The Lies We Tell Ourselves

And the damage it can do...

Today I am so determined to update my blog that I'm writing the first draft down with pen and paper. Pen and freaking paper. I understand it's archaic and I'm going crazy with the want to use spell check (which unfortunately, for now, is my brain). Gasp. But with the never ending stream of revelations that I've been having on this surprisingly mild Monday the words are begging to be let out. So, pen and paper it is.

Readers, I have an embarrassing confession to make to you...

I am addicted to Soda Crush. It's completely irrational and if my husband were reading this he would sigh in relief that I have finally admitted the problem. I can't help it. The ooey gooey sweetness of puzzles just begging me to solve them, to take hostage the mediocrity of my day and turn it into a game. It gives me a small way to time travel, to take away minutes, hours even, of life that would be otherwise spent doing...

And that's when I think about all of the time I've lost. That fifteen minute break could have been a page edited. My hour lunch could have been a chapter written or a blog drafted out. The thirty minutes from when I get home to when my husband does, it could be cleaning or packing or creating anything. Why do I want to waste minutes (not to mention hours) of my life, day by day, doing nothing that has any actual value? Its not that I don't have a million and one productive things I could rather be doing. In fact, my list of goals has grown exponentially and I want them done, pretty much yesterday. 

I can only think of two reasons why I would throw away such valuable time. 

One: I'm a terrible, horrible, procrastinator. 

It's a habit I know I need to work on and I do push myself past it when I'm intentionally putting things off. I can usually face the music and have that hated conversation with myself that I'm only denying the inevitable. 

The second reason is one that I will continually deny. My very personality rejects the truth that it could even exists as a possibility and so internet, I tell it to you, in hopes to force out the lies.

Second: I am terrified to fail.

If I'm not doing anything productive, if I'm not even trying, then I have a pretty good excuse why something doesn't work out. I can meld in my mind that I didn't put the necessary effort into it. That if I would have wanted to, I would have succeeded. My brain can't even function the possibility that if I tried my absolute hardest that I could fail. So, to keep the lie alive, I play Soda Crush. 

Ridiculous isn't it? 

But I have the faintest inkling that I'm not alone. I feel like the world is full of distractions that have no meaning or purpose and we spend far too much of our time engaging in it. I'm not saying they aren't fun because let me tell you, I really do enjoy a good puzzle, but they are not worth the whole of the time we spend on them. And I can almost bet I'm not the only one whose afraid to try and I mean really try. This is a hard thing for me to admit, simply because I have never wanted to come off as the type of person who doesn't try. I never wanted anyone to look at me and say that I don't put forth the best effort I can into the things I love. I would hate if a reader accused me of not giving my all into my writing. Because I love to write. But I fear failure more. And my goals are suffering because of it. 

I see the problem now, for whatever reason it came to me today at lunch while I was playing away. I'm not going to vow not to pick up my phone and play a silly game for a few minutes a day, but a few minutes is all I'm going to give it. Instead, I'm going to put minutes, hours even, into my writing. Because even if I fail, I never will have the chance to truly succeed until I put all the possible effort I can into it. And I am scared to death of that. Having goals is terrifying when they matter to you, when you give yourself over to them. I just can't image what my life will be if I don't. Am I going to tell the generations under me that I can master level 356? Or will I show the world the story of my life through books, that I wrote, in my voice, that other people will cherish for years? 

Yeah, the answer is pretty clear. I can't change what I've already wasted but I can make sure that it doesn't get out of control again. And I encourage all of you to tone down the things you put your time into that are not pushing you forward in your goals. It's okay to fear failure, its not okay to let it win.

#SaturdayScenes #KillMatch

Good evening everyone!

Here is a Saturday Scene from my Nano novel, Kill Match: Book One in The Gladiatrix Series. I haven't editing this yet, or revised it, or even completely made sure the entirety of the plot has been hashed out. But I am excited about it and I love the idea that's there. It's going to have to take a back seat for a few months while I hash out the new Guarding the Vila Novella and Riding. Still, I wanted to share it tonight with all of you! I'm thinking I may start sharing this story on Saturdays. Hopefully.

Enjoy!

*

Sweat beads onto her brow and I just wait for them to fall. Once the salt gets into the wound under her eye, she will wince and that is when I’ll make my move. Like clockwork it only takes seconds and just as I suspected she hasn’t yet become use to the pain of a fight. I coil my arm back and strike, a sick thud ringing up through my arm and into my stomach. It wants me to recoil in horror but I push forward. There’s no time for remorse. She wavers, her tall frame unsure of what to do. I can’t wait for her to recover and know that I have to end this while I can. I force my leg up, the cut in my thigh burning from when her boot strap had torn through it. I put as much force as I can muster and aim directly for her stomach. An exasperated release of air can be heard as she folds in on herself and falls.

The loud cheers and banging of cans announces that I have won. I don’t feel victorious but when my Lanista yells my name to the crowd, I raise my hands and smile. That’s what they’re looking for and my group of supporters goes crazy with glee. Many of them have won heavy bets and will be lining their pockets with denarius. I need to convince them to share a small portion of their wealth with me and encouraging their joy tonight will help me persuade them.

The girl I have just beaten has finally come to, her Lanista pouring water onto her face and adding pressure to the cut beneath her eye. She finds me and I can see her good eye well with tears. She’s angry at us both but there’s nothing to be done about it now and she knows it. She nods just barely so no one else catches it but me. I blink and then a towel is thrown over my face and I am guided away before the mob of villagers can engulf me. I can hear the mumbling of my Lanista beside me but I cannot make out a single word. She had given me a few good hits and my ears have yet to adjust. I will need a few days to recover from the damage. The darkness of the towel and the chill of it’s water feel like bliss against my already swollen skin. Being a Gladiatrix may not be the best life, but I did luck out with a very wise trainer.

Alexander Aelius was a legend amongst Kardia. He had trained under the first and the best Lanistas and it was said his entire family had been raised to be warriors. His family name entitled him to choose whatever Gladiator or Gladiatrix he wanted to train before all others, and just as he had chosen my father before me, I was his first pick the year I turned seven. Even though we were not allowed to fight until we were twelve, we were picked much younger. As soon as one fighter passed another had to be chosen. The Lanistas would raise us until we were of age to stand in the arena. Alexander had raised me from the time my father died. He had been strict and regimented in my training, but as long as I performed under his rules he would treat me in  kind when the fight was over. That was more than most had and I knew that despite his impenetrable demeanor he cared for his fighters. I was lucky.

He sits me down onto the cot in my quarters. We have already walked halfway through the center and into Alexander’s training grounds. The building stands three stories, the tallest next to the palace and is home to three Lanista’s. All of which are under the care of Alexander himself. They will grow up to become his prodigies and one day will take his place at the top. I don’t live here most of the time any more. Since my sixteenth birthday I have been allowed to leave Kardia and stay with my family in the Dust Bowl, my village on the outskirts of the habitable land. I sleep most nights in the cot with my sister, her growing form becoming more unbearable as she kicks me in her sleep. Tonight, I will stay here and probably for several days after. When I am beat up as badly as I am now, my body will not be able to heal if I have to spend my nights being punched and kicked. The warmth of my boots are being pulled from my feet, as servants begin to remove my clothes. One finally pulls the towel from my head and I see the bright blue eyes of my Lanista.

“You did well, young warrior.” His voice hits my ears like gravel and is one of the few things that has been able to break through the swollen cartilage. “Now, sleep. We’ll train again in three days time.”

He moves away from me and I don’t even bother turning to see him go. I know his moves and footsteps by heart. I know that he will go train himself, deep into the night, until his body is almost as beaten as mine. Then for the next several days we will both be holed in our rooms, healing together. He has always believed a trainer cannot know good strategy unless he feels the pain of his men. Or women in my case. I am the first Gladiatrix Alexander has picked and many of his quotes are not tailored to include females. This, for whatever reason, made me like him more. Knowing he spared no exceptions for me made me proud. We were equals.

The servants continue to dress my wounds, the few cuts that were obtained from loose buckles, jewelry or any other adornments my opponent had, but mostly they focus on icing my swelling skin. The smells of herbs assault my nose as they rub medicines I know all too well, onto my body. A young girl, younger than my sister, lightly grazes my faces with her tiny hands, aloe and boswellia filling my breathing. She has long brown hair and big doe eyes. She is trying to hide her sympathy for me by bowing her head, but I know she can feel me watching her. She’s so gentle and still I can feel her tremble. I am almost certain I am the first fighter she has helped after a fight and I wish that I could hide my physical pain so she didn’t have to feel so frightened. Before she can step away from me, I grab her hand and squeeze. She looks at me and I smile. She tries not to cringe and I’m sure that my face is too swollen to show any happiness. I let her go and she scurries out of the room.

The others, done with their duties, also make their way out of my quarters, only one staying behind. She grabs my legs and shifts me into the bed, tucking the thick cotton tightly against my body. I know this one, she has been my lady for many years and I’m thankful to know she’s here tonight. She sweeps her hand across my forehead, moving my hair from my face. She looks at me square and I see pride in her smile.

“Sleep, dear. You’re safe once again.”

She scurries from the room, dimming all but one of the candles. I try to fight the darkness but it pulls at my eyelids. Finally after only moments, I have lost and it’s thick tendrils pull me under.

The glaring light made of fire burned its way through my skin. I groan in pain as I try to pull the blankets over me. It can’t already be day when only minutes ago I had fallen asleep. The sound of feet prove me wrong, as if the sun itself wasn’t enough. I roll to my side, losing my breath when the bruises on my ribs are jostled. I had forgotten I had taken a kick to my side. I moved back to my backside, unable to take the pressure of my body. My groans are heard and I feel hands grabbing the blanket and pulling it away from my face. I slam my eyes shut, a pounding headache already beginning at the bridge of my nose.

“I’ve brought you breakfast, miss. And water. I was told that you needed to eat and drink and that I wasn’t to let you bully me out of waking you.” A cool towel is placed over my eyes and I relax, beginning to forgive the servant. “There, that must be better. Now, if you nod your head to let me know you’re awake I can leave you to it.”

I nod my head once, careful not to jostle the brain that must lay inside and I can hear the padding of feet fading. I sit up, careful to hold the towel where it sits. She was kind to leave me, but stupid. If my Lanista knew, she would be cast out for her inability to listen. I can’t let that poor girl’s livelihood be left on me. Besides, we’ve lost enough staff since I’ve been here, I’m not sure we could spare another. I remove the cloth slowly and squint my eyes open. I see the cheese and bread sitting on my bedside, just as she’d promised and a pint of water sweating beside it. I reach for it, the glass nearly slipping from my hand before I can get the other around it. My throat is barren like the wasteland outside and the water is my rain. I can feel my headache running to the depths of my skull as the dehydration is quenched.

Drops spill to my bedding, running down the front of my sleep clothes and making my skin slick. The glass drops as I try to replace it and I am too tired to clean it up. One of my girls will see it soon enough. I skip the dry bread and reach instead for the cheese. It is rich and gooey, easily sliding into the pit of my stomach. It rolls, just once, at the strain it must use to process the fuel. If it wasn’t so exhausted, I’m sure I would be sick. But thankfully my body is worn. I am barely able to finish the piece before I am tossed back into a dreamless sleep.

The next time I wake, it is dark. Few lights flicker in the corners, candles well worn almost down to the nub. I hear whispers of conversation just outside my door and know them both immediately. My nursemaid, Gemma, is trying to calm Nile. He sounds concerned, practically pleading.

“Sir, she needs her rest. I know you are worried, but there is nothing that you can do. I’ve seen to her myself, she’s just bruised. I would tell you if it were serious.”

She’s right, but I still hate the way she sounds offended. As if my best friend since birth shouldn’t be worried after he watched me get pummeled. Even though both Nile and I know that he isn’t allowed in my rooms, the trick was not to get caught by our Lanista’s. I shift trying to hear them better and my voice betrays a groan.

“She doesn’t sound well!” Nile raises his voice from his whisper and storms into the door.

His broad shape is outlined in gold and from the angle I’m at, I cannot see his face. He rushes toward my side and helps me to shift back where I had been laying before I was stupid enough to move.

“Libby, what’re you doing? You stupid, stupid little girl.”

His smile is rich and I try to smile back. I wince and he starts laughing, the rich tones of a musician.

“I must apologize, Gemma. She is just fine. I can see she has enough sense to know she’s in pain. It isn’t as bad as I had assumed.”

I try to punch him and wince again in pain. He laughs, bolder this time and wipes the hair from my face.

“You took quite a beating last night. It’s been awhile since I’ve been that nervous you would lose. I actually considered betting against you. I’m glad I didn’t. Although, Crystal isn’t still in her chambers. Good thing the judge only cares what happens in his ring.”

I try to sit up. I’m glad to hear I didn’t do much damage to the girl, but I hate others knowing how much damage she did to me. I get my elbows underneath me and I push my chest up. Nile helps steady my movements and is ready to catch me if needed. Only tiny memories of dizziness assault me. All that is left is the soreness of my body and the cosmetic look of being beaten. Those are easily remedied and at times can even be a blessing. Pity is one of humanity's biggest weaknesses in a fight. That and arrogance.

“Did you…” I cough, my throat dry from under use and sleep. “Did you win big?”

He smiles. Of course he did. I know that he always bets big when I’m fighting. I’ve told him to. Our village cannot be hit with any more starvation and I know I won’t lose knowing what the consequences will be. Before I can say another word, Nile pulls an all too familiar book from his vest. I try to roll my eyes but get only half way before a sharp pain hits me. I close my eyes and fall back on the bed unable to hold myself up any longer under the pressure. Strong hands help guide me.

“I know how much you love this book, but you mustn’t strain yourself Librarea (Lie-b-rare-e-a; sounds like Library).” He tries sounding sarcastic but I can hear the concern lacing his voice.

“Don’t you dare call me that. I may be down, but I’m far from being incapable of beating you.”

I slanted my eyes open just slightly to see his smile. He knew I didn’t like to be called by my full name. My mother, a historic reader of sorts, had loved the idea of a library so much that she named me in kind. The ironic part was I had never learned to read. I settled in, my head starting to pound from the effort of movement. Nile’s voice became a soft background hum. I hardly needed to hear his words, since I had known this story since my very birth. It was the only book my father had ever read to me. It was the only book I knew. The bass of his words put me back into a deep sleep.

#SaturdayScenes #Red

Guarding the Vila Book One

Happy Saturday morning everyone!

I decided that I would do a Saturday scene today from my novel, Red, which will be released on November 30th. I am so excited to receive the final edit on Monday and finally be able to start polishing and formatting! 

If you happen to like today's post, please check out my novelette that takes place prior to Red. It is free on Amazon for the next two days, so you should hurry! Here's the link: The Beginning on Amazon

**

Marie was staying in the next town over, her children safe from the eyes of people who were watching me. I picked up my pace knowing I wouldn’t make it before dark but wanting to cover as much ground as possible before I could no longer see. Just as the clearing to the village was disappearing from view, I heard a tiny little yip come from a few paces back. A sweet puppy, hardly big enough to be away from its mother, sat with its tail wagging. He must have been the runt of the litter, too small to keep up with his siblings. His face was freckled with white, while the rest of him was colored in a deep brown. Tiny little bones pushed against his all too thin skin and the look of him broke the rock that had become my heart. I considered him for a moment before quickly realizing I was in no place to take care of him, when taking care of myself was more than I was capable of. I tried to shoo him away, yelling at the poor thing until he sauntered off. I took off walking again, only to find him a few moments later trailing behind once again. Several times I stopped to try to push him away, my attempts more half-hearted the more often I did them. Finally I gave into his resilience. I scratched behind his ears as I handed him a scrap from my pocket.

            “You sir, are a determined little pup. Perhaps, you don’t really need me to take care of you.”

He yipped back in agreeance, almost as if he understood. I shrugged, not wanting to read too much into it and continued on. Darkness came along with exhaustion. I crawled into a hollowed out tree, pulling my cape as tightly as I could, trying to push off the chill. The pup jumped up onto my chest, snuggling deep until he was comfortable in his makeshift bed. I became completely overtaken by his audacity and how brave he must be to smell the wolf and not care. I smiled stupidly, and fell into a dreamless sleep. The first one I’ve had since I had died. The next morning I awoke to a gurgled whine of death. The puppy at some point had left my arms and I searched around for him frantically. Not more than feet from me a large white wolf held my sweet little pup in his muzzle, shaking him violently until he was limply dangling and torn to shreds. The wolf then dropped him at his feet, sauntering back into whatever Hell he had crawled out of. I dropped to my knees, wavering at the injustice.

                        “It was a warning.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t need to. I would know that voice for the rest of my life.

                               “What do you mean? A warning for what? How could killing an innocent puppy be justified?”

I felt more than heard her sigh, the earth seeming to come to my aid.

“Because, Red. It’s not about whose innocent and whose guilty. It’s about rules. It has always been about the rules. And the rule is you are not allowed to love. If you do, they will be the ones to pay and you will be the one to mourn. Death means nothing to you until it is done to someone you love. The Guards will come with their Trackers and take everything you want to keep. This was just a warning not to walk too close to that line because there will be no mercy for you, for any of the Vilas.”

            War gurgled in my veins. The Fates from both sectors of Heaven and Hell were playing with a fire that someday they wouldn’t be able to control. My fists dug deep into the dirt, horrible images of what was to come blurring reality. I almost choked on the words trying to fall from my mouth.

                               “What about Marie? The girls?” I would be lost if I had to give them up, but I would if it meant they would be able to live.

“Family is a sacred exception. You have no reason to fear for them. They will not be made an example of like the pup was.”

            I got up from the ground, a promise as solid as the hills held tightly in my heart. I would never bring another the pain that occurred here today. I would keep my distance, staying safely away from the humans. The wolves were my ghosts to deal with and the Fates my future to conquer. I got to my feet slowly and walked, refusing to look back knowing the scene behind me would be forever burned into my memories.

Nano-ing

Ish... 

It's November, a time of rain for Seattle. Leaves and turkey and holiday shopping. Oh, and this little thing called NanoWriMo. Some of you may have heard of it (who am I kidding, this is G+ I'm mainly working with) but for those of you who haven't, in the nicest words I can muster, it is a month of pure insanity. The goal is 50,000 words in 30 days. It's meant to get authors going with the support of an entire world of other writers to keep you accountable. I can't knock it, in fact, I highly endorse it. My first novel Red came out of it and I couldn't be happier with the push (OK, shove) NanoWriMo gave me. 

But this year, oh yeah, this year is different. Nano and I are fighting. It is day four. Last year at day four, I was bright eyed and optimistic. I was writing like a hound, barely able to keep away from my binder (yes, I used a freaking binder). My husband thought I was a drone, only a shadow of his formerly talkative wife, as I 'uh-huh'd' my way through our daily conversations. I couldn't fail. Neigh, I wouldn't fail. 

I would love to say this year I am on top of it. I am at the helm of my novel's ship and I'm ready to sail onto another immediate publication. But I've never been good at lying. I am miserably behind. Hardly enough words written to even count and as much as I am excited to see other people's success, I can't help but feel like I want to slap them with my 9 million tons of stress. Over and over again. Then laugh. 

Sure, I know that isn't very nice. Do they deserve it? No. Would it make me feel better? I wish I could be the bigger person and tell you it wouldn't, but oh the relief to not be the only one. 

I'm being melodramatic and I'm sorry. I shouldn't be. I actually have things going pretty well, it's just taking a lot of my time and mind power to keep everything going at the pace it is demanding from me. It makes my creativity flounder. I am so excited for the novel I doing for NanoWriMo and I really would love to start it sooner, there are just a million other things to do. Like this blog, that didn't really need to be done, but I seriously needed a real life outlet to consume my thoughts for 15 minutes before I go back to the ups and downs of marketing a self published book. I am preparing for my novel's launch and it is a lot of research, since I've never done it before. 

So for all you amazing Nano-er's out there: I am proud of you! Sincerely, no matter how much I am feeling in the gutter, I do want you to succeed. And I hope that I can catch up and succeed with you! You are all amazing and writing a book is no joke. Don't let anyone let you feel like you shouldn't be doing what you're doing. Take it from me, it's worth it in the end!

Off to go get that book launch ready... The Nano-book that started me on this insane path. 

Ciao.

#Saturday Scenes

Before I start my Saturday Scene, I wanted to let you guys know that I used the photo above from depositphotos. I bought a great deal from them- $39 for 100 photos. I'm just getting the hang of editing and whatnot so it may not be perfect but I am so excited to be learning something new and extremely useful for my time ahead!

*
This is the first chapter in part one of my first book entitled, Red. It is the first book in the Guarding the Vila series and I am currently in the editing phase. The part you will be reading is the starting story of the real life Red Riding Hood. It is a short story/novella that I am hoping to release free to the public in October. Enjoy!
*

One

France, Fall of 1697

It was early, the fog still clinging to the trees around the quaint village where I lived. The dew had yet to be disturbed and the leaves lit the ground on fire with their color. The wooden cabins lay laced with mist, hardly being seen in the distance. I should have been soaking in the beauty, loving the morning before the winter turned it cold, but Mama had woken me too early after her long trip from Grandmere's, causing my mood to turn foul with each passing breath. No amount of beauty, or threat of its extinction could soften the sour look I gave the dawn.

"Scarlett," She called. "You need to wake up! Grandmere is sick and the wolves are out. I need you to get up and go light the fires for her tonight. She is too weak to do them herself and I must go to town and fetch your sister for help."

I mumbled sleepily and rolled over trying to ignore the urgency in her voice.

"Girl, wake up!"

She shook me heavily as I tried to burrow deeper under my covers, when suddenly she tore them off completely. She scowled, tapping her foot impatiently, as I crawled begrudgingly from my bed to get dressed. I did not want to be up and I did not care to walk the distance to Grandmere's. This could wait, I was certain, but if I did not do as I was asked, I would be left no coin for food and Mama's temper would flare when she returned. It seemed far better, for now, to appease her. She quickly kissed my head as she pulled on her cape.

"You know what you must do?" I rolled my eyes with my back still turned towards her.

"Yes, Mama. Light the fires at Grandmere's." She gave me a curt nod.

"And you must do it before dark. Do not stray Scarlett. I'm trusting you."

Before I could say more she was out the door and on her way to the town a half days walk north of here. I couldn't help grumbling as the chill of the floor crept through my bare feet, cursing at my unfortunate luck. I should have been married off long ago, released from being a burden on my family and them a burden on me. But at twenty I was still living at home taking care of Mama as if I were an old maid. It was customary for fathers to pick a future husband, to take care of his daughter as soon as she was of age. He had done all of this, choosing a boy about my age named Jacques. He was brave and eager to become the lead hunter's apprentice, convincing my father of his worth even though he came from humble beginnings. My father always called him a wolf in sheep's clothing, insisting he was more predator than goat herder. All had been set until my betrothed died at the age of sixteen, weeks short of when we would be wed.

Papa had taken him on an early hunting trip, training him to become a hunter himself. They did not stand a chance against them. The wolves tore them apart to the point of barely being recognizable. The only indicator that it was them were the pieces of clothing strewn on the ground and the emblem embedded in my father's chewed fist, declaring him the lead hunter of our village. Since his death, Mama has refused to give me away and the fear of the wolves is palatable. The fires were key to keeping the beasts at bay, but as I stood in the morning light, I could not bring myself to head into the woods towards the cabin. I did have a little time until it would be absolutely necessary to leave in order to be there before dark. I turned my steps towards the baker's cabin, the forest drifting away at my back.

The smell of fresh baked bread and hot iron filled the air. The earliest risers were always the baker and the blacksmith. I loved the way the morning swirled with the scent, both metallic and warm. The baker ran her shop out of her small cabin, tucked deeply into the middle of our village, a pitched lean-to in front. The outside was lined with shelving and tables, all holding the goods she baked to sell. Thankfully, I had a few coins to fill my hunger with since the smells of her wares were driving my stomach to flips.

A crowd of villagers were pulled tightly together by the time I reached the shop, requiring me to push my way through to the front. A week ago I had come, craving the taste of scones and just as I had arrived a traveler snatched the last one from the shelf greedily. I knew I needed to be quick, so I would not be cheated again. I none too gently elbowed a man in a graying outfit, quickly taking his surprise as an advantage to step in front of him. I saw his glare from the corner of my eye, words of protest hanging on his lips. He looked to the hood at my back, recognizing me instantly.

"Red! You should try to watch your elbows. It's not very ladylike to be shoving men around." 

He gave me a wink, a smile spreading across his face. Claude was the handsome, carefree boy in our village, whose looks alone would make even the most proper lady swoon. His golden hair only haloed his charm and his eyes of brun constantly danced with mischief. He made every girl smile and would have no trouble finding a bride... except that he was completely in love with me. He had asked my Mama numerous times for my hand, but every time, she declined. We, of course, had our fun but I couldn't imagine marrying a butcher's boy, the stench of death burned into his hands. I was a hunter's daughter and to marry outside of my class was beneath me. My father had always promised me a hunter and even in his absence I would accept no less.

I turned away from Claude, unconcerned with his teasing and grabbed for the last raspberry scone, snatching it from the hand of a battered old man. He looked pitiful, urging me with his eyes to give up the scone I had taken. I refused, shrugging my shoulders, pointing instead to a pie that was still waiting to be taken from the shelf. He shook his head in disgust at my suggestion. I did not feel guilty as I bit into the gooey raspberry filling, the flavors comforting my decision to be harsh. All acts were fair when dealing with the baker's delicious wares. The old man would just have to learn as I had to be quicker next time.

I left my coin in the hands of the baker's daughter then shuffled my way out of the crowd, satisfied with my haul. Claude was right on my heels, obnoxiously digging into a scone of his own. When we were far enough away to be simply a memory to the crowd, the scones being licked clean from our fingers, he swooped me up by the waist, planting a sugar filled kiss on my lips with force. I pushed at his arms to let me go and he did, dropping me lightly to my toes. I grabbed his hand and ran towards a small alley between two stables, hidden away from prying eyes.

"Claude! That was not discrete! I thought we agreed it wouldn't be proper, kissing in the streets. What if someone saw? My reputation would be ruined, you retched boy!

I slapped at his chest but he just laughed, the contagious sound thrumming through my fingers.

"No one saw us, darling girl. You know I would be ashamed if I ended up the cause of your fallen honor. I would never be so rash!" He gently brushed my cheek. "You are as precious as a rose in bloom." Stepping back, he looked around in delight. "But behold! We are alone. So. Where were we?"

He grabbed me by the waist, sweeping me up into another kiss. This time I returned it, consumed by his urgency. He tasted of jam and warm bread, and for a moment it didn't matter who we were. We could have been anyone and the future laid out before us. All that mattered was that it felt right. That moment, however sweet, just as the roses were, faded quickly. He returned me to my feet, that I carefully shuffled trying to regain my balance. I adjusted my skirts and cape back to their proper position.

"What is the meaning of all of the commotion this morning? There are so many people about so early."

"The men are going on their hunt tomorrow for the wolves so the town is throwing a festival for their safe return. There'll be plenty of food and drink today, Mon Cheri! It's a celebration!"

He slurred his words in exaggerated excitement and I couldn't help the grin that came to my face. I loved the festivities before a hunt. There was no better place in all of France to be when our village was celebrating the safe returns of our men. Claude's enthusiasm only spurred on my own. The town would be so alive today, whereas tomorrow there would be nothing but drowning amounts of fear. Terror that their loved ones may not return. I grabbed Claude's hand and started dragging him towards the pub. He played along that my strength overwhelmed his own.

"Where are you taking me, my rose?" He said with feigned concern.

I just winked and we ran through the streets laughing.

A Call for Help

Resources are desperately

needed!

This is going to start out random but I promise you it gets to the point... eventually.

It has been one week since I’ve had any wheat. One week.

That means an entire week of no bread. No pasta. No egg soufflés!!! (and in case you didn’t know, egg soufflés are my favorite!)

*Deep breaths*

You remember my post when I got back from Vegas that talked about new beginnings? Yeah, this is one of them. It isn’t a permanent removal of all things delicious, I know that everything is a moderation thing, it’s just a temporary, I really need to work on my portions because I love bread way too much, thing. In truth it makes me feel better but that doesn’t mean that I am not craving the hell out of it. Which, as a side note, I am.

In better news, I removed the fake claws I had put on for vacation and can now quickly and comfortably type. It makes blogging and drafting a novel much, much easier. Besides, they were done horrifically by the salon I had gone to and were practically tearing at my real nails every time I did anything. I’m much happier to have my short, real nails back and I think I’ve learned my lesson that I am no longer a girl who can have long nails. I’m too incompetent for them and I respect any woman who can get through her day without hassle that has long nails, real or fake. Just because I am on the subject of ‘girly things’ I have one more observation that I came across this weekend: I am a red head, with extremely pale skin. So pale, in fact, that the moment I move or get even a little warm my face turns a serious shade of red. This makes foundations/powders/all makeup that is supposed to cover your face extremely important to me. I also have highly sensitive skin, so chemicals don’t do me any favors. This makes finding products pretty tough. I took my fifth trip into Ulta (a specialty makeup store in my area) to try and find something that would help. Everything I’ve purchased thus far has failed, caked, made me break out or just in general didn’t look right. Thankfully I found a makeup line called It. I purchased their new CC Veil cream and the foundation powder and Oh my god. If you have any issues finding a good base for your makeup seriously, try this. I am in love.

NOW ON TO THE SERIOUS THINGS…

I posted in the Writer’s Discussion community last night asking how people were balancing all things in life and being an author. It was a relief to see so many people are as clueless as me. And then, I thought about it and panicked a little. Posting it was a light hearted thing until I realized that I actually needed an answer. I have yet to run into this problem because I’ve never really had long term projects. I am awesome at getting things done. I can pack a day like you wouldn’t believe, to make sure everything gets taken care of and there’s enough time to gloat when it’s finished. But something that takes weeks, months, years to complete. Oh. My. Lanta. I am at a complete loss. How in the heck do you stay motivated? How do you stay on track? How do you keep an insane schedule for that period of time? How do you not get freaking bored with what you’re doing, everyday all day for months!?

Yikes.

I don’t have the answer and for the first time in my entire life I cannot even try to fake having the answer. More often than not I can push through and pretend until I figure it out. Well, it’s been a year since Red was conceptualized and I still have no, freaking, clue. I’ve googled. I’ve conversed. I’ve read the journey of others. And probably for the first time since the internet was realized, there just isn’t an answer. There is no easy fix. No twelve step program. There’s no template, no demo for me to use. No one on this bloody planet has an answer for balancing and continuing on with a novel. And if they do, they’re not sharing (which in this case, if we ever meet and I find out you know, we’re going to have problems). It seems that nearly every question I’ve ever asked regarding the writing of a novel it has been completely opinion based or everyone else has the same darn question!

This leads me to the real reason for this blog (even though it began with completely off topic conversation). I would like to start a resource list, so that when people have questions or need just a direction to look there is an easy page to scroll through. I cannot tell you how much time I’ve wasted clicking through Google search results only to get something that either doesn’t apply or is just someone using keywords to get blog views. I would like to try to minimize this, but to do that I need everyone’s help. I’m certainly not the most internet savvy person in the world, and I’ve only found a handful of useful websites for different questions about writing a novel. I would like your input on what has helped you tremendously in your journey thus far. Here’s an example of the types of categories I’m looking for:  

-Self publishing tips

-The legalities (ISBN’s, business license, taxes, etc)

-How to stay motivated

-Good time management tips

-Plotting, character development, word choice

-Marketing/Self promotion

-Getting  an editor, illustrator, beta readers

These are just a few bumps that I’ve found where I’ve had trouble finding good links/blogs/resources to find the answers to the questions I have. Not only will this help me as a writer (and any other writers who are struggling with maybe what questions to even ask) but also it’ll help me as a reader. I’m always looking for well written/well published books too! So knowing how amazing everyone on G+ is I’m sure we can put together a killer resource list that I can make available in case there are people struggling for the answers. Even if they don’t have everything you need, at least it’ll give writers a place to start. Please either comment here, on my page or message me so that I can put the list together.

Thanks J

Yup, I'm getting married

I wrote this blog over a week ago but have just now gotten around to posting it, so please forgive the timeframe blunders :)

I’m sitting in front of my computer, twenty-five days until D-Day, sipping coffee and thanking the heavens it’s Friday. My heart is ripping at the seams trying to get me to do anything other than what I’m doing, screaming that there must be something more productive that I could be doing. Unfortunately there isn’t. This is all there is, right in this moment, that matters. I haven’t written a blog post in a little while and I want to keep it updated and I want to document these seconds because chances are, I will never go through them again. They’re worrisome and frustrating along with excitement and elation. They are also fleeting, one leaving only to have another rush to take its place. I am a mess.

My life for the next twenty-five days (and the last few) has been filled with finding things to sell at our local flea market, making chap sticks, fulfilling thirty-day physical challenges and panicking that I’m not doing enough or missing something. I’ve picked up doing some side help for a little cash and have ensured that reserved plans have remained at a minimum. I want to go to Vegas with a clear to-do list and be able to do whatever we want without restriction. The only plans we have are 1) to get married (obviously) and 2) I have made dinner reservations the first night we are there to eat at Gordon Ramsey’s restaurant.  I am refusing to Google all the things you can do in Vegas because I would rather be surprised when I get there than to have the internet spoil it all for me! (Which btw it is kind of killing me because I am a planner by nature—Which means I’m fighting freaking nature. Ugh)

I’m going to tell you all a secret (which by means of posting it online no longer makes it a secret, but we’ll just pretend). I’m pretty terrified right now and you’ll never guess why…

Nope, it’s not getting married.

No, it’s not the trip because we’re driving not flying.

Naw, it’s not the money or my home I’m worried about.

Give up?

It’s changing my freaking name.

I know, most people are excited for this. They doodle it on their books and practice saying it over and over again. And I know I don’t have to change it, my soon-to-be husband has told me as much, but I’m going to. I think it represents something deeper than what it’s become in this day and age. I believe he deserves to have me called by his family name, proof that I’ve chosen him and that his lineage could move forward. He has proven his worth to own my name. [And no, I don’t care to hear your pleas of equality. I’m going to keep my opinions on it to myself just as I expect you to do. Thank you very much.] It still scares me a little to lose that piece of my identity and assume a new one. I know it’s not changing who I am, but I wish you could see that it will. I fully expect it to. It’s going to test my fear of letting go and my fears are one of the things I hold closely. It’s going to challenge my perception of what I believe matters and how I overcome things (and names) dictating what I believe.

I have always held my father in very high regards. Often I will chose to do (or not to do) something because of how I think he would feel about it. I carry his name and the last thing I would ever want to do is tarnish it.

See the key words there? I carry his name. Without that burden/motivator would I choose differently? I don’t know because I’ve never been presented with it before. Well, until now. The question has never even come to mind because I wasn’t sure I would want to ever be married.

Now, none of this is to say that I am not ready to be married. That I do not want to be married. Nor that we are not destined to be together. Because honestly, he’s my best friend, my go to, my biggest supporter and hardest critic. He’s everything that I look for in a person and someone I trust beyond measure. He matters to me as much as I matter to myself. I hold his happiness in the same regard I hold my own. You can ask anyone when I tell you, we are meant to be together in all lifetimes. I have never doubted that we were meant for each other. All of this doesn’t mean that I cannot hold tiny pockets of fear and concern. They are something that my mind and heart does to myself. They are remnants of my past and human nature that are not necessarily the fault of anyone but myself. Changing my name just happens to be one of them.    

At the end of this month I will be in Vegas with my best friend, exploring the city to all its limits. At the end of this month I can finally stop hearing the question, ‘Oh, when are you guys getting married’. At the end of this month I will be a freaking ray of sunshine. All because, finally, at the end of this month my last name will start with a B instead of a G and we will face any of the change that’s to come with it, together, the way it’s meant to be.

Letter to Zelda

Dear Zelda,

I'm a stranger to you. A woman just about the same in age and probably little else in common. Well, except for one detail. One major moment that you and I (and I’m sure many others) unfortunately share. A piece of ourselves that we never wanted to lose and would give up any bond that we may form because of its absence. But we can’t. Change, in this instance, doesn't exist. Peace can almost seem unobtainable at times. So, instead I offer you a glimpse inside the empty hole that lays inside me, in an impossible hope that it lessens the one in you. I provide as many condolences as I can possibly give and what little advice from my own experience that I may have.

My father died when I was twenty. Cancer buried him in pain so deep that a hospice nurse took away the pain with morphine. And that is what killed him. I had time to say goodbye, but I also had too many days to see the pain. I can't express the hopelessness and confusion of wanting someone to stop hurting but not wanting to except the solution they choose. I know, it’s not the same and I would be a god-damn hypocrite if I told you I understood. I don’t. And neither does anyone else so don't ever let them cheapen your grief. Don't ever let them take that from you, because as much as it is horrible and excruciating, it is yours to bare, yours to come out of, and yours alone to heal from. You deserve the choice to cry or scream. To stay silent or talk until your throat burns. For me? It’s been pretty close to every extreme you can think of. There is no shame in grief. Not ever. 

The world will mourn your father and I’m sure with the way the world works, things will be said. Don't let them get to you. Don't follow their lead. You are the one who can control the memories you have and the view you hold. I pray that you find a shield in your mind to avoid the darkest words. The way of death is always tragic, always heartbreaking and always leaves someone behind. Let your own voice of the truth be the loudest in your heart.

I'm not going to tell you it gets better because I’m not a liar. It doesn’t. Losing a father is probably one of the hardest things I've ever been through. I don’t cry everyday or blame anyone. It doesn't come up every minute of every hour. It’s only the times when I get a new job, or when I’m going to be married. When I attend and then graduate from college. After I've made some big decision that it hits me. That I feel all the things I felt the first time I realized he isn't here. No, it doesn't get better but life does go on. Good things have come to me and I can absolutely say I'm happy. I miss my father dearly but I love him even more and in doing so it gives me more strength to continue in all of my dreams because I know that it’s what he has always meant for me to do.

Friend, sister in tragedy, companion in the love for our fathers. I give to you my deepest and most heartfelt love. Because, I’ve been into the pit and emerged. I will trudge through that hole for the rest of my life and right next to that hole I hold a light for you. Everyone needs to know dawn is on its way, when they are struggling through their darkest nights.

- A Friend

#SaturdayScene Part II

#SaturdayScenes

This piece is from Red, the novel I am publishing in November. It is coming from the perspective of Jac, a rather evil blast from Little Red's past. This is before the second editing phase but I hope you all enjoy!

***

　　　　I waited patiently in the expensive leather chair I had imported from Italy. I liked them enough not to want to live without them and it was evenings like this I knew I had made the right decision. I had gone against her to make sure these were included in this room, making the partnership seem more even. This was our place of business, not just hers. 

　　　　I twisted the whiskey glass that was pooling water in my hand and took a sip. If there was anything I had learned it was that the old witch did not like to be rushed, but I was becoming restless. The only thing worse than an angry witch was a restless wolf. Well, except possibly in this case. She was an extremely uptight witch already and evil to the core. I wouldn’t want to see the poor sucker who challenged her power. Thankfully we wouldn’t need to test each other since the thick door opened, quietly exposing a shadow slipping in. 

　　　　We’d made sure to have this place completely soundproof, a necessity with so many good ears around. It was good sized and made of precious mahogany. A bar sat in the opposite corner of the meeting area. Massive bookshelves filled with ancient texts lined the entirety of the walls. I’d often thought this room looked as if it belonged to an aging professor rather than two criminal masterminds plotting war. She walked in, poised as ever, pulling my gaze from the books.

　　　　She poured herself a drink at the bar before she took the seat across from me. She crossed her mile long legs and smirked. She was lithe, deadly and beautiful. If I were a lesser man I would have been very tempted to pursue this one, but I had bigger things to deal with and a betrothed to wed. Besides, I heard the stories of the men that she bed. Most were no longer able to tell the tales themselves since they’d been muted, deafened and blinded. Poor bastards. By the time she took her second sip I had enough of waiting for her.

　　　　“I’m glad you called this meeting. She must have agreed to your proposal then.” She measured me with sharp eyes before taking a long pull from her glass.

　　　　“No, she refused. But, not to worry. She will come around soon.”

　　　　I squeezed my fists, shattering glass, whiskey and water running down into the pristine leather.

　　　　“What do you mean, do not worry? I will have her either way, witch. Make no mistake about my intentions. You should be the one to worry. If she does not come willingly to me the deal is off. You will no longer have the Trackers on your side to fight the Guard. Instead we will turn against you, giving into our very instinct. Your dogs, as you so lovingly call them, will not come to your aid and that will be the end of your life long revenge.” I sneered at her. “You forget your place in this plan. I have half a mind to just take her now and be done with this nonsense.”

　　　　She set her half empty glass onto the table, a too smug smile creeping onto her face.

　　　　“Try, Mr. Dubois. I won’t even threaten to stop you. But, I feel I must tell you that another player has entered our game. One who makes us both look like mice and since I’m not the one after our dear Red, I fear it will not be me that he will be hunting.”

　　　　She threw back her head and laughed, a dark sound that made every hair on my body stand to attention. I lunged at her, grabbing her throat in my already shifted claws, the white fur of my wolf brushing her face.

　　　　“What do you know witch?” 

　　　　She stopped abruptly finally looking directly into my eyes, challenging me to try something.

　　　　“Follow the girl and see for yourself, Wolf! And when you come back with your tail between your legs maybe you’ll be able to remember not to bite the hand that feeds.”

　　　　With her words ringing in my ear, pushing me forward, I stormed out of the house, ripping through my remaining clothing as soon as my feet hit the forest floor. 

The Mistakes of a First Time Novelist

Well, sort of...

Writing the first draft-- Check!

Editing your first draft-- Check!

Writing your second draft-- Check!

Sending to Betas-- Check!

Making Beta Edits-- Check!

Realizing you didn't edit your first draft that great and now your second draft back with Beta edits is a gleaming red mess of word soup?-- Uhm? Check :(

The moral of my checklist is, well, there isn't one. I thought when I started this crazy (stupid, emotional, erratic, stressful and oddly euphoric) ride of writing a novel that everything could be done in nice little steps and eventually I would make it to the top. I was wrong. Dead wrong. At least for the process as I know it. And it's not for lack of trying.

I started this all with NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) thinking, 'writing a novel in a month with a bunch of awesome people? Sure, why the hell not!' Then I learned that I wouldn't be done once 50,000 words were hit. I learned that I couldn't just leave my characters in a jumble of sentences that more often than not didn't make any sense. So I did what any insane human would do. I decided I need to get the damn thing ready to be published. 

At this point I sought out advice, checklists, wisdom. Anything that could possibly make this process easier and you know what? That absolutely failed. Sure I heard a lot that made the wheels in my brain turn. I started looking at things that I never thought of before. I got to compile a few friends in the process that I could bounce my questions off of. In these senses it was a beautiful thing. But in the hope of finding the fastest, safest route to becoming a novelist, well, it didn't go as I would have hoped. 

See, everyone has a different path in writing. Everyone is going to contradict the others and give opinions that are both off-the-wall and sound. In other words, they can't help you. I've come to see that I am the only one that can help me find the best path and to do that I have to fail exuberant amounts of times. I have to question myself, doubt myself and ultimately trust myself to make the correct decisions because if I follow someone else's journey? There will never be any success. I truly believe that.

I guess the proof in the pudding is that I'm still editing because I did something that worked for a more seasoned author that honestly, isn't working for me. My first and second drafts were done so "willy nilly" that I know I need to hash them out a little more. I know that my writing needs to be improved line by line and only now that I am most familiar with my story am I capable of doing that. Only now that I've desecrated a few things can I rebuild. 

So, my advice? Take all the advice you can get. Try everything that people offer. Give an ear to people you trust and those you do not. But in the end choose what works for you. There is no universal check list. There is no easy path to success or a job well done for mediocrity. I know that I need to do another complete overhaul before I submit to an editor and that I probably need another round of beta's too. So despite the feeling I have to 'stick to the checklist' I know that I'll be the only one in the end who suffers. Well, me and my characters. 

Despite how green the other grass looks, trust that you'll be happier (and more proud) if you just water your own.

:)

My First Saturday Scene

This is my first #saturdayscenes post. It's from my novel Red that I am hoping to have published in fall. 

Felan, second in command of the Guard (a group of dead heroes whose job is to keep peace on Earth between humans and the other things that go bump in the night and can shift into wolves, i.e. werewolves), is on "vacation" visiting his great (more than great since Felan is centuries old) grandson. He's gone a run after dinner and has found a scent that is troubling him.

I hope you enjoy! :)

***

I sprinted back into the house, shifting back to human in mid-air while flying through the open glass door, completely disregarding getting dressed. I was too shocked, confused and on the edge of losing all composure. Why would my home be surrounded in that scent? I'd dreamed about it in other circumstances but knew it could only be a dream. A sudden notion occurred to me, and I could hold my silence no more.

"ALISTAR!" I yelled.

Waiting only a few moments I ran up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. Alistair sat on his bed, reading, a look of indifference carefully shown on his face. He looked up only briefly before returning to his book. I knew he saw only the agitated wolf instead of the naked, but agitated, man standing before him. He continued to ignore me, my patience with him growly rapidly thin, so I folded my arms and stood to my full height. 

"I will not deal with the wolf, Felan Conall Aegnus! We've talked about this. Come back when your humanity is present and the animal is at bay."

Everyone had their own opinions about what we were, since there wasn't exactly a handbook or a guide to explain everything. The Fates held their secrets tight. When I died I was told this was my duty, that I had always been a wolf in a man's skin. It was only fitting that I become what I was always destined to be. Fenrir spoke in riddles but I assumed it to mean my animal and me were one in the same. Alistair, on the other hand, had come to think they were two separate beings-the man, and the beast. He thought it was something I could fight, something I chose to be. I knew better than to be that naive. 

I stood there waiting, wanting to rip the room to shreds, hoping he would come to his better senses and talk to me now. The way his eyes stayed firmly planted in his book made it clear he wasn't going to. I growled as I stormed back down the stairs, slamming my ass into the living room couch. A thick snap of it's wood echoed in the room followed by my brutal cursing.

Becoming a Guard never changed who I was. The wolf was not a separate mind, rather just an extension of my own. I gained the senses and the form of a wolf when I died but I had always been the same person. I could be possessive and at times too aggressive. I always tried to be fair and do the honorable thing regardless of consequence. The only exception to my honorable role was when it came to what I considered mine. I would kill or die to protect my own. The fact that the only two enemies I had left in the world had come to my home, around my family, would have driven even my human self to act this way. He was the only family I had left and regardless of how he wanted to perceive what I had become he couldn't deny my reaction as just.
 
Why hadn't Alistair just asked me for help? He had no need to offer anyone a job. I was home now. I wrestled with the need to talk to that foolish son of mine. I took deep calming breaths until I was sure the glow in my eyes had died and my grip on the couch had lessened. I grabbed my clothes that were strewn on the steps and pulled them on, walking back up to where I knew he would still be. He would be waiting for me to calm down, silently reading his book to pass the time. He had known I would find the scent sooner or later. I stood in his doorway until he looked up.

“Ah, there you are Felan. Now, what is all the trouble about?” 
　　　　
His words were slow and calculated, talking with a tone I had used on him so many times as a boy. I hated the way he had begun to treat me, at times, like the child when I was far older than he would ever be. He was my descendant for Heaven’s sake, not the other way around.

“You know, son, they are both me. I am no different than the wolf as the man. We are the same in skin and in fur. You waste time waiting for something that is not real. It would be best for you to remember these things and forget what you hope to believe.” 

He grunted in disapproval.

“My beliefs will stand probably long after I’m gone. I hardly doubt that’s what you came stomping in here to talk about, hmm?”
　　　　
He waited for me to continue, the book still held upright in his hands.
　　　　
“Please tell me you did not hire a Vila as your new apprentice?” He just smiled as he earmarked his book. "The Presence of God", shone bright gold on the title page.

“No that is unacceptable.” I threw my hands up. “Do you understand the danger you are putting yourself in? Not only is she a danger in and of herself but she has a Tracker following her." I sighed out, disgusted. "Why? Why would you bring this here? I didn't teach you to feel their presence so you could invite them in!”

He finally put the book down, the cover page facing up in mockery, before looking me square in the eye, challenging my outrage.
　　　　
“Like I told you earlier, she is the only one who showed. She responded to a job posting and I need the help. Besides, she is young, Nothing I could fall in love with. She’s full of bitterness and has a sharper tongue than even you. There was no happiness in her eyes. She didn't flirt or giggle and provided no lust or lure. She barely even spoke to me. It will be fine, you need to trust me. I am no longer a child for you to boss around as you please.” He glared at me for a moment before his eyes softened. “It’s only temporary and besides you yourself have said they are not evil, only undecided. They have yet to choose a path and what if I can help her chose the right one? Would you have me deny someone the chance to become something better? To damn someone to the Pits of the Earth simply because you are uncomfortable?”

I wanted to scream ‘YES, leave her to her fate’, but I knew that I couldn’t. He was right. Vila’s were chosen because of their inability to fulfill any purpose in life, mostly driven by their selfishness. But being selfish didn't necessarily make you evil, making the Kingdom and the Pit come to an agreement.They would put the undecideds in the Halfway, so they may chose their own fate. They would have to decide to give up and fall to the Pit or to seek redemption and be granted access into the Kingdom. I had seen that one single moment can change a person’s entire course and that was what Alistair was trying to accomplish. I didn't have the heart to try and explain that this one couldn't be saved. That I had already tried. I sighed in resignation.
　　　　
“Fine. But I am staying here until it’s over. If anything happens I will kill her. That is the risk you are taking.”

“I understand, but it won't come to that. Take it on faith.”