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A blog about my writing the epic saga and assorted thoughts. |
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To start this blog…jumbled thoughts When I was in seventh grade, my teacher, Mrs. Banks, asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Without hesitation, I said, “I want to be a writer.” She looked at me and said it would never happen. Never? Fast forward. In high school, I became editor of the school newspaper all four years—grades nine through twelve. Later, I earned a full scholarship to college because of my passion for journalism. So why was she so certain I couldn’t do it? Because at the time, my reading comprehension was poor. I couldn’t spell. My grammar was atrocious. I thank God for Mrs. Day my tutor. But what Mrs. Banks didn’t know—what no test score could measure—was that I had a gift for storytelling. I could hold a room captive for hours, spinning tales for friends and family straight from my imagination. That was my superpower. The best writing advice I’ve ever received was simple: Just tell the story. Write your first draft without worrying about spelling, grammar, or the “small stuff.” If you focus too much on perfection, the story itself gets lost. So that’s what I do. Even with all the modern writing tools available, I still write my stories the same way—heart first. The first draft is just me, telling the story as it comes. It may not be the way everyone writes, but it’s what works for me. Because at the end of the day, I write because I love to tell stories. And yes—my favorite stories always end in happily ever after. Someone once told me I must be a hopeless romantic because I’m obsessed with happy endings. They were right. My head is often in the clouds, and I like it that way. I don’t like nightmares. I prefer dreams filled with love, kindness, and a little magic. Because in my world, the story is everything. The story must be told. |
This was entered in the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge on November 5, 2025 The challenge: must be 300 words or less Write a story that includes the line: “Here comes trouble” Trouble Comes In Raccoon Here Comes Trouble If there was one rule in Mapleberry Hollow, it was this: Never trust a raccoon with ideas. Especially not Buttons. Buttons considered himself an inventor. Everyone else considered him… a situation. His latest experiment involved a slingshot, three acorns, and a mysterious jar labeled “Absolutely Not For Launching.” On the porch, curled like a cloud-puff, napped Twinkle the kitten. Precious. Delicate. A purring angel wrapped in fur. Buttons nudged her paw. “Wake up, tiny fluff. Adventure.” Twinkle blinked. “Is it snack-related?” “Better. Heroics.” Five squirrels froze on the fence like a furry chorus. The blue jays cleared the branches. Somebody whispered, “Oh no. It’s happening again.” Buttons puffed out his chest. “Behold. The Acorn Accelerator!” Twinkle squinted. “That looks like a fork taped to a rubber band.” “A visionary’s work is often misunderstood.” Buttons pulled back the band. The fork trembled. The acorn trembled. The universe trembled. “Here comes trouble,” sighed a wise old toad from his lily pad. Buttons let go. The acorn flew. Then the jar flew. Then Buttons flew. Twinkle watched as he cartwheeled through the air with the grace of a slightly confused laundry sock. He landed in a bush. The bush grunted. Bushes should not be able to grunt. Twinkle trotted over, tail high. “Are you alive?” A leaf flopped. “Yes,” Buttons groaned. “And I regret nothing.” Twinkle patted his head. “Next time, we start with snacks.” Across the yard, the squirrels nodded in solemn agreement. A jay muttered, “We should really form a safety committee.” Buttons popped up, eyes sparkling with new disaster. “Snack-powered rocket boots!” Twinkle sighed. “The toad was right. Trouble really does come in raccoon.” Word count -274 ======= I received one positive review… “Haha, I enjoyed this fun story. That raccoon is irrepressible. He certainly is full of ideas and enthusiasm. I can envision the animation or artwork to accompany this tale. I can see all the worried animals as spectators. That final line sums up everything.” from Maid of the Mist Most Macabre ======= |
My thoughts on reviewing. Although I am not a professional reviewer, I enjoy writing reviews on Writing.com as a way to support and encourage other writers. Sharing what I appreciate about a piece allows me to give back some of the kindness and insight others have offered through their feedback on my own work. My approach is balanced and constructive. I begin by highlighting what works well in a piece—what captured my attention, moved me, or felt particularly well written. When needed, I provide suggestions for improvement, which may include identifying spelling or punctuation issues, or noting where adjustments could improve rhythm and readability. I sometimes comment on passages that might be unclear or seem out of place, always with the intent of helping the author strengthen their expression and flow. For me, the heart of good writing lies in its emotional resonance. I often ask, “Did you feel it?” or “How did it make you feel?”—not because the writer instructed the reader to feel a certain way, but because the words themselves created a genuine emotional response. A professional manuscript editor I once worked with often reminded me, “Less is more.” That advice has stayed with me, as finding the right balance between expression and restraint is one of the greatest challenges of writing. This, in essence, is my reviewing philosophy: to respond with honesty, respect, and appreciation for the art of storytelling, while offering thoughtful suggestions that may help the writer refine their craft. |
Reflections from the Writing Desk Once a month, the little bookstore downtown turns into something special—a gathering place for writers. Our author support group has become a kind of creative anchor for me. We trade pages, laughter, and the occasional sympathetic groan when a plot refuses to behave. Having these voices around me has carried me through more than a few rough patches while working on The Saga, Book One. There’s something magical about reading your own words aloud. Hearing them spoken gives them weight, breath, and sometimes even surprise. The group’s encouragement has been nothing short of phenomenal. Knowing they look forward to the next chapter keeps me pushing through late-night edits and tangled rewrites. Right now, I’m on Chapter 30 of what will likely be a 33- or 34-chapter book—my third full polish and rewrite. When this round is done, I’ll take a short break before starting again, this time with my eye on continuity. A recent story shift changed more than I expected, and now I’m tracing those ripples back through earlier chapters to make sure every thread aligns. I’m a methodical writer at heart. Scrivener is my lifeline—my map through the labyrinth. Without it, I’d be buried under notes and half-finished scenes. With it, I can see the shape of the whole story taking form, one chapter at a time. Writing a novel is a long, winding road. But every month, when I sit among those familiar faces at the bookstore and share a few pages, it reminds me why I started. Stories connect us. They always have. “If you’ve ever been stuck mid-draft, find your people.” |
| The book under construction consumes most of my time… It is about people that can run as wolves. The Blood Wolf-Moon was first seen in the time of Wise Maicoh, who brought prophecy to the northern packs. He warned that darkness would rise again, a sickness of souls and greed that could bring the end of humankind soulwalkers. Yet hope, he said, would come wrapped in blood and light. One child, born beneath the crimson moon, would bear the mark of the heart and the gift to heal the cursed and restore the balance between the realms of man and wolf. |
| Confession I needed to step away from the paranormal for a while. As much as I love writing prophecies and impossible worlds, it takes a different kind of energy — the kind that bends reality and asks me to hold entire universes together. Right now, I don’t have that in me. So instead of forcing myself into Book Two while I wait for my first human proofread, I’m giving myself permission to breathe. I’m going back to something simpler, warmer, and more human. I’m picking up Sharp’s Heart, the love story I started a few months ago. No magic. No spirits. No destiny weighing down every scene. Just two people learning how to love each other in the middle of their own scars. It feels good to slip into something grounded again — something real. A small break from the unbelievable so I can find my balance, refill the well, and remember why I love writing in the first place. |
| Stories That Travel Across Generations My grandmother lived to be 104. Every few months she would mail my daughter a little story — always gentle, always a touch magical, always written just for her. It was her way of keeping connection alive across miles and time. I loved that so much I quietly adopted the tradition myself. Now I send my granddaughter a story each month. We only see each other once a year, so these little tales have become our thread — something soft and steady between us. She’s nine now, and she writes back. Her stories are bold and curious: adventures inside video games, mysteries about lost treasures, worlds where kids get to be heroes. This tale is one I wrote for her, shared here with the same hope my grandmother carried — that imagination is a bridge, and love can travel inside a story. ⸻ Windy Beth Wolf and the Visit to Mossy Hollow A Tale of Kindness. In a world few know about, nestled just past the misty thickets of Whispering Pines, lives a kindhearted girl named Windy Beth Wolf. With soft ears like her forest kin and emerald eyes full of wonder, she is part girl, part wolf-spirit, and all heart. By her side trots her loyal companion, Ruffin — a clever, caramel-colored wolf pup with eyes like twilight and a nose that always knows when something’s amiss. Together, they are the heart of their woodland village, loved by creatures great and small. One sunny morning, Windy’s mom was busy baking, filling their tree-home with the scent of honey-cinnamon pies, peanut-butter cookies, and a triple-berry cake so airy it looked kissed by clouds. Windy’s ears twitched with joy as she packed the treats carefully into a woven basket. “Ruffin, it’s time,” she whispered. The pup answered with a joyful bark. Today, they were visiting Mr. and Mrs. Tallowtree, an elderly couple who lived deep in Mossy Hollow, where sunlight trickled through ivy and time moved a little slower. The Tallowtrees had once been herbalists, famous for their healing teas and glowing firefly jam, but age had softened their steps and left their pantry shelves a little lonely. With wind in her braids and purpose in her step, Windy and Ruffin traveled along leaf-dappled trails, across babbling brooks, and beneath arches of blooming foxglove. Along the way, forest creatures waved from branches and burrows, for everyone knew Windy Beth brought light wherever she wandered. At the hollow, Mr. Tallowtree was tending a crooked fence, his back bent, hands trembling. “Oh, my stars,” he chuckled when he spotted them. “It’s the Wolf Girl and her handsome helper!” Mrs. Tallowtree wiped her hands on her apron, eyes glimmering. “You’ve brought sunshine with you, haven’t you?” “We brought goodies!” Windy beamed, setting down the basket. “Mom says love is best shared in crumbs and frosting.” They spent the afternoon sipping gentle herbal tea, listening to old stories, and laughing until the wind turned golden. Windy mended the rickety gate while Ruffin politely rounded up sleepy chickens and nudged them toward their coop. By sunset, the basket was empty, but Windy and Ruffin’s hearts glowed warm as hearth-embers. Because in a world few know about, the smallest acts of kindness ripple the farthest — and Windy Beth Wolf, with Ruffin by her side, was born to make those ripples shine. “Be the heart that helps. Even if it’s just with cookies.” — Windy Beth Wolf |
| Stories wear masks. Some show you battles and prophecy first — wolves, destiny, old magic stirring in the dark. But beneath every legend, there’s a quieter truth humming like a heartbeat. Not loud. Not demanding. Just… present. Waiting to be seen. This Moon Saga carries that kind of truth. It isn’t only a tale of wolves, tribes, and humans bound by ancient promises. It’s also a story about fear — how people learn it, inherit it, cling to it. Prejudice doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it breathes in silence, in glances that look away, in histories no one wants to face. And yet, even there, love keeps trying to bloom. Across borders and bloodlines. Across old wounds and older grudges. Across the places where suspicion once rooted itself deep. A girl stands at the center of that struggle. She isn’t a warrior because she fights. She’s a warrior because she chooses gentleness where others choose walls. She bridges worlds by believing they can meet in the first place. Her kindness isn’t softness. It is rebellion. It is strength in its most unassuming form. Every prophecy in this story isn’t just fate — it’s a choice. Each act of grace, a small revolt. Each forgiveness, a chain breaking link by link. It is heart, It is wolf It is moon It speaks one simple belief: Love — steady, patient, unafraid — is the oldest magic there is. And even when the world divides itself into us and them, the heart can choose we instead. |
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