Farro and Sulfur Free for the Holidays!

Just stopping in from wrapping paper mayhem to invite everyone to pick up their free copy of Farro and Sulfur now through December 27.

Farro for free!

Sulfur for free!

To learn how to read either of these books on your computer or e-reader device, click here.

In the next week expect to hear from me again concerning the upcoming release of my next novel, Umbra!

Happy Holidays from your biggest fan,

Arreana

Umbra Completed!

So it's taken the better part of half a year, but the first draft of Umbra is finally complete. I'm currently editing it (In fact, I've taken a break from editing to write this update), and I'm polishing out those slight scuffs that I've had to ignore for months now.

This book is written from three interlocking perspectives, and as such I have chosen to edit the novel by character rather than by chapter. By working on only one character at a time, I'm keeping the voice consistent, and it's just simply interesting. After writing it all start to finish with all three protagonists mixed together, it's rewarding to see the story through the eyes of a single protagonist.

But anyways, this was mainly to update you, my readers, of what's been going on over here. (Good things!)

In the (near-ish) future, I will be writing a follow-up episode to go with the Einhjorn, and then I will be taking a tonal break from the dreary horror/fantasy world of Umbra to work on something more 'fun'. Ideally something in a contemporary setting to refresh myself!

I'll keep you posted on progress, and any postings you might hope to see from me in the future!

Love,

Arreana

A Giant Leap in the Right Direction

So Fall. It's Fall. And in a continuation of my good year, I've kicked off September with bounce in my stride and new horizons to explore. It hasn't be easy on a financial level. My hubby calls it the 'transitional phase'. We've needed to take time away from our 'true loves' (Me: writing. Him: programming.) to get all our ducks sorted on the home front.

In a nutshell, my husband has landed a job, and I've bowed out of mine. I'll still be working part-time at home, but finally, after several years of struggling to scrape by, I have the opportunity to focus full-time on my writing. I haven't had that luxury since I was unemployed back in 2010, and that whole adventure came with it's own set of stressors (mainly the unemployed part).

Of course, the last couple weeks have been a rollercoaster ride of emotions as we've tried to settle into this new routine. I'm not used to be home so much, and my husband isn't used to waking up so early. I'm the sort of person that gets a bit stir-crazy on a daily basis, so I've been spending more time running and bicycling around town. This is, after all, likely my last chance to soak in the last bit of sunshine before fall and winter truly set in.

I'm still clicking away at Umbra. Still loving it and hating it and dreading the pain I must cause my characters all the time. My plan is to finish the writing process in the next month and give it to the hubby to read while I work on the next installment of The Relics of Asgard series.

I'm happy but, as always, tired. I'm looking forward to the near-future, once the dust clouds have cleared and I can focus on being the author I've always wanted to be.

End of Summer

This summer has been a bit chaotic for me. Both from getting out the new story and taking multiple vacations and trips. My personal life has tied me up in stress. Even so, I am making excellent progress on my next novel. I hope to have it finished here soon. It seems doable now that I am approaching its climax.

Now that the update is out of the way, a bit of advice for other writers looking to hunker down and produce something this fall and winter: please don't shun conflict. Be it of the psychological or social or physical type, please introduce your characters to a world of hurt. Hardship helps fictional characters grow and transform into the heroes and heroines we love so much today. I say this after reading a ridiculous novel in which the author avoided all conflict. Let me explain how this goes: instead of a being caught and punished, the character miraculously escapes. Instead of springing a trap, the character finds the woods surprisingly empty. In context, such consistent luck is unbelievable, and to the reader it's just plain boring. If you're action scenes are more hypothetical ("What if I were attacked at just this moment?") then actual action ("Jesus! We're under attack!"), then you have a problem. Your book's no fun.

Attack your characters head on. Don't give them time to think about it. Don't give them time to prepare. Strike to catch them off guard. You'll have more fun, your characters will grow, and your readers will enjoy a far more believable scene.

Also, if you're like me, and you're into fights and duels and death, please don't intersperse these tense, traumatic scenes with playful dialogue. If a character is brawling for his life, he's not going to engage in a tête-à-têtes with his opponent. Similarly, never dump the villian's dastardly plan upon the reader in a big end-of-the-novel reveal. This is monologuing. Monologuing like this should be banned. (Note: not all monologues are bad. Many, many are brilliant. Just not yours.) Have your characters unravel the intricacies of the plot slowly and over time. Don't bore your readers with talk when they're expecting a good fight!

I know what I should do. I should grab a book -- a good book -- and read it to clear my head.

The Einhjorn now on Amazon

Hello readers!

I'm returning to you today with happy news of publication. The Einhjorn is a episodic short set in Viking Norway. In writing this 20,000 word episode, my aim was to experiment with the short story format.  I wanted to create something with an overarching story as well as a self-contained plot. In the end, I had fun writing The Einhjorn. I look forward to the fascinating episodes to come, and it was a nice break from my usual fare. It was nice to practice a different style in a different voice, but now I must leave it to you, my readers, to enjoy.

For the next couple months the Einhjorn will be available on Amazon for $0.99. Consider picking up a copy!

The Einhjorn on Amazon!

Introducing Umbra

It has been a month since my last, disappointing post. I was giving up a story. I was essentially cutting ties with half a year of hard work and writing. I was feeling low and frazzled. I was working far too much than was probably good for me.

This last month I've stepped back, reassessed my goals, and started again. I'm fresher, more optimistic, but no less over-worked. I am a third of the way through my newest novel, and very near the publication of a short story.

The Einhjorn will be my first stab at episodic fiction. To divulge the truth, I don't like short stories. I don't like reading them, and I don't like writing them. Twenty thousand words is rarely enough for me to find my character's groove. I want to slip into my character's voice, and accompany them through all the adversities I can throw their way. But in this short, I've tried (and hopefully succeeded) to give only the beginnings of a potentially great character. I wanted a fully contained event (a.k.a. episode) within a larger over-arching plot. Concluding the story so soon was uncomfortable. I'm not used to finishing a story that's only fifty pages long. I'm not sure I enjoy leaving my character when she's only getting started. These feelings of unease make me nervous. I'm not sure how it will work out, but I can say I tried. If it doesn't well... it'll suck. But I can learn from my mistakes and improve the series over all.

Umbra is where I have regained my stride. To anyone familiar with my work (most of you), Umbra exhibits many of my stylistic hallmarks: stark, single-person narration, megafauna, deeply troubled characters, and a unforgiving plot. Exploring this new universe and familiarizing myself with this new set of characters has provided me the opportunity for significant growth. The format of this story allows me to switch between three different characters. Umbra allows me to unravel three different cultures and perspectives side by side. My three main characters see the world differently. They have different cultural norms and baselines against which they compare everyone and everything they encounter. They're each distinct and flawed and wonderful.

So here is the opening to Umbra. Seeing as this is a rough-draft, do not be surprised if the finished version looks much different). Consider this your introduction to one of the three main characters that star in this action/adventure/horror.

The calendar never lies. It has served me, my father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather without fail. The stone carvings on its face plate have prepared us for every disaster that has ever befallen my people.

Drought. Famine. Disease.

Today it warns of death.

I realign the circular rings not because I distrust it, but because I don't want to believe it. The moon rotates. The sun spins. Once again they meet above the monstrous face carved in the center.

The coming eclipse is not annular, not partial. The coming eclipse shall cast a more complete shadow, and I have not the heart to warn the others. In the marsh they rake salt from the surface of the evaporation pits. In the village they stoke the smoke house fires. Further down the coast they cut great chunks of crystalline salt from the pock-faced rocks.

I do not tell them what the calendar says. I cannot stand to put the fear in their otherwise peaceful minds. I cannot tell them that today one amongst us will die.

My hand grips the outermost ring of my calendar – the sun. I spin it and spin it and spin it, but it always comes to rest above the scaled face, above the moon.

Total eclipse.

It will be soon. To the east the sun sails over the opaque sea, and coming up from behind, the moon, a pale gray shadow against light blue skies, rushes to catch it.

The calendar never lies. Today someone will die.

I cross my legs and set the calendar upon my thighs. It’s heavy and cold. The carvings on its surface are as familiar to me as the lines on my palm. Its head points out over the empty sea. We watch the undulating waters together: milky whiteness, salt, and the gentle ripples of perch finning in the shallows.

Nothing lives in the waters but fish and monsters. Nothing grows on the sea’s banks but rubber weeds, little red cases filled with salt water. The morning breeze has departed, taking its cool, fresh air with it. Now there is nothing but stillness and dread.

The moon and sun overlap. The former swallows the latter, and the revolving sky seems to freeze.

The sun vanishes behind the moon. My chest itches, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. There is static energy without a storm. There is darkness without night.The shadow arrives. It engulfs the coast. It skates out across the still water.

Minutes pass, but my heart has slowed and time seems hardly to pass. The sun and the moon lock together, and I look directly up at the dark circle looming over us.

It shouldn't be, but it's beautiful. The craterous moon is an imperfect fit for the sun’s perfectness. Beads of sunlight peak around the moon’s rough edges. A void framed by drops of light.

the villagers must see it. They must realize what it means. Has the void claimed someone already? Could it take me?

My hand drops from the calendar’s dials to the harpoon at my side. I curl my fingers around its wooden shaft and force myself to take a few measured breaths. The moment will pass. The sun and moon will break apart. Then I will convene with my people. We will bury the dead. We will curse the moon’s cruelty and the sun’s apathy together.

I wait for the eclipse to end, but it lasts minutes, many, many minutes.

I am still watching, waiting, when the sound draws my attention from the shadowy skies: a ripple, a splash, a gurgle.

Harpoon in hand, I spring to my feet. The calendar, my calendar, falls upside-down on the salty shore.

They rise from the water, gray skin drooping, fanged mouth hanging open. The creatures. Our curse and our greatest fear. Their gills flap, their webbed-fingers flex, and their lidless eyes stare up at me. They teeter on spindly legs. They unsheathe knives made of black glass. They advance.

Dozens of them rise at first, and then more appear until there must be hundreds. They stagger out of the water and gulp down their first breath of air.

I do not wait to see the end of the eclipse. I am not a fighter, and no amount of salt magic can stop the horde. I wish I could claim bravery, but what I do next is not an act of bravery. I run for the animal pens. I run for the protection of villagers bigger, stronger, and braver than myself.

Behind me, they clamber over the rocks and struggle to find footing on their wet toes. An army marches on us, on our little village perched on the top of the bank. Our little huts of elk hide and mammoth bones will not stop them. Our men are too few, our harpoons too clumsy.

By the time I’ve reached the village, the cry has gone up. My friends and my neighbors and my family are racing for safety.

Overhead, the eclipse ends but it has taken more than it was owed.

There you have it, a taste of what I've been up to in the last few weeks. You will hear from me soon.

Keep writing, keep growing!

Arreana 

Death of a Romance

So “The Scorpion King” has been once more shoved onto the back burner.

To those reading, who were looking forward to it, and especially to those of you who encouraged me to write this romance, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but please know it’s not for lack of trying. I wrote 90,000 words, but not a one that made me proud.

I like romance… well done romance. I admire the authors that can fill a book with so much emotion and yet keep the plot minimal. Good romance books can be the epitome of great writing.  Romance novels are character-centric. Everything we know about the world is taught to us by the characters. The plot is totally in the hands of the characters. My writing is not yet at that caliber. I cannot forsake adventure and action for romance alone. Not yet, anyways. And I will not settle and publish a romance that is not somewhat representative of the best the genre has to offer. I don’t want to write pulp or rely on troupes, which is what I was doing with “The Scorpion King”.

I was furious with the novel. For several weeks I would open up the huge document only to stare loathsomely at it. At night I would go to bed hating it. All the imperfect scenes would weigh upon me, but I didn’t know how to fix it. I wanted the novel to be tighter, but at 90,000 words my characters were still floundering for what to do next.

I started beating myself up about it. I stopped talking about my writing. I changed the subject when it came up. Days passed and I became more and more self-depreciating.

Kyle stopped me in the end, which is the wonderful thing about husbands. We sat down and discussed the novel and my issues. He suggested a few things I could do to fix it, and I told him I had already tried all those things. So he suggested I move on. “The Scorpion King” was slowly zapping away my will to write, and I was stagnating trying and failing to fix it.

So on his suggestion, I imagined a whole new world with a whole new plot and characters and writing style. Writing the first chapter of this new story was a breath of fresh air. Things happened, characters reacted, dialogue flowed. Even so, it will take time to heal the damage to my self-esteem. I’m disappointed with myself, and the feeling is still raw. I showed my husband the opening chapters of my new story. I watched him read them with my heart in my throat. He says he likes them, but—alas!—I’m still stuck in this negative mindset.

I’m working hard to clear my head and focus on my new project. I’m 20,000 words into “Umbra,” my new action/adventure.  I’ve returned to a style I enjoy (first-person, present tense) but I’ve introduced something new. If I’ve learned anything from “The Scorpion King” disaster, it’s that I need to broaden the scope of my characters’ voices. Just as I worked so hard on my descriptions in “Farro and Sulfur”, I intend to work equally hard to enliven the moody, reflective characters that occupy the world of “Umbra”.

I hope fellow writers will join me in the spirit of self-improvement. I hope readers out there will forgive me for the delay while I stagger back to my feet. I can only blame myself. I knocked myself to the ground, and now it'll take time to pick myself up.

Thank you, kind readers, for the emails and reviews that, coupled with the encouragement of my famously kind husband, have kept me grounded.

My Month-Long Birthday!

Well, my birthday pretty much took over my life. You see, each May a weird black hole opens up on my actual birthday and the weeks proceeding and following it. As I get older and care less about the actual significance of a birthday, I find myself using my birthday less as an excuse to get presents (because really, I have no patience and will just buy something I really want when it suits me), and more about having an excuse to get out and do something.

In the last couple weeks, I have spent a lot of time outside, a lot of time with family, and a lot of time with friends. I’ve played way too many board games, bbqed way too many hamburgers (Thanks dad for the rockin’ bbq!), drank way too much coffee, and – with the addition of a HD TV to our home – rewatched way to many cheesy action flicks.

With all this fun I’ve been having, you may be lamenting all the time potentially sucked away from my writing, especially when you consider I also work two jobs. But on that front I have only good news: I have finished writing and editing my short story, and I have nearly completed my full length beauty and the beast novel. I am currently working with an artist on the cover for the short story. When it is finished, I will be publishing it. My hope is that a month or two after that I’ll have my Beauty and the Beast story also ready for publication.

So while my birthday may have left me busy, it gave me an excuse to turn to my husband and go, “You know what, I could realllllly use a cuppa and a little time to write. Uninterrupted okay?” Because it turns out the best birthday present anyone can give me is guilt-free writing time. A couple days off where I don’t have to worry about work, cleaning the house, or making dinner.

Now, I just bought a pound of bacon for the first time in four months. I’m going to fry it up and eat it with a tropical fruit smoothie. It sounds like a really bad combo, so I’m sure it’s going to taste excellent.

Love and peace,

Arreana

Cabin in the Woods

I hate horror movies. I expect the scares, the plots are predictable, and the characters are little more than boiled down archetypes. Even so, the horror genre scares me without fail. No matter how silly or predictable or stereotypical. Every jump-scare makes me jolt and I still cover my eyes when the music ramps up. But at the end of the movie, I stand up, shake it off, and generally forget it happened. The genre is, after all, riddled with such movies that are completely forgettable.

Cabin in the Woods is the first horror movie I saw in theaters in Silent Hill. It is also the first horror movie to make me think since Funny Games.

To me, the movie is genius. It forces all the clichés and troupes of the typical horror movie within the context of an interesting, evolving plot line. It takes five complex characters (or as complex as can be established in the first ten minutes of the film) and forces them into the five archetypes of any regular horror movie: the whore, the athlete, the fool, the scholar, and the virgin. In many ways it feels no different from a classic slasher, and for the first half of the movie we are only reminded of Cabin’s uniqueness through the jarring, but wholly refreshing, juxtaposition of comedy and horror.

You wouldn’t think that such a bipolar movie could bring it all together in the end, and yet somehow it manages just that. At the end there is a moment that for me was almost like cathartic release. Over the years we, the viewers, have seen the slow degradation of the horror genre into the forgettable series of predictable, silly slashers it has become. When Cabin showed its true colors halfway through, I breathed a literal sigh of relief. I was surprised. Surprised by a movie that, at first, forced itself to be everything I hate about the horror genre. But perhaps that’s what’s surprising; despite the plot and the effects and the troupes, the movies still manages to smash through the genre wall and stumble into unfamiliar territory.

If you want a horror movie that will make you think, or if you simply want a horror movie unlike any other, consider seeing Cabin in the Woods in theaters. If you do, I hope you and the rest of the movie-goers enjoy the sly jokes and not-so-subtle tips of the hat to a family of movies that will always be precious to us in that I-love-to-hate-you sort of way.

In short, I loved it.

8/10.

P.S. Those that have seen it or will soon see it: try to take someone with you. There are so many hidden meanings behind the film that can only be discussed with someone who has seen it!

From Egypt to Norway

I have been toying with the idea of an episodic novel. Not really toying, really, but full out trying it. To escape the intensity of my Beauty and the Beast retelling (which really is quite difficult to write at times) I’m been escaping into a short story that takes place in 900s Norway. It’s refreshing to one day be writing Predynastic Egypt and the next to be totally immersed in the Viking age. I’m having fun between the two of them, and while the Egyptian romance is shaping up to be quite long (120,000+ words) I’m hoping to keep this little Viking tale short… at first. An overarching story has emerged that laces in nicely with actual Norwegian history, but I want to approach it in installments. I want my characters to grow in self-contained adventures, and I feel that the self-publishing industry is ripe for such episodic story-telling.

So Saldis Bergsdatter may yet have her chance to meet the public, and though she’s a little dull-witted, she will earnestly try to prove to her mother, her father, and her soon-to-be husband, that she is everything a prince could hope for in a wife.

A Triumphant Return

After a rather climatic ending to an incredibly climatic quarter, I promptly disappeared. Family affairs, work overload, and general sleep debt dragged me down. Last week I finally took my first day off in three months: no writing, no working, no cleaning the house. I took wore my PJs all day and read that novel I’ve been meaning to read for too long. And I must say, that one day has had a miraculous effect on my productivity, and I am happy to report that I am now about 80% finished with the writing of my next novel.

This novel has proved more difficult and more involved than either Farro or Sulfur. It’s a somberer, mellower tale and requires me to back off on my character where before I might have pushed. There is a scene involving elephants, for instance, where I decided to spare a character from being horribly injured. Anyone familiar with my works will recognize what an accomplishment this is for me, but even then I was not completely merciful. No conflict, no story, I say.

This novel also requires an absurd amount of research. Aside from the literature already sitting on my shelf (reminder: my scholarly focus has always been on Ancient Egypt), I have been in contact with historians and anthropologists that have lent depth to my settings. Their advice has been fascinating but time consuming. After all, when you don’t thoroughly control your environment, you are forced to adhere to the real boundaries. After this novel, I intend to rewrite a contemporary novella I’ve had stashed away for six years now. I’m looking forward to writing something contemporary. I know contemporary, I live contemporary. It’s not like history, where I’m reaching back in time and filling in the holes with some sort of barely-passable plaster.

Now, for your patience, here is a sneak peak at my new heroine, Aisha:

They were different like the seasons.

Her father was like the Flood, for his voice filled the hall. Speaking incessantly, speaking loudly, speaking nonsense. He drank all the beer set before him and paid no mind to the flecks of grain stuck to his trembling lips. He was always moving, always consuming. His presence weighed heavily upon her shoulders, and his words—those silly, ignorant words—threatened to smother her.

Lady Kiya, aged and genteel and patient, was the Harvest, for her beckons brought forth the food. She was the lady of the house, the first wife, the professional homemaker. By her lord and husband she had borne four children, all sons. She was in every way the perfect wife, fertile, obedient, and self-assured.

And then Lord Pathi would be the Sowing, for he was the sower of seeds. He was huge and powerful and older than the graying Lady Kiya sitting at his side. He was a warrior, a politician, a judge. He was a father of four, and yet he still desired more. And who was to stop him, when he was rich and could afford what so few could—a second wife?

If they were the seasons, then Aisha was the earth upon which they trod. She was at the mercy of their whims. She was clay waiting to be molded and painted and fired. Her father had offered her up, Lady Kiya had assented with a backwards sneer, and Lord Pathi—her groom—had felt the shape of Aisha’s hips before at last saying, “Very well, I’ll have her.”

So now there she sat, at one end of a table far too long for the four people sitting around it. She had every comfort as the bride: a chair with a cushion, a goblet of beer, a platter of smashed chickpeas, and roasted flat bread. In honor of the occasion, Lady Kiya had even ordered a roasted lamb haunch. It occupied the center of the table, charred black and cut full of garlic, cloves, and coriander pods.

They picked the meat straight from the bone, and it fell away with a plume of steam and a smell of cumin and lard. The grease staining her father’s hands shimmered in the light of the braziers.

It wasn’t that Aisha wouldn’t eat, but that she couldn’t. She didn’t dare move for fear that the delicate façade her sisters had spent all morning creating would crumble away. The makeup had dried hours ago, and it fractured and cracked with each word she spoke and with each smile she forced. Her mask was peeling away like bark from a tree, and she feared that her groom would see her plain face and know how her father had lied to him.

For Aisha was no beauty, just as she was no singer or dancer. These pretty accomplishments were better suited to her younger sisters. Beautiful, lucky girls, who sat at home thinking their eldest sister was so fortunate for having married herself into a rich family.

They were young and romantic, but Aisha was old enough to know the truth. She wasn’t picked for her face or her skills; she was picked because she was older than her juvenile sisters and thus more likely to bear the children Lord Pathi so desired.

He would sow his seed within her, and while the child was growing within her womb she would be subject to the first wife’s desires. She was only the second wife, and as such she was Lady Kiya’s servant in all but name.

This was her life now. She was a wife now and would be expected to fulfill the duties accompanying the station. He was a huge man, tall and muscular, and though she feared the strength of his arms, she knew she would have to bear through her husband’s passion. Scars and veins stretched over his arms like spider webs. When he reached forward, his muscles curled and bulged and stretched.

Tonight he would reach for her with those arms, and he would rip at her clothes as he ripped now at the lamb. He would order her down and take her from above. His bulk would cast a shadow over her so he need not see the plain face her sisters had worked so hard to disguise.

The Widow

Not gone, just writing.

Sometimes I miss Khensa. No, not sometimes, all the time. She was predictable. She was impulsive, snarky, and sometimes aloof. She and I shared almost nothing in common (excepting of course my occasional descent into snarkiness) but then I could still write her so well, or if not well then easily. There was a distance between us. She was a different person and I felt rather that I was transcribing her actions and thoughts as an impartial bystander. With Aisha, my newest heroine, I find myself coming a little unhinged.

Not that we are completely alike, but we are more alike, and there are moments where Aisha's actions mirror what my own would have been. I write her doing one thing, all the while thinking how I would do it another way. Writing her is like fighting my own subconscious, and it's surprisingly exhausting. She's not particularly trusting, nor is she particularly confident. She holds her tongue when she should speak, and she stays when she should really run. She doesn't invite the same grand adventures as had Khensa. And Aisha is plain and quiet and anyone who didn't know her better would think she was boring, but then that's her appeal.

For though her life has taught her to live without love or hope, she still nurses that tiny bud that dreams that if she would only speak the right words to the right person at the right time someone might hear her. They would understand that she is not plain or boring, or any of those things. They would understand that she is only lonely in the shadow of her sisters' beauty.

But the beast, who would rather be a monster than a man, at first does not listen, and then he doesn't want to listen. When he at last does listen, its too late, for he has pushed her too hard, and she has given up trying to bridge the unbridgeable.

And then he must always be wondering: would the whispered words between them still be as sweet if they were all a lie?

Aisha and the Beast

I've dropped below the radar for a while with the onset of the winter school quarter, but I've appreciated all the wonderful emails and messages I've received for the New Year. Thank you for reading Farro and Sulfur and enjoying them enough to take time out to let me know your thoughts.Your encouraging words have been the fuel for my next project, which in atmosphere, narration, and setting is bleaker, slower, and more character-based than either of my previous novels.

Aisha is not what Khensa was -- obstinate, impulsive, and quick. Aisha is quiet. She's self-sacrificing, lonely, and considers herself to be neither brave nor strong (though, I shall allow my readers to be the final judge on that score). Aisha is sad and yet bound to her sadness by an obligation dictated to her by the familial culture in which she was raised.

"Marry the Lord Pathi," her father told her, and she had obey even though he was too old, and even though he was already married.

"Come home with me," her father pled, knowing she would have to sacrifice wealth and comfort to do so.

"Sacrifice yourself in my place," her father wailed.

Eventually, she would agree to all of his demands. Not because she was a fool, and not even because she cared for him, but because she loved her dear little sisters, who every day feared they would end up like her.

Perhaps Aisha's story isn't to your taste. Perhaps you prefer a heroine who wears her feelings on her sleeve, who speaks her mind, and lends herself to the great adventures. But then Aisha's story deserve to be told, for it is my opinion that she is braver than any other, even if her courage is harder to detect.

This is Aisha, but of the Beast I will say nothing, for that would be spoiling the story, and I'm already afraid I've spoiled too much.

Until next time!

Arreana

Happy New Year!

2012 rolls in with a sigh upon the muddy wake of December, 2011. I can't count the number of electronics that have broke in the last couple weeks, or the number of boxes I've unpacked. A month that began in finals ended in family and obscene amounts of wrapping paper.

My year was full of highs and lows, but what's life if not a series of obstacles you either overcome or crumple beneath? And, as I usher in 2012 with some minor house cleaning and laundry folding, I can't help congratulating myself on making it through it all with something of a smile and a shrug.

To my readers, I owe my thanks, for without them I wouldn't have made it through so much with so much grace. So many of you have been following me since last May, some even earlier. It was because of you readers, and your amazing response to my Holiday Promotion of Farro, that I made it through the laptop-less weeks that preceded this new year without losing my sanity completely.

One reader went so far as to send me some Holiday fanart. I was so pleased I asked to share it with you all. It is always so flattering and fascinating to see how you, the readers, imagine a set of characters so precious to me.

Reader ChocolateCookie describes this portrait as follows, "Khensa post-being rescued by Bomani and cleaned up by Lateef -- sullen, vulnerable and angry." (Corresponds with Farro's Chapter 3, "A Far Fetched Fable", and Chapter 4, "Amethyst Eyes")

I'm not one for resolutions, but I'm big into goals. So what can you expect from me in the coming year (or, more importantly, in the next 4-6 months?) here's a taste:

• Finish Project "The Scorpion King" (title to change) by March/April. I hope to begin releasing weekly installments in February.
• Order cover from artist who's handy with Egyptian stylization.
• Publish Farro and Sulfur edition two. I'm currently in the process of rereading both novels for typos and errors. I'm also hoping to rope my coworker into helping me with some copy-editing. She's more experienced than I and not afflicted with dyslexia.
• Start in on my next project in the May region to hopefully finish in the mid- to late-summer region.

Happy new year! If any of you ever feel compelled to draw me a picture of Bomani, don't hesitate to shoot me an email, haha!