No, I am not dead. Felt like it for a while when the flu caught me, but I am alive and writing. Since my computer crashed in December and because I am broke, I have been writing by hand, but writing nonetheless. It’s out of order and only the vital scenes I w I need to write to finish the book, but the end of the first draft of BLOOD & FEAR is in sight. l’ll even fight with my piece of shit phone to post a recent snippet for y’all.
P.S. Excuse any typos/grammarly whatthefuckery. You would not believe how slowly I had to type for my phone to keep up. If I had tried to proofread this, I’d have wound up chucking my phone across the room. Follow me on Twitter, guys. I tweet lines all the time and there are (marginally) fewer stabby feelings.
She remembered now: old manuscripts and personal journals that would never be seen in any museum, triumphant accounts of women–warriors–marching into villages to be celebrated with gifts, food, songs, lovers.
Once they had done more than bargain with the Fae. Once they had hunted them, put themselves on equal footing with each other, shown the Fae whose land it was. And what had happened since? Modernization. Cringing, embarrassed retreat from old ways. Ignorance and loss. And now the horrible, final desperation of war. Even worse–she was responsible for bringing it to them.