. Prince Louis.” Turenne said surveying the beach.

“It appears the Duc is engaging against your forces.” D’Argent said.

“He is a zombie! Prince Louis, Duc de Bourbon is among the undead! Damn him and his army with him!” Ariel said looking through her spyglass.

“It appears he does have both infantry and cavalry. The horses are as dead as the men riding them.” D’Argent said.

“The Duc has brought wolves with him?” Ariel asked.

“No. His hunting dogs.” Turenne said.

“The dogs are zombies too.” Ariel said.

“Row me back ashore. I need to command my men!” Turenne said.

“The Duc de Bourbon is attacking Lefleur with his zombie infantry and cavalry!” Ariel said.

“Let Lefleur handle this. We are nearly done with the evacuation. We need to leave this area now before more English warships come.” D’Argent said.

“Being too timid Captain D’Argent can lose you battles. Be wary of being too timid. I need to be back on the beach. Order your man to row me back D’Argent that is an order!” Turenne said.

“The undead soldiers fight and unlike the undead civilians they know how to use weapons!” Ariel said.

Turenne attempting to climb down to the rowboats was stopped by Charles and Ariel.

“Lefleur is a good general and he can beat the Duc. He still has plenty of infantry and cavalry.” D’Argent said.

“What are you saying?” Turenne asked.

“We are leaving. Lift anchor and bring the boats in. Hoist the main. Full sails.”  D’Argent commanded.

“How will Lefleur get back to Paris?” Turenne asked.

“The extent of my orders was to secure you, Charles and the Duc. Obviously the Duc is dead. Now undead. I have you Turenne and I have Charles. That is my mission. We are heading back to Paris before more English warships arrive in this area. Do not argue with me on this.” D’Argent said.

“Ahoy Captain, two English warships approaching fast.” The lookout yelled down from way up on the mast.

“I spoke too soon. Take us into the wind!” D’Argent said.

Turenne watched the action on the beach.

“Lefleur is retreating.” Turenne said.

“He must have seen that we were leaving the area.” Ariel said.

“Who is that covering the retreat?” Turenne asked.

“Jean-Marc. One of Currie’s men.” Ariel said.

“A fine officer. It is sad that we could not have saved Currie.” Turenne said.

“I am very grateful to Currie and his men protecting me and keeping me safe. I will never forget their sacrifice.” Charles said.

“Where will Lefleur go?” Ariel asked.

The Battle on the Seine

“We’ve entered the mouth of the Seine.” Turenne said to D’Argent.

“Yes, and we will learn two things. First how far down the Seine is navigable after freezing, and second are we still being pursued by the two English warships.”

“We should slow our speed down in case of any submerged ice which could tear a hole in the ship’s hull.” Ariel said.

“We slow down and I guarantee those two ships following us will tear a hole in the ship’s hull.” D’Argent said.

“Ahoy captain, the English ships have entered Le Havre and are following us!” The lookout on the mast said.

“As we are slowed down by the ice those warships chasing us, we  will soon be in range of cannon fire. Decisions will have to be made.” D’Argent said.

“You know, all you have to do is draw those ships close enough to the shore batteries and the problem is solved.” Turenne said.

“Because the larger cannons of the shore batteries fire further and with more firepower.” D’Argent said.

Turenne nodded.

“Captain you will want to see this!” Lezle said.

“Excuse me.” D’Argent said as he went to join Lezle.

“Take a look.” Lezle said.

D’Argent looked through his telescope at the fast approaching ships.

“The undead are manning those ships!” Lezle said.

“Beat to quarters!” D’Argent ordered. 

“Man battle stations!” Lezle yelled.

“Lower boats! Marines escort Turenne, Ariel and Charles off the ship and into the boats and row them like the devil to Paris.” D’Argent ordered.

Ariel went down into the boats, followed by Charles, and the marines began to row away to Paris. 

“Wait! Where is Turenne?” Ariel asked.

“He is coming in the boat following us...I think?” Charles said.

“Turenne why are you still here?” D’Argent asked.

“To give you some advice. Draw the enemy ships in closer to the shore batteries and you can do that now. You have clear sailing by going around the pack ice in front of you. Sail around the pack ice and draw your enemies into a trap.” Turenne said.

“I value your opinion, but at sea and in cannon fire range I will not show the stern of my ship to the enemy. Go now Turenne! Marines, get Turenne to his boat.” D’Argent said.

Turenne was escorted off the ship with the marines.

The marines rowed Turenne furiously to safety, pushing with their oars any ice that was in their way.

“Fire!” D’Argent ordered.

The two English warships returned fire before one, The Witch, broke off to outflank the Le Mort.

“Cannon fire on the Seine! It must be D’Argent.” Mazarin said and both Mazarin and Armand-Jean raced up the stairs onto the roof of the Louvre fortress to witness the action.

“I see the French flag, it is the Le Mort and D’Argent is firing at two English warships.” Armand-Jean said looking through his spyglass.

“I want our shore batteries firing on those two English warships once they are in range!” Mazarin said.

“There are some rowboats heading for the city. I see marines and I see Ariel and Charles are with them!” Armand-Jean said.

“Thank heavens they found Charles alive. What about Turenne? What about the Duc?” Mazarin asked.

“I don’t see them. The smoke from the cannon fire is obfuscating them. It appears D’Argent has successfully sunk one of the English warships, but the other warship has outflanked the Le Mort and the zombies are engaged in boarding her.” Armand-Jean said.

“Get the artillery captain and his men on the shore batteries to start firing at that English warship.” Mazarin said.

The palace guard brought Charles, Ariel and Turenne up to the roof where Mazarin was.

“Charles! Thank heavens you are alive and safe. Ariel, you deserve so much credit. I don’t know how to begin to thank you.” Marzarin said.

“Turenne saved us. A zombie horde had Charles surrounded and Turenne destroyed them all.” Ariel said.

“Well I could not have got out of the mess without Lefleur and D’Argent.” Turenne said.

“Where is Lefleur and Currie?” Mazarin asked.

“Currie was killed in action in the Cathedral during a English naval bombardment.” Charles said. 

“The Duc? Where is Prince Louis?” Mazarin asked.

“Lefleur was defending us on the beach against the Duc. You see, Principal Minister, the Duc was infected, as well as his whole army, and joined the ranks of the zombie horde.” Ariel said.

“So Lefleur defeated the Duc de Bourbon and killed him?” Mazarin asked.

“We don’t know. Lefleur was in retreat with the Duc in pursuit and that was the last we saw of them as we sailed away.” Turenne said.

Just then Armand-Jean came back after speaking with the artillery captain of the shore batteries.

“The artillery captain says he cannot fire the shore batteries because our French ship and the English warship are too close together. That they are actually in hand to hand combat on both ships.” Armand-Jean said.

“Send a ship full of marines to come to the aid of D'Argent.” Mazarin said.

“No. Listen carefully. You tell that artillery captain to fire the shore batteries and to sink both D’Argent’s and the enemy’s ship. The enemy warships were manned by the infected. The zombies fighting in close quarters combat will have infected the crew of D’Argent. We sadly must say goodbye to Captain D’Argent.” Turenne said.

“That is why D’Argent rushed us off his ship because he saw the enemy ships he was up against were manned by a crew of zombies!” Charles said.     

“No Turenne I will not do it. This is why you and I never see eye to eye. You never have any trust in anything except yourself. How do you know D’Argent will not dispatch any of his crew who are infected if he emerges victorious?” Mazarin asked.

“I do not clutch at straws. The risk is too great. All of us need to say our thanks and our goodbye to the brave and talented Captain D’Argent.” Turenne said.

“Turenne you are wrong in this matter. Wrong!” Mazarin said.

“Turenne is correct. The risk of D’Argent’s men being infected and coming into the city is too great.” Ariel said.

“We have Charles! That was the mission! Remember that!” Turenne yelled in a staccato fashion.

“Give the order to fire the shore cannons.” Mazarin said to Armand-Jean.

D’Argent realised his mistakes and regretted not taking Turenne’s advice. With the zombies now charging aboard his ship he steered his ship to break away and sail towards the shore batteries. The zombie sailors carrying cudgels, knives, swords, hammers and pistols cut, shot, maimed and ate their way through D’Argent’s sailors and those injured sailors were immediately feasted upon with a chomp on the neck, stomach, arms, face, hands, groin, feet, buttocks, legs and their entrails ripped out of their bodies. The deck of the ship was now crimson in color.

 Another mistake D’Argent thought he made was sending off all the marines to guard Charles and Turenne.

Without the marines to protect captain D’Argent, Lezle gathered a group of officers to protect D’Argent from the zombies.

Lezle was bitten at the achilles tendon by a zombie crawling on the deck while another zombie raced forward to take a bite out of his face. Lezle’s pistol shot misfired and the zombie’s bite grinded deep into Lezle’s lips into his upper palate and cheekbone.

D’Argent shot the murderous zombie culprit through the head. Next he severed the heads off of three zombies with his sword. Without the marines to help with the fighting D’Argent could see his sailors struggling as the zombie surge went on. The defense of him broke down as his officers fell one by one.

A zombie with a sword made a slash that cut D'Argent above his right eye. The next slash D’Argent parried and with a slash of his own took off the zombie’s head.

There was now such a crush around him of zombies he could not swing his sword arm as he felt bites being taken out of his legs. His right hand was gnawed to the wrist. His thought was to get his pistol with his left hand and shoot himself in the head but his left arm was already eaten up to the elbow. He then heard loud heavy artillery fire.    

“The shore batteries! Now go back to hell where you came from!” D’Argent screamed at the zombies. 

A massive shell hit the Le Mort midship and the explosion sent deadly wood splinters rocketing in all directions through both the seamen and the zombies. D’Argent’s ship and the English warship, The Witch were sunk in minutes.

Charles, Ariel, Turenne, and Mazarin watched from the roof of the Louvre fortress as the ships sank below the water.

The Second Letter of the Spy

To the Lord Protector of England, Scotland and Ireland

Greetings,     

“Paris is an isolated island though the Seine is still in the hands of the French navy. The left and right banks are in the hands of the zombie army. Charles survives and continues to be a source of inspiration to the Royalist. Turenne is now there as well. Marshal Lefleur escaped and reportedly was on his way to Antwerp and his nemesis Prince Louis, the Duc de Bourbon followed him with his zombie army. Recent reports are being received that Antwerp is being sacked as I am writing this and suffers terribly from attacks by the zombie horde. Lefleur may be assumed to have been destroyed in the sack of Antwerp.”

Nic.Fourquet

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow M. Andrew Faraday on Twitter @DeuxLips.

Joy By Chet Sandberg (@Chet_Novels)

Joy came to me, has always come to me, upon seeing my reflection in the eyes of a woman. It’s always been this way for me, and I don’t imagine a world in which that changes.

I remember the first time I fell in love. I was nineteen, and though I’m forty-six now, and she and I are each much worn and weathered by time, I’m still in touch with this woman today. She’s plying her dreams with nearly the same enthusiasm she did back then, though with a far more singular conviction than she had in her late teens. This is a woman thoroughly done f***ing around. She’s one of the coolest mothers I’ve ever known, one of the rare women I’ve met who hasn’t had the most interesting things about her personality smoothed over by the demands of motherhood. Her daughter will likely be a weird, fierce beast of a woman, just like her mom.

That’s joy.

There’s the first girl I ever slept with, and though that came before the woman cited above, I didn’t fall in love with her until after that, because the universe is wicked and cruel. She saves dogs and cheers on da Packers, and I swear she must be a vampire, because no one should look like she does at forty-five. She later came into the same profession I did, and she was at the nursing home where my grandmother had always worked, the one where later my grandmother lay as a patient, struck with cancer in her final days. I was home visiting, and she (the girl, not the grandmother—though let’s not forget that grandmothers were girls once, too) shared a cigarette with me in the nursing home parking lot where the melting snow promised that someday soon, the winter would finally break. 

That’s joy.

There’s the woman slowly losing her mind and her heart in the backwoods near where I grew up. She’s always been the green girl hanging upside-down from the pine tree branch, the girl in my dream so long ago. She has mood-dependent memory like me, and she wakes up in night terrors. She’s the one most likely to look this post up to see if she was important enough for me to mention her, though she needn’t have ever doubted it. She’s at a nadir now, but it’s temporary. She’s learning she’s worth more than he thought she was, and she’s got a lot of work to do, but she’ll get there.

That’s joy (though it makes my heart ache).

There’s the woman too scared to love me, the one whose hair I made fall out from stress because I’m not packed in tightly. She has the sort of body men notice, and every now and again she acknowledges it, but there’s so much more there, an aesthetic to everything she does that shows a quiet confidence. She loves animals, and all her pets are broken in some way or another. She scooped me up—me, the sad, car-struck stray, and kissed me back to life, though we’ve never met. Scorpionic and dark, she’s never stung me except by showing how much I hurt her. She’s in a drifting stage of life, trying to put herself back together after a trauma that came before me. We were two broken people who loved, but neither is now as broken as we were, and that’s largely because we met.

That’s joy.

There’s my twin flame, who walked beside me awhile as we unlocked things inside one another we suspected lay fallow, but couldn’t know. The lights, newly lit in previously dark rooms, now shine brightly for each of us. Once that job of lighting the lamps was done, there was nothing left to do but part. She showed me so much about taking risks, about refusing to continue onward on a painful road once another path came to light. We share a history less haunted than most, and a dog who made the last year of our time together much less bleak. I smile when she calls and we talk for hours, just like we did before we ever became a couple, though we’re older now, and wise enough to know we don’t have the sort of relationship that beckons weddings.

That’s joy.

And now there’s her, the dark-haired, quiet girl who asks the most revealing questions. She’s not afraid to be open with me about anything, even the complicated things two people our age have inevitably accrued. She’s the first thing I think about when I wake, and the last thing I think about before I sleep. It’s harder to see this one clearly because I’m in it, and I’m cuddle-drunk and goo-goo-eyed so much of the time. We live in different time zones, in different climates, and the clock bends in ways that make for unmatched rhythms, though it’s not a problem. We each wait for the other to wake, and in that time, I think of all the things I want to tell her. It’s hard to remember she hasn’t been here with me the whole time, so there are interesting surprises waiting like the as-yet unpopped kernels of popcorn under the radiation of intense, magnetic attraction. Between furious bouts of excitement, I float in the dark pools of calm acceptance her gaze radiates, and she navigates my strange angles and sharp edges.

That’s joy.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Chet Sandberg on Twitter @Chet_Novels.

What Brings You Joy By M. Dalto (@MDalto421)

As Sarah J. Maas once wrote in a little book called A Court of Thorns and Roses:

"Don't feel bad for one moment about doing what brings you joy."

Though uttered by my least-favorite character in the series, the words still ring true, and it took me a long while to accept the deeper meaning behind them.

At this time last year, I was struggling to find anything to return joy back into my life.

This year, I’m barely able to find the time to enjoy that which brings me joy.

It’s a vicious cycle, and I’m still trying to figure out who to blame.

I am going to be bold and say that 2020 was not kind to anyone. As 2021 rolled in, we looked forward to a new year of hope and positivity and possibly refinding those things that we once enjoyed doing when the fear of the outside world wasn’t a factor. But as doors reopened, so too did the obligations we were able to put aside. Tenfold.

If my post from last year was any indication, I was unable to write anything new for about a good year. 2021 was going to be better and I was going to find my muse again and for a little while, it looked like things were headed in that direction…

And then I was without a co-worker to help shoulder the burden of the real estate market’s bubble that refused to burst despite the ebbs and flows of the pandemic around us.

That small moment, when I finally felt as though I had reignited my creative spark, was smothered by none other than my full-time employment obligations. Obligations that were not going away any time soon (and still haven’t, even after all this time).

Plans and plots and outlines and deadlines were pushed and forgotten as the pressure of my 9-to-5 was quickly becoming my 8-to-8. Full disclosure: I couldn’t even get this blog post back in time because of the tunnel vision I’ve become so accustomed to just to make sure I can complete my day job so that it doesn’t become my former day job. 

And as the days grew longer, the time I had to re-embrace my joy grew shorter. I was coming home at night and crashing on the couch or crawling right into bed. Only to have to wake up to do it all over again until the weekend arrived, and then any free time I had was devoted to spending time with the family I poorly neglected because I was working all week.

Enough was enough.

But not before the burnout settled in.

Just in time for summer.

So you know what we did?

We got vaccinated and booked the first vacation in almost two years and unplugged and enjoyed ourselves, leaving behind the stress and anxiety of the ‘real world’ as much as possible for as long as we could.

And I think it worked.

I returned to the full-time job with a fresher outlook, and I sat down with our Human Resources manager and I made it known. I think they listened.

Or at least I think they did. Or the real estate market has lightened up and I’m finally able to get home on time. 

That same week I wrote new words for the first time in a long while. I made a plan to write more too. I’m even considering new projects that are actually going to bring me…

You guessed it.

Joy.

So, to recap:

The pandemic is/was horrible.

Burnout is also bad.

Self-care is invaluable.

And never forget what brings you joy.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow M. Dalto on Twitter @MDalto421.

Carving Out Time By Jared A. Conti (@oracularbeard)

I never expected to be writing a sequel of sorts to last year’s column.

With as problematic as writing a sprawling post-apocalyptic tale during a global pandemic sounds, it’s keeping a handle on the day-to-day that takes its toll.

I’d love to tell you that I’ve learned something or other in the last year tooling around writing The Great American Novel. 

What I’ve realized (much too late, as usual) is that these grandiose ideas are naught but chunks of marble to be chipped away at over time especially when I’m unable to see the masterpiece hiding inside.

I’ve just figured out that this is the first time I’ve sat down to write since June. Amid writing retreats, house buying, and child wrangling, perhaps what’s been gumming up the works this summer is that I’ve not taken the time to breathe. 

To sit and wait. Patiently, for that still, small voice.

As I sit here writing and revising this, it’s the little things that are getting my attention:

The spiders spinning webs, where they do and why.

The different grasses in our lawn.

The rotating airplane light gracing the trees at night. 

Bees making a hive in an actual tree.

The “writer’s block” that I think I’m suffering from? 

Those are just stepping stones with enough clearance to jump to each one as I cross that unfathomable chasm that is life.

That block I’ve been chipping away at? 

Those parts that I thought I didn’t need are discarded for a reason. 

I’m not sure what it is yet, but I’m looking forward to seeing the finished product. 

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Jared A. Conti on Twitter @oracularbeard.

Writing is a Marathon, Not a Sprint. By Trey Stone (@TreyStoneAuthor)

I know this because I’m a writer – oh, and later today, I’m running my first official half marathon.

I never planned to be a runner, much like I never really planned to be a writer. At the time, it was just something to do. Though I wrote a few pages of fiction here and there in my youth, what really got the ball rolling for me was when I and a friend of mine had boring summer jobs as teens and we started emailing short stories between us. From there on, it just snowballed.

It was the same with running. Five years ago, I got interested in going to the gym and doing powerlifting in an attempt to have at least some semblance of physical activity in my life. If you’d asked me back then if I wanted to go for a run, I would have laughed you in the face. But as I got in better shape, nearing something that someone might even describe as “fit”, I started dipping my toes into this whole running thing. And today’s the day. Half Marathon Day.

When I started writing my first full-length novel, I didn’t really know what I was doing. I didn’t plan or outline it, didn’t set much of a course other than a very brief over-arching plot and a thrilling conclusion. Before this point, most of what I had written had been short stories and flash fiction pieces, few – if any – counting more than a few hundred words. But I’d managed to write those, so why not a full book, right?

When I ran my first 21 kilometers, it was exactly the same. I had started jogging four months earlier, so why shouldn’t I be able to run a half marathon, right? So I just put on some shoes and started the treadmill. Turns out, I wasn’t prepared at all.

But I’m glad I wrote my first book like that. With that naïve, positive onlook of “Why wouldn’t I be able to do this?” I think it made it a whole lot easier for me. I didn’t worry about plot consistency, character development, or logical conclusions. I just wrote. For that first book, I can’t remember even a single spell of writer’s block. There was no pressure, no expectations, because I didn’t know pressure and expectations even existed in writing.

These days, nearly 10 books later, I can find myself staring at that blinking demon-cursor at the end of a sentence, wondering why the hell it isn’t producing the art I know lives inside my head.

Running is much the same. That first half-marathon I did in training, was… Let’s just call it “the worst.” There was pain, soreness, and blood involved, and I remember having to lie down on the floor when I was done, because “something didn’t feel right.” But because I didn’t realize how awful it would be, I had no fear of it. There was nothing to dread because I had no reference point. I’m glad I didn’t know what I was putting myself through then because now that I do… yeah – I’m dreading it.

Of course, it won’t be the same. The books I write now are written faster and with less effort than I did that first one, even if I sometimes stop to make sure I know what I’m doing. Same with the running. The last training run I did, took just about as long as that first one, but with significantly less pain and exhaustion.

That’s the thing – even though in one sense it never gets easier, you get used to it. You get better at it. You learn. You’re more prepared. There’s this whole sense of “knowing what you’re doing” (weird how that happens, right?)

But when I said that writing is a marathon, I wasn’t just talking about writing one single book. I wasn’t just talking about one single marathon either. Because writing, as an art, and any other art or creative endeavor you might pursue is a marathon in and of itself. It’s the same with running and powerlifting. You don’t get better after one story, or just one run. It’s not about finishing that first book or race. It’s all of it – all the effort you put into it from start to wherever your finish-line is - that’s what’s going to make the difference. Every book you write becomes a lap in a longer run, a single chapter in your writing career.

I don’t know how many books I’ll write. I know I have a lot more of them in me, and I know that for now, I’m passionate to keep going. To keep running with it. I’m unsure about running though. I might do a few more races because it’s incredibly rewarding even though it’s awful at its worst. At the same time, I’m left with a feeling of having accomplished a goal I set for myself and being satisfied with that. (Since I started writing this, I’ve completed the run and I came in at 1:57 – which was above all expectations!) 

For now, I’ll stick with it a while longer, and I love that I now have the ability to “go out for a run.” It’s a great way to clear one’s head – and to think about future books! But more than anything, I’m glad I thought myself the importance of marathons. To stick with something, to keep going, to be in it for the long run. It’s a very useful skill to have.

Because a lot of things you’ll do in life is a marathon. So keep at it.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Trey Stone on Twitter @TreyStoneAuthor.

The Joy Hoard By Beth Hudson (@TFiredrake)

I’ve learned from battling chronic depression that I need to be very aware of what brings me joy. I hoard joy, because I never know when I may need to be reminded of its presence. And there are so many things that fit into that box on the shelf, like a childhood toy chest that keeps treasures from long ago.

To me, joy is usually a deep content, an upwelling of peace and the sense that everything is right with my world. Those are the quiet moments, which are as simple as they are beautiful: a fresh snowfall on New Year’s Eve; the shine of autumn leaves in a gentle rainstorm; the glitter of water in a large, still lake.

Laughter with friends. Ordering takeout on a night when I’m bone weary. A long, hot, soaking bubble bath. Early morning sunrise, streaks of pink and orange striping the sky like melting sherbet.

What usually comes with these times is a lessening of urgency, of the sense that there are things that have to be done to make things right. It is about allowing myself simply to be, not to constantly do. I haven’t forgotten for a minute that the world is an imperfect place, and that there is a tremendous amount of suffering in it; I’ve just let myself acknowledge for a little while that I’m allowed space for myself, too.

Surrounding myself with certain kinds of things, tangible or not, can help to enhance that sense of joy. Beautiful and moving music can take me there faster than anything else, though it’s not a guarantee; sometimes music tugs so hard at my heart that it shakes loose all the pain of living. Reading can also do either of these. And frankly, it’s all right when it squeezes out the pain instead of the joy, because sometimes I don’t let myself feel enough. Often, I let myself slide over pain and joy both, and lose the joy because I’m afraid to experience the pain.

I seldom have active joy, the kind that makes me laugh in delight and excitement and crow to the world that something has gone wonderfully well. Still, I’m not utterly devoid of it. Those surges of joy light up the darkness like lightning flashes. When I was first asked for a novella from my short story editor, I was profoundly joyful. When my son finally got engaged to his long-time girlfriend, I was ecstatic. When I gave birth to my three children… words may be my trade, but there are no words I can use to fully describe the exultation I felt on bringing those lives into the world. It was when I truly understood that lightning really was hotter than the surface of the sun.

I think those kinds of joys are about accomplishment and love, both of which I struggle to accept.

As a writer, I will sometimes open that box to take out the memory of a treasured joy and lay it like a gem into the setting of my stories. I write a lot about pain and trauma, but it’s important to have those bright moments flash into the darkness, because they remind the characters—and the reader—what their struggles are for. And sometimes I’ll give my characters those brilliant, lightning joys and not take them away, because they give characters and the readers alike something to hope for. Real joy isn’t unadulterated, because life itself isn’t unmixed. I want my stories to have that truth in them, but my box may sometimes be a bit like Pandora’s, and contain hope.

And occasionally I will open that box for myself and take out those memories, setting them on the shelf to polish until they’re glistening, and reminding me that joy is always part of the world, even if I sometimes have trouble recognizing it.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Beth Hudson on Twitter @TFiredrake.

Q: What Sparks Joy? A: The Roll of a D20. By Brenton Barnes (@brentonsquared)

For most of my life, tabletop roleplaying games have been something I have wanted to participate in, but have seemed inaccessible at every stage. At one point or another, I’d find an interesting game to play, discuss it with friends, and then it would always turn into plans for brunch: it never happened. When it did happen, it was usually with a lighter roleplaying game like Fiasco or Microscope and I didn’t take it for granted. Those games are light on rules and they encourage creativity and improvisation between the players to create stories that are memorable and fun. One participant has described these sessions as: “Roleplaying where nothing matters, we don’t take it too seriously and we can f*** around and see what happens!” 

In spite of the sheer joy these smaller games always provided, I found myself striving for something bigger: a roleplaying game that feels endless. A game with a group of people that can consistently meet up and create a story filled with memorable moments and characters that are uniquely ours. It’s the ultimate romanticization of the potential these games can provide and are very seldomly achieved. After all: “Life, uh, finds a way” to put a stop to anything ambitious or worse, we’re just chasing an imaginary dragon. 

It’s only fair to expect that a storytelling game will always be sidelined in the face of other activities; whether that’s chores, spending time with friends, social clubs, hobbies, work schedules, etc. But what about when an incredibly stressful and traumatic event takes away everything else except for your work, chores, hobbies, and several near-endless streaming services that no one wants to navigate? In my case, it gave me time to explore being a part of a weekly roleplaying game that has been an untapped and necessary source of joy during these strange and uncertain times. 

As to how this happened: it was kismet! Last summer, an acquaintance from art school that I had reconnected with wanted to playtest a mini-campaign for Dungeons & Dragons and I volunteered to help him out. Shortly afterward, I received a job offer that I desperately needed and had to drop out before the game began. While catching up with another friend around the same time, I lamented that I wouldn’t be able to participate in that game; to which he responded that if I was interested, there was an opening in the game he was running. 

By making this offer, he was taking a gamble as his group’s Dungeon Master. Either it would work out and he would be a permanent addition to the group or it would be temporary as this could have been a passing fancy for me or work and money would take precedent. As it turned out, I was the former and have become involved in an ongoing campaign that has lasted a well past a year and has become increasingly perilous with each session. But what about this experience sparks joy for me?

When it comes to being an adult, one thing that I’ve found consistently difficult is the simple act of making new friends. This is not a unique experience, as others I have known have admitted the same thing; it feels harder to forge new connections and we all have different expectations of the relationships that we pursue as we get older. Despite this, we are still social creatures and seek out others to create bonds with and potentially build a connection with. TRPGs are built on social interaction and it’s only natural that connections can inevitably form (if there’s chemistry amongst the players, of course). But what if you never meet your players face to face? Is there a different dynamic and can those bonds even form? My answer is...maybe. 

When it comes to the social elements of our game, I liken it to “A Friendship Simulator.” I’ve never met any of the other players in real life and only know them by their voices on a Discord server. We’re all at different stages in our journeys through life, separated by hundreds or thousands of miles (and at least one time zone,) but we do share one desire: to play a roleplaying game with like-minded individuals. If you were to ask me to put a label on it, I would describe it as a mix between acquaintanceship and an involved parasocial relationship. At least it felt that way at first! 

When I first joined the group, there was an expected unfamiliarity between myself and the others; but I was definitely welcome to be there. I later discovered that this was a mutual feeling, as the other four had only been interacting for five sessions prior and were still figuring each other out. But the more that we met up, the more the foundation of familiarity was laid out. After a month of playing, curiosity would often take hold during pre-game organization or downtime due to delays and questions like “How was your week?” or “What have you been up to?” became easier to ask. As these questions were answered, new ones would arise. We became less reserved, more willing to learn and talk more about the people behind our characters in the times we could. It grew to casual talk on our Discord server in between games, getting brave enough to message each other from time to time, bust each other’s chops, and showing concern for unexpected happenings in our lives and other things that friends do. 

It reached a point in early 2021 when I noticed that one of our players kept playing with their webcam turned on; at that point, only my friend had kept his camera turned on. When it kept happening for about two weeks, I asked out loud: “Gee, I wonder who’ll reveal their face next.” A few moments later, another player turned on theirs, then everyone else followed suit, and what I saw surprised me. We had built a true sense of camaraderie and comfort with one another and were able to go from being disconnected voices to allowing ourselves to be seen at that moment. As I said before, I’ve never met these people and I’ll never truly know them, but it’s comforting and joyful to have a relationship that feels like friendship and will continue until the game concludes by finishing the story or the whole party gets killed off against a difficult adversary. If they want to continue that friendship though, I’m certainly interested! 

Beyond the joy of building new relationships, I find joy in this as a creative outlet. For most of my life, I’ve considered myself to be a “creative type” and have always enjoyed creating characters, the worlds they’d live in, and narratives that would play out for them. It stems from an ambitious childhood dream to make a living off of creating graphic novels, which has gone unfulfilled for

many personal reasons. Nowadays, it has become a creative fire that is difficult to stoke, let alone catch a spark to become a flame that can offer a sense of warmth, but I have noticed that my participation in this campaign has aided in reinvigorating that flame! 

It began as I was building and creating my character, which I took the time to carefully research and create using the source materials my friend shared with me in D&D Beyond. I could have just picked a race and a class, loaded their statistics, picked their skills, and called it day, but instead, I found myself thinking about his backstory, his character traits, his quirks, and flaws. As absurd as it sounds, it was all in the service of creating a believable anthropomorphic caracal wild cat monk moonlighting as a detective that could befriend a dwarf, a minotaur, a robot, and a tiefling in a steampunk fantasy dystopia. 

It was the kind of creative fun that I hadn’t experienced in years! If I had created this character strictly for a story that I had written alone, that story would have been started, overthought, and eventually abandoned due to writing in a vacuum. But when you take storytelling and writing and convert it from an exercise in prose and turn it into a dynamic, interactive, and collaborative experience with others, you learn so much from it. 

I can only offer so much insight into the other players, but I can make the following claims: they have way more experience with TRPGs than I do, they’re creative and imaginative in their own ways, and they’re great at improvisation while embodying their characters through their thoughts, feelings, and motivations. In some cases, our sessions feel like casual performances as we alter our voices with tones and accents, describe our actions, and bounce everything off one another. When this occurs, I get to see things from different points of view, how motivations and actions should contribute to a story, and how back and forth dialogue should sound and operate. As a result, the concept of writing feels less daunting and the idea of writing a story with multiple perspectives without getting stuck is so much more plausible than it used to be. While I’m not currently writing a “magnum opus” of any kind, I do feel the desire to write and express myself with stories I want to tell and have fun with it. 

At this point, I could easily conclude this essay and call it a day, but there’s one more thing to mention: I look forward to spending time with these people and playing this game every week. These aren’t words that I’m willing to throw around carelessly! Being a part of this game has been an incredibly bright spot during one of the most uncertain and strange times of our lives and has given me and the group something to look forward to week after week. 

I think that it helps that our sessions are paced similarly to episodic serials that you’d see in comic books, television shows, or open-world video games: each one lasts roughly three hours (four, if we end up in an interesting situation), has a set amount of threads to explore in that time (and whatever else our DM can improvise on the spot) that can aid in moving the story forward and it’s up to the characters to find them. But unlike those mediums, we take advantage of being a character-driven story and have managed to get sidetracked and occasionally de-rail the plot. It’s a free-wheeling imaginative madness that takes an epic fantasy setting, spins it around

in a chair, and slaps it in the face at every rotation until Game of Thrones turns into Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure (or Bogus Journey, if you prefer.) 

Over the course of the story, we’ve created a sense of unpredictability that feels missing from so much media that has to play it safe these days. While I still engage with video games, television shows, movies, and books (the latter I do more than most), I find myself less willing to make “appointment experiences” for them. Meanwhile, I’m always willing to make time for this game and find more ways to exist in this world. In between sessions, I think of the events that transpired, the character motivations, and try to find solutions to the problems of the next session. If our Game Master offers us the chance to roleplay during the week in our in-character server, I’m there with the group developing our characters, building relationships, and doing things we had no time for; much to the chagrin of my wife who asks: “Are you talking to your DnD bros?” as I glance at my phone and write passages of roleplay that could exist as prose in a novel or a script. 

In spite of what may seem to be obsessive, it doesn’t control my life and I acknowledge it for what it is: a weekly creative outlet with spent with others whose presence I enjoy and has offered a chance to be creative, dust off skills that haven’t been used in a while and regain my confidence with them. Despite the general acceptance of tabletop roleplaying games in the zeitgeist, I can feel self-conscious about admitting how much I enjoy this. At the end of the day, we all find enjoyment in different things and as adults, we aren’t beholden to anyone in terms of how we spend our time. While some may enjoy vegetating while binge-watching television shows, playing video games for far too many hours, or going out to dinner with friends and doing nothing else, I personally prefer the act of imagining with others as a healthier, creative, and stimulating past time.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Brenton Barnes on Twitter @brentonsquared.

Poor Dixie Cup! By Ron Charach (@CharachRon)

We use these objects every day,

But do we ever stop and say

How marvellous we think they are,

Saluting chair and tile and jar?

(Except for those that bring on woes.

This verse may cite a few of those.)

Without the rubber bathtub mat

Whose suction-grip is certain,

We’d wipe out on the porcelain

And fall straight through the curtain.

The dog dish knows of paucity

And over-generosity.

Lint-remover, roll all over

Every kitten/puppy lover.

Upholstered chair, whose print I wear,

Forgive my vacant TV stare.

Picture-hook, what curse belied you,

What dark, malignant forces pried you

Loose from high atop my wall

Before this catastrophic fall?

I’m stretched to the end of my mortal soul:

Life story half-finished, but hard drive nearly full!

From self-suspended picture hooks

Hang photos no one’s sure who took.

In the wastepaper basket,

Intimations of the casket.

Couscous is, of course course,

Too grand a grain for a horse horse.

Pour praise upon the sink’s small plug.

Without it, you’d hear glug glug glug…

Protective radiator cover,

Dusty radiance lover!

Soft and gentle tissue,

You soak up sorrow’s issue.

Post-It note, un-lickable,

Magically re-stickable!

I threw my cell phone into the sea.

Now every minnow pesters me!

Toilet seat, left up or left down,

Is sure to make somebody frown.

Only the toilet-paper holder

Loosens up as it grows older.

Bathroom plunger, half stick, half ball,

Standing at attention, awaiting the call.

Tell me, lowly city sewer,

Are you a stinker or a doer?

Tweezers help you pull out hairs.

When you’re free from other cares.

Lip balm keeps my lips from cracking.

Is it moisture that I’m lacking?

Flap-fly in my underwear –

Good show – but are you useful there?

The deadbolt lock’s a work of art.

It stops the crimes before they start.

Hark, you notched and twisted screw,

This drill can sink in and undo.

Ballerina made of wire and paper maché,

Dancing by night and unwinding by day.

My scissors’ owlish eyes and blades

Snip newsprint fame before it fades.

The simple stapler can make neat

A mountain of small tax receipts.

Though snappy, the elastic band

Will double up to lend a hand.

Accursed double-sided sticky tape,

You set astir my inner ape.

The QWERTY keyboard lets me down.

The way it’s structured makes me frown,

With j and k and s supplied,

But no e on the right-hand side!

When you dot my i and cross my t,

Please, pencil lead, don’t break on me.

Sweet barbecue, I beg you – shout out, “Stop!”

Should I light you but forget to lift your top.

Duct-tape is the soul of thrift,

Holding what remains together.

Really, it’s the perfect gift.

Repair’s no longer heavy weather.

On the window-ledge, a rubber owl

Keeps pigeons from their daily prowl.

My fingernail can scratch and spark

This safety match’s brilliant flare,

Which helps when shadows fill the dark.

Is someone friendly standing there?

Finial supporting my lamp shade,

Basking in the light man-made

Flashy, buzzing neon sign,

Pale moonlight is a friend of mine.

It’s hard to stereotype the safety pin:

Hard hat outside, sharp point within.

In the attic, a needle pulling thread

Briefly paused, and here’s what it said:

“Button, button, bone-white button,

‘Tween your beady eyes I’m struttin’.”

Doorstop mounted on the wall:

Springs, like martyrs, take it all.

Spiraling stove elements, charcoal set in bone,

Do not glow red, I beg you, when I’m far away from home!

On my sneakers are check marks, like beached canoes.

Yet they told me these were running shoes!

Electronic music, jungle, drum and bass,

Indie label artists put sweat upon my face.

My skateboard’s used, but it takes flight,

The trucks hold firm, the deck is light.

Bicycle bell, ring, ring, ring, ring.

With those headphones on, can they hear a thing?

The doorknob twists, the doorknob turns,

A lesson every young child learns

When keen to wander to and fro,

The doorknob makes it all a go.

The doorknob twists, the doorknob turns,

It marks our exits and returns.

You served me well, poor Dixie Cup.

Alas, old chum, your time is up.

If you liked this piece, please follow Ron Charach on Twitter @CharachRon.

What Brings Me Joy By Eugene Galt (eugene_galt)

As I get older, I appreciate more the truth that the best things in life aren’t things. One thing that brings me joy is not a thing. Instead, it is the connection between minds or hearts in interpersonal interaction, whether in person or in writing.

This sort of connection can let one or both of us see something in a new way. This is distinct from simply winning an argument. I enjoy sharing a perspective that someone has not considered before and watching the light bulb go on over that person’s head. I enjoy it when someone can do the same for me.

This sort of connection can also provide a perspective that gives form to something of which one or both of us have previously had only a vague idea. For example, an author’s words may crystallize in my mind something of which I previously had a vague sense. Readers of my writings have told me that I have had the same effect on them.

If you liked this piece, please follow Eugene Galt on Twitter @eugene_galt.

Cooking Up a Great Story By B.K. Bass (@B_K_Bass)

I have two great loves in my life: writing and cooking. I have spent decades honing both skills, constantly endeavoring to learn more about each craft and dedicate hours every day to practicing them. There have been successes and failures in both fields. Both amazement and disappointment have been part of the process. As time passes, the successes come more often. The failures fade. My confidence grows as one amazing meal, or another incredible story, takes shape under my hands. Then, I try something totally new. Something incredibly risky. And sometimes, it is awful. But I learn from it and grow. Next time, I know I will do better.

The learning curves of both writing and cooking are eerily similar. I suppose one might say that of any artistic endeavor, but these are the two I have explored the longest and come the furthest with. Brandon Sanderson discussed the concept of the cook versus the chef in a lecture, saying that writers should aspire to be chefs. He said that cooks know what a tool is and how it should be used, but a chef knows why the tools work where they do, then combines them in different ways to create something new.

As writers, we all should hope to create something new.

The cynics will argue that every story has been told, there’s “nothing new under the sun”, and so on. They’re not wrong, but they’re also not seeing the potential to shake things up. They’re looking at the ingredients, but not considering new ways to combine them.

Consider for a moment if you will: Jambalaya. We all are likely familiar with this dish. Any cook knows the basic building blocks: rice, chicken stock, tomatoes, and the Cajun “holy trinity” of onion, celery, and green peppers. It may have chicken, sausage, shrimp, or some combination of the three. Some other veggies might even show up, especially okra. And of course, Cajun seasoning.

There were a few key words in there. It may have various meats, and other veggies might show up. While the building blocks remain the same and are what makes jambalaya what it is—and not Jollof or Pelau or some other rice dish—no two jambalaya recipes are the same.

Making those choices between chicken or sausage and whether to add okra or something else are the beginning steps on the path to becoming a chef. And in writing, the first steps are selecting what elements to incorporate in our stories.

We know what our tools are and what ingredients we have to work with. The cookbooks showed us that our plot needs to have structure and our characters depth, we need a climax and arcs, we need resolution and payoffs. The tools are all laid out, and we know how to mix the basic ingredients. From reading countless books to see the results in practice, we know what a good story tastes like. But is that enough?

A cook takes all those tools and combines them into a forgettable narrative that brings nothing new or exciting to the table. The results might not be awful. It might even be good. But it doesn’t break new ground. Just like that Jambalaya recipe you found on Delish, it’s just okay. 

The chef, on the other hand, will study the recipe for a Victorian drama, then set out to do something new with it. They check the spice rack and add a pinch of the occult and a dash of mental illness. From the pantry, a scoop of murder mystery. They take the first-person narrative and shift it to a side character instead of the protagonist, taking something familiar to the contemporary audience and using it in an entirely new way. This all simmers together, and the chef creates Sherlock Holmes.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wasn’t a genius because he created some new idea to add to the literary world. He didn’t invent the detective, murder, mental health issues. He wasn’t the first to write stories that dabbled occasionally with the occult. Using first person narrative in the 1880s was commonplace. But he blended these elements artfully, changed them in subtle ways, and created something that has been renowned and loved for almost a hundred and fifty years.

Next time you make Jambalaya, mix things up. Start with the basics. Make sure the holy trinity and rice are there so it has a foundation of familiar elements. Instead of using a Cajun seasoning blend, make your own. Turn up the heat with more cayenne or the hit of herbs with more oregano. Pull some inspiration from Pelau and brown your chicken in brown sugar. Draw from Jollof and make a tomato puree with scotch bonnets instead. Add in some curry powder from both. In the end, you will have something entirely new, and it might be amazing.

Likewise, pull inspiration from various sources for your next writing project. Start with a foundation; let’s say epic fantasy. We know there might be a war in there. While swords and dragons can be fun, what about the actual cost of war? Watch military documentaries and read combat memoirs. Talk to veterans. Instead of the magnificent spectacle of dragons flying over the battlefield, explore just how terrifying it would be to the troops on the ground, trapped in the mud and surrounded by flames. Suddenly, your epic fantasy romp has become an exploration of post-traumatic stress in combat veterans. Both have been done before, but combined, they might offer something new.

There may be no new ingredients, but it’s our job to find new ways to use them. 

If you liked this piece, please follow B.K. Bass on Twitter @B_K_Bass.

What Makes Me Happy? By Eaton Krone (@eatonkrone)

What makes me happy?

It's strange, really, but I'm generally at my happiest when I can make the people around me... well, happy.

Don't get me wrong, I can be as happy as the next person when I sit on the couch, washing down a good pizza with some good beer while watching a really good (or bad, for that matter) sci-fi movie.

I'm also happy enjoying a sundowner while watching a spectacular sunset and taking enough photos of it to clog half my phone's storage, or reading "Chapter 1" of that book I've been burning to read for ages.

And there are plenty of other things that make me happy, enough to compensate for all those periods of negativity and heartache.

But doing something meaningful for someone else? That's taking things to a whole new level. Whether through something bigger like financial aid to a friend or loved one, to something small like a kind word to a stranger at a moment they seemed to need it most, there's just something about lifting someone else's spirit - that moment you see the weight being lifted - which no drug can emulate, even if it tried.

That's what makes everything worth it; that gives new meaning to what often feels like a meaningless life, because you know you've meant something to someone, regardless if it was for a substantial period or just a single moment.

And while the movie never lasts (nor the pizza and beer), the feeling of purpose you get from a meaningful act can last a lifetime.

So, yes, that's what makes me happy, although you can bet your behind that I'll still be enjoying my pizza-and-beer movie night this weekend, come hell or high water.

If you liked this piece, please follow Eaton Krone on Twitter @eatonkrone.

What Brings Me Joy? By V. E. Patton (truedialogue)

Now, I know it might seem odd to take my Joy from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows — John Koenig’s masterful collection of made up words — but bear with me.

All the words in the Dictionary are new, and this is important… they’re “not necessarily intended to be used in conversation, but to exist for their own sake, to give a semblance of order to a dark continent, so you can settle it yourself on your own terms, without feeling too lost — safe in the knowledge that we’re all lost.”

Writing fantasy brings me joy. It brought coastlines to the lost, dark continent of my life and allowed me to give it topography, mountains, valleys, caves, lakes, plains, flora, fauna, characters, and of course, magic. It allowed me to find my way in the real world and to create in my own made up worlds. After a little while, the creativity became more and more generous, taking over my real world too. Small, mundane things drew creativity from me. My mind discovered fantastic ways of being and doing. The portal between worlds became less of a doorway and more of a twitch of transition.

Sometimes when I tell people I write fantasy, I can see the question marks sprout from their heads like cartoon thought bubbles. They register the lines on my face and my grey hair first and a tiny frown appears, as if they wonder why someone my age would admit to reading fantasy, let alone writing it. Then they think about what they know of me: nurse, midwife, manager, CEO, business owner, facilitator, coach, wife, and mother, and they cock their head as if wondering whether I’ve lost the plot (pun intended). Then there’s a kind of polite ‘Oh, that’s [insert an inert word like nice or interesting here]’. And then it’s time to change the subject, their eyes sliding past me for saner folk.

And once in a while, people’s eyes will light up and they’ll want to know more. They, like me, are ringlorn. 

Koenig’s Dictionary describes ringlorn as “the wish that the modern world felt as epic as the one depicted in old stories and folktales — a place of tragedy and transcendence, of oaths and omens and fates, where everyday life felt like a quest for glory, a mythic bond with an ancient past or a battle for survival against a clear enemy, rather than an open-ended parlour game where all the rules are made up and the points don’t matter.”

I spent decades living an ordinary life. I let it be constrained by the made up rules of the parlour game. Work and grief hemmed me in until, one day, five and a half decades down the track, they didn’t. I began to hope, and I began to write.

Writing fantasy is tapping into that journey of transcendence, from ordinary to fantastic, from drudge to dweomer. Writing my stories is the ultimate coaching gig. Drawing potential from my flawed characters, helping them survive and thrive, outwitting the external villains while struggling against their internal monsters, all the while using the clues of oaths and omens to battle ogres and dragons — or to befriend them.

When I write fantasy, I feel I’m honouring the mythic bond of my own ancient path, paying tribute to past matriarchs and story tellers who’ve brought up their families against the odds, and instilled them with a love of stories, and a hope for a better life. 

For these, and for so many more reasons, writing fantasy brings me joy.

Image Credits Provided By the Writer:

• Header Image: Stefan Keller from Pixabay

• In-line Image: Peter Lomas from Pixabay

If you liked this piece, please follow V. E. Patton on Twitter @truedialogue.

Small Things and The Void By Gillian F. Barnes (@geezfresh)

It's somewhat strange to find myself struggling with an assignment that I concepted, but the truth is, I'm not feeling terribly joyful at present. In fact, I've been finding myself feeling downright melancholy and resentful as of late.

I have a lot to be joyful about. My home is finally coming together having just finished fully redoing a room that we've lovingly nicknamed “The Bear Suite” based on its formerly aggressive bear and stripe wallpaper.

My cats are happy because they finally have space to play and be themselves.

My husband and I both have office spaces that make us happy and are currently making freelance workout of them. It's summer, and that means outdoor escapes and adventures.

But despite all these things for which I should be actively thankful, I'm not. I feel trapped by the impending doom cloud that the new variants seem to be creating. I’ve lost the ability to travel safely, to interact without risk...I didn't realize how much I needed those things and now I'm not sure when they will return.

I think my real problem is, often, when I'm stressed, I can rely on "being in the moment", but right now, I don't like this moment and I don't know what my future is. I want to escape, but there is only "the void!” The almost-two-year void.

This is depressing and I apologize for that. I know one thing-when I'm like this it becomes all about little things…

Sunlight through light filtering shades on honey colored wood.

The taste of really delicious food like mango salsa.

The hilarious sound of the weird owl who late night visits us to scream at a nearby female owl.

Fresh sheets and warm baths.

Reading.

Walking through soft, fresh grass, barefoot and connected to the earth.

Small things matter and I need to remember that.

The Joy of Positive Feedback By KL Forslund (@KLForslund)

As everybody with an electric guitar does, I taught myself to play the Star Spangled Banner. Then I lugged my amp out to the driveway, and at the height of the local fireworks show in the neighborhood, I played it cranked up to eleven. The music reverberated in my bones and I could feel it in my chest. To finish the piece as the notes tumbled through my fingers and into the strings, I stepped closer to the amp and the magic moment happened. When the notes from the amp resonated in the strings and the body of the guitar, the universe opened up and for a moment, I became the god of heavy metal. Working the whammy bar stretched it out to a screeching crescendo. Then it was done. The perfect moment of instrument, music, and feedback completed. I think a neighbor clapped. My ears might have been ringing.

Of Course We Want Some

Ignoring the old sourpuss who doesn’t care what people think is easy. That guy wouldn’t be saying that if he didn’t want feedback. See how it works. We’re wired for it. There’s science buttons inside of us that get pressed when others notice what a good boy we are. I think we get a little lopsided in how we treat those buttons. Like it’s a sin to press them or the only game in town. Perhaps a bit of both is true.

Set the EQ

It’d be shallow to seek out compliments all day. I’m pretty sure someone like that would fall prey to empty sycophants and yes-men. In equal measure, I’d worry about somebody who can’t accept some praise. Life is hard, and sometimes your work stands out. Pause and warm yourself to the spark that somebody else got from you and amplified it back to you.

Made to be Heard

Every now and then, somebody tells me they liked something I wrote. It made them laugh, cry or think. That warms the cockles of my crusty heart. I write to affect people. If I only wrote for myself, I’d keep a diary. I don’t understand writers who say otherwise. You mean you spent time making a manuscript, editing, publishing, and it wasn’t meant to be read. Bull cookies.

A man making noise in a place where people can hear him, means to be heard. So we all want to know if it worked.

Make a Joyful Noise

I know somebody will find a mistake I made. And they’ll tell me. Somedays, it seems like more people are doing that than saying what they like. The world might be a better place if we all paused to tell somebody we liked their work. Not just the fancy pants big folks everybody clicks the like and adds a comment. But the little guys. That indie author would love to know you liked their book. The kid at the sub shop who feels like part of a replaceable part of the machine might like to know the sandwich they made tastes great. If you ever notice how often you don’t say anything, those silences could be filled with a good word or two.

Maybe you’ll feel it in your chest, like I did. Feedback is a circle.

If you liked this piece, please follow KL Forslund on Twitter @KLForslund.

An Experiment By Mark Gelinas (@elderac)

For my blog post, I am trying and experiment. For many, many years, I have been aware of talk to text programs such as Dragon Speak. However, for some reason, probably a reluctance to try something new, I have never used them. 

Recently however, I have started using Microsoft Word 365. Among the many features of this program, I have discovered it can translate words space directly to text. To me this eliminates the need to install additional software.

After discovering this feature, I gave it a quick test. I decided to give it a more extensive test at about the same time the opportunity opened to do this guest blog post. Therefore, I chose to use the blog post as a more complete test of this feature and see if I could use this for something meaningful.

Ordinarily I prefer to type and can touch type which is much faster than using this feature. However, I am getting older and realize eventually my fingers may not work as well as they do now. Therefore, I may need and alternate means of writing because I intend to continue writing as long as I am able.

This program is not perfect, but it will do the job. One of the problems I have encountered is it misunderstanding the words I am saying. Another problem is sometimes it does not start a sentence with a capital letter. 

Sometimes the program does not perform the edit functions like I want. For example, to remove a word or punctuation mark I should be able to simply say undo. But when I do, I may get a string of undos before the program realizes I want to delete the previous word. This is somewhat frustrating, but it is not insurmountable.

I have decided that this feature works well enough that is worth investing the time to better learn it's abilities and spend more time practicing with it. I expect that with practice it shall become easier to use. I think perhaps my next experiment will be to write a piece of flash fiction. If that works well I may move up to a short story. I do not know if I will attempt a novel length piece unless I have no alternative. But that will be for the future two determine.

In writing this, I did use one hand on the mouse. But using a mouse it's easier then typing. If I ever find the need to do something completely hands free I may have to find a different program.

In conclusion, I find this feature of Microsoft Word to be useful and have potential. If in the future I have a need for talk to text I cannot positively say I will not upgrade to something such as Dragon Speak, but for now I find this sufficient for my needs.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Mark Gelinas on Twitter @elderac.

Untitled By Jamie Thomas (@thatjamiethomas)

Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough.

Emily Dickinson

I’ve spent the better part of the last seventeen months in my house. It has been both a privilege for which I am deeply grateful, and a source of helpless frustration for all the while as I’ve stared at the same four walls and walked the same wood floors and slept beneath the same dusty chandelier, the world outside has been burning. I am generally a happy person, though prone to anxiety and catastrophic thinking, even when there is no definitive reason for it. There has been little cause for happiness of late, and more than enough reason to worry. 

It seems impossible under such circumstances to hope for joy, to say nothing of the guilt in seeking it when so many have lost so much, but of all the lessons these seventeen months have forced me to learn, it is that joy is essential, else living is just surviving, and it is not as difficult to find as one might suppose when faced with such tremendous fear and futility. In fact, it is in the face of such demons that our defiance to yield becomes our joy. 

Through this defiance, I discovered happiness in the small and insignificant, and in things that I had forgotten, or pushed aside, casualties of a life that drives one to exhaustion: An evening hike; a trip to the farmer’s market; the weeding of a vegetable patch; the brewing of a cup of tea. I listened to albums in their entirety, and spent hours working on a puzzle, a thing I have not done since childhood. I rolled my own beeswax candles and collected moth wings and Mabon bags and botanical prints, littering my workspace with them not because they served any real function, but because I liked to look at them. And I started collecting crystal champagne coupes even though they are impossible not to spill from, because they are also impossibly beautiful. 

Perhaps the most wondrous of these discoveries old and new was the rekindling of my love of reading. Since becoming an author, particularly one with contracts and deadlines and expectations, I’ve set less and less time aside for the stories of others in order to write stories for others. What a marvelous thing it has been to become reacquainted with books again, to find those which captivate you so fully that there is a certain sort of heartbreak at their ending. 

Best of all, I have spent untold hours with my family, sometimes in laughter and sometimes in easy silence, and it has been all the sweeter for knowing how precious it truly is. Difficult times bury some, but for others, they are the blindfold that heightens the senses, the rush of adrenaline that accompanies a brush with danger, reminding us of the precarious nature of life, and to cherish it.  

I have spent the better part of seventeen months in my house, and I am certain I will spend many more here as the world continues to burn and I continue to defy. Someday, when we are past this, if we are ever past this, I will seek joy outside these four walls. Until then, within these four walls, I will find joy in a life well lived.  

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Jamie Thomas on Twitter @thatjamiethomas.

What Inspires Me By Renée Gendron (@ReneeGendron)

Many things inspire my writing. I enjoy walking among farmer’s fields, watching the stalks of corn and cattails sway in the breeze. I like picking out animals in the clouds and watching them chase one another across the sky.

I enjoy learning about history to understand the geopolitics of the time and the cultural dynamics that led to decisions, dilemmas, and solutions. For example, the Pirate Republic based in Nassau, Bahamas, wouldn’t have been as threatening had it not been for all the furloughed privateers after the War of Spanish Secession. 

Conflict (interpersonal, cultural, and war) interests me. I like exploring the psychology of a person and picking apart what makes them tick. I like comparing how cultures address the same problem. It’s also interesting to see the differences in decision-making between cultures. One critical decision leads to peace or war. One piece of information shared or withheld leads to catastrophe. 

What inspires me? Grand arcs and personal conflict, the one line I pick up from a conversation two tables away. A chance encounter with someone on the street leads to a short conversation that sparks a story. 

Reading inspires me. I listen to audiobooks as I walk. I tend to favour historical romances, but I’ll listen to mysteries (detective, hard-boiled, cosy), sci-fi, fantasy, historical fiction, and non-fiction. 

Travelling gives me grand opportunities for adventure, exposure to other places, and insight into different perspectives. 

I’m a resourceful person. I’m good at scrounging and finding things. Through my *coughs* years, I’ve applied these skills to help people see a problem differently. I apply those skills to writing. I take two or more tropes and play around with them. I intentionally twist them in different ways to see the result. Sometimes the bending works. Other times it doesn’t. However, I view those times as opportunities to further my writing skills. There’s always a way to fix a story; I just haven’t thought of the solution yet. 

Most crucial to my inspiration is my willingness to take two or more things, mash them together, and see what kind of story I can make. I do this with tropes as well as genres. I intentionally play around with settings to see what unique stories can emerge. I write a lot of historical romances, and most recently, I’ve started writing historical westerns. In the historicals, there’s a duke or an earl, sometimes a prince. In a western, there’s a ranch. What else exists in these worlds that can be explored in creative ways? I make it a thought exercise which usually turns out to be a series. I have 16 series I need to develop. 

I intentionally branch out into other genres. When I took up writing again about ten years, I thought I would only write high-heat fantasy romances (second world fantasy romance). The more I wrote, the more I drew inspiration from various sources, and the more I tested the waters in other genres. I wrote historical fiction as it’s quite close in tone to fantasies. COVID struck, and my brain broke. To get out of my rut, I wrote my first contemporary romance (which will be released in Fall 2021). I was very pleased with how the contemporary turned out, and I branched out further into the western historical romance. I wrote a few sci-fi short stories and even a cyberpunk. 

The more I dip my toes into genres, the more creative I get. Creativity is also based on confidence. Creativity is about taking risks and venturing into new territories. It’s hard to do that when you don’t have confidence. To keep my confidence high, I take writing-related courses. I belong to a professional association, and I network with authors. I make it my intention to get better every day. 

I often get harsh but well-intentioned feedback. Is it easy? No. Does it help me? Yes. The more I understand the fundamentals of the craft, the more creative and inspired I become. I’m frustrated when I have an idea but can’t articulate it in a way that makes sense. The solution is simple—get better at what I do to ensure the words come out easier and better. 

Inspiration comes in all shapes and sizes. It comes at inopportune moments when I’m trying to fall asleep, and it comes at surprising moments when I overhear a barista chatting with a colleague. I consciously look for ways to be inspired and jot down notes (when my app on my phone hasn’t crashed stealing all my notes. I have a new app now, and it’s a lot like the old one *winks*, but this app backs up to the cloud. Never again shall I lose my one-liners). 

Inspiration is something active. I go out and engage with the environment, the creative content of others, and people. Inspiration is work, but oh, what fun work it is.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Renée Gendron on Twitter @ReneeGendron.