My seventh book: Raymond

As a special post-Christmas surprise, I have just published another book!

Cover by the inimitable DrRiptide.

A short blurb:
Toby Wilson’s considered opinion is that his classmate Raymond is weird. Intelligent, poised, and strangely sophisticated for a teenage schoolboy, Raymond seems decent enough: he did save Wilson’s life, after all; but is he really just a weird teenager with unusual eyes and a foreign accent or is he far older than he looks? And does he keep staring at people’s blood, or is it Wilson’s imagination?

It is currently available, free, on Smashwords. Here's the link: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/773774.
You might also find it at your preferred e-book retailer. 

This fulfills my goal of publishing three books this year. It was a battle, but I did it.

Have a peaceful end of 2017, and may 2018 bring more joy and peace than this year, and its predecessor, have.
Either way, keep fighting. Keep hoping. Keep surviving. Outlast and outshine the darkness.
Breathe deep. Seek peace.

Peace to all of you.

My sixth book: The Enemy Soulmate

My sixth book, The Enemy Soulmate, has been published at Smashwords.
It was a struggle and a slog, but I won: the book is finished and published.

It was published in the early hours of 1 December, but I'm calling it a November publication and have backdated this blog post accordingly. The reason for this is that I have another story planned for publication in December: my goal was to publish three books this year, but publishing two books in one month feels wrong: they should be more spread out than that. The Enemy Soulmate was, after all, supposed to be published in July.

A blurb about the book:
In this fantasy novella, when soulmates meet for the first time, matching tattoo-like soulmarks appear on their bodies. 18-year-old Fedir is hunting in the woods when he discovers, to his horror, that his soulmate is a young man from an enemy tribe. If Fedir kills his soulmate, the problem will be solved … but can he bring himself to kill the person who is fated to become his dearest companion?

The beautiful cover by Em Krebaum and DrRiptide.

I blogged extracts from the book here and here.
You can read a larger sample, and buy the book, at Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/762783. You might also find it at your preferred e-book retailer.

I'm exhausted.

Another extract from The Enemy Soulmate – on soulmates

I would dearly love to pretend that I do not have a life outside of my writing. I would love to pretend that the only thing stopping me from getting this story finished and published is the story itself. 
However, that is not true; regrettably, even writers are constrained, to a greater or lesser extent, by the unspeakably tedious and mundane world of reality on planet Earth, no matter how much we would prefer not to be. 2016 and 2017 have been exceptionally difficult for me, with the mundane world wreaking merry havoc on my creativity and peace of mind, and that is why, at the end of October 2017, I am still struggling to publish the two books that I want to publish this year. 
One can only keep slogging onwards, and hope that the door really does hit 2017 on the way out. The year is not yet over; there is still time to defeat its monsters.
In the meantime, please enjoy a second extract from the manuscript of The Enemy Soulmate. (You can read the first extract here.)

––––––

There were stories as to why soulmates and soulmarks existed. Some said that, in another life, human beings had once been powerful creatures that threatened to overwhelm and ruin the earth, so the rocks or the wind or the lightning – the tales varied – had split or torn or burned each creature into two, and in this life each half was born as a separate person, each one seeking the other half of the creature they had previously been. And the soulmarks resembled markings that the single creature had had; markings that reappeared when each half recognised the other. Other stories said that humans had once been stars, who drifted in space, lonely and aloof from each other until angels cut them in half and sent them to earth in order to teach them how to love. Some said that souls were created before bodies were, and before birth each soul split itself in two and each half was born in a separate person; so that no matter how lonely a person felt, they could know that somewhere on the same earth was the other part of them. And as for soulmarks, they were obviously the soul’s way of ensuring that both halves found each other.

While Fedir thought the stories were beautiful, he had always suspected that they were just guesses: soulmates existed, but no one really knew why.

People liked it, though. People loved knowing that somewhere out there in the world was a person who was destined to be their perfect companion, who would love them as no one else ever had or could. Who would complement them, and bring out their best self. Although the stories talked about ‘halves’, in truth every person was complete by theirself: like a piece of wooden furniture: perfectly serviceable, and attractive, without a finish. But add a coat of oil, and rub it thoroughly with wax, and suddenly every grain and vein of the wood could shine out: its own natural patterning and colours now heightened and displayed. So it was with soulmates: soulmates did not complete each other, but finished each other. And if soulmates had to do without each other for half a century or more before they finally met, then so be it: a soulmate was worth any amount of waiting, and it was said that soulmates could only meet when they were both ready for each other.

So Fedir had been told.

––––––

The Enemy Soulmate will (eventually!) be published at Smashwords.com, and from there will be distributed to various other online booksellers.

A preview extract from The Enemy Soulmate

Coming soon (but far later than it should): my next book: The Enemy Soulmate. 
Here's an extract.

––––––

Stooped in a thicket of green leaves, Fedir waited, slowing his breathing, his gaze fixed on the grassy bank opposite, about fifty paces away. His left hand gripped his bow, and the gloved fingers of his right held a nocked arrow in place on the string. His battered old linen satchel, and his slim leather hunting quiver with just four arrows in it, were strapped securely aslant his back. At any moment, his target would move into view, into a gap in the Summer foliage that surrounded Fedir. It was late afternoon, after the greatest heat of the day, and the sky was vivid blue, patched with puffy white clouds, with just a slight breeze: a lovely day to be hunting in the forest. This particular prey, however, was not one that Fedir had been hunting for: this was sheer opportunity.

Fedir took one slow, quiet breath. He could hear his own heart thumping. He had never killed a human before.

Another breath. Any second now.

Another breath.

A slight, black-haired, tawny-skinned youth, apparently near Fedir’s age of eighteen, wearing on his back a large leather backpack, a bagged bow and a leather quiver, walked into view in the gap between the leaves through which Fedir was peering, crossing the bank from right to left. Fifty paces with a clear path between him and the target: not a difficult shot, but Fedir would probably only get one chance at it: if he missed, then, depending on what the arrow hit and how noisy the impact was, the youth may well realise that he was being hunted. Fedir tensed his muscles, lifting the bow and beginning to draw it even as he tracked his target’s progress from right to left across the small gap, all in one arc, moving smoothly but carefully lest he betray himself by making the bushes rustle. He had only a couple of seconds before the youth would be past the gap and out of sight —

The youth sat down. At this shifting of his target from up to down, instead of right to left, Fedir faltered, his aim broken, slacking some of the tension on his bowstring. The youth had parked himself on the near end of a low, mossy, half-mouldered log that lay aslant the bank. He was still in profile to Fedir, but now a smaller target – almost folded in half as he perched on his low seat. However, he was stationary: perfect.

Fedir tensed his muscles again, his feet still planted firmly on the leaf litter. He had the luxury of taking his time to aim, now. Anyone from his village could make this shot.

Suddenly Fedir’s left wrist buzzed and throbbed as though it were inflamed. His arm spasmed, almost dropping the weapon. He gasped, crouched, half dropping and half placing the bow and arrow on the ground, unnocking the arrow as he did so, tore off his left glove and fumbled at the straps of his bracer to see what insect was stinging him and how much damage it was doing.

The leather bracer dropped to the leaf litter, and Fedir yanked back his sleeve. There, blooming black on the pale underside of his left wrist, was a shape like a many-pointed star. It looked very like a tattoo. As Fedir watched, wide eyed, its edges became crisper, clearer, until within a few seconds it was clear, every edge and tip of every ray perfect and sharp. There was no swelling of the skin around it, as there would be around a fresh tattoo, but the black had a hint of red to it, like ink mixed with blood.

Oh no.

No. That was impossible.

Fedir rose from his crouch to the gap in the leaves, and positively hurled his glance around the clearing in the forest, looking to the trees on either side, the grass and small bushes in front, the grassy, tree-topped bank beyond, the sky above and the leaf litter at his feet, even over his shoulder into the thicket, hoping against hope that somehow there was someone else nearby, someone he had seen without realising he’d seen them, someone who wasn’t the enemy …

But his brain told him that there was no one else around, and his gut told him that this black-haired boy was it.

His soulmate.

––––––

I had expected this to be a short story, but – as so many of my 'short' stories do – it has crept into novella territory, and a sizeable novella at that.
When this book finally lets me finish it, it will be published at Smashwords.com, and from there will be distributed to various other online booksellers.

In which we discover that G. Wulfing cannot write to a deadline

My muse is dreadfully fond of yanking me around. I posted the following to Tumblr about a month ago, and it has always been true.

My muse loves to play the following trick on me. She gives me masses of inspiration for a story, so that I feel I must write it immediately, and I temporarily drop the piece I’m currently working on, telling myself that I’ll write this new story quickly, get it out of the way, and return to the piece I was trying to work on. The inspiration then suddenly dries up, and I’m left with two half-finished stories: the one the muse just inspired me to write, and the one I dropped in order to write it. I glare at the muse in frustration and resentment, and she shrugs and disappears, leaving me to slog, at times painfully, through my attempts to finish the story that she dumped in my lap. Eventually she will return, but not to help me finish any of the stories I have half-written: no; she comes to bring inspiration for yet another story.
She is a brat, but she is also what will make me great. I am nothing without her, and she knows it. Occasionally she takes pity on me and helps me to finish, or at least make progress on, a story that is currently incomplete, but this is rare. More often, I am left to finish alone what she urged me to start.

The Enemy Soulmate is a perfect example of such a caprice. I began it near the beginning of this year, and, as mentioned in my previous blog post, hoped and planned to get it finished in time to publish in July; and at the rate at which it was progressing, that seemed entirely possible.
And then the muse vanished with a flutter of glittery wings, leaving me knee-deep in the swamp of a first draft, her illuminating glow fading with her; and as I continued to slosh, step by step, through the mud, the fog gradually lifted to reveal that the shore, which I had thought not far off, was in fact nowhere to be seen. And I have been slogging, at varying speed, ever since. O inconstant fizgig, that trifles with my very soul!
Because of this 'adorable, playful little quirk' (read: 'cruel, deceptive, nasty little vice') of my muse's, I invariably write multiple stories at once. I currently have approximately fifteen stories in varying stages of first draft, with other, fragmentary ideas in waiting. When the muse abandons me in the midst of a story, and I cannot squeeze anything more out of my brain regarding it, I skip to another one, so that I can always work on something. The downside to this approach is that it takes forever to get any story actually finished, but the upside is that I can always feel that I am making progress on something, even if it's not the book I'm currently trying to complete.
For The Enemy Soulmate, however, I wanted to see if I could get the story finished within a few months, if I focussed solely on it and persevered with it even when uninspired. I wanted to finish it quickly and get back to the story I had been working on when the muse decided that I was going to write The Enemy Soulmate instead. I am told that that is what 'professional' writers do – finish the book no matter how uninspired they feel – so it must be achievable, mustn't it?
The result of this intention is that I have spent a disappointing number of hours staring at the manuscript on my computer screen, cudgelling my brains, frustrated and impatient and half-inclined to throttle my mercurial muse next time she has the impudence to appear.
My deadline of July scuttled past, and then my next deadline of August ... and although the shore of the swamp seems to have appeared, hazy in the distance, it could simply be a trick of the murky light, and I am loath to set a third deadline lest I miss that one too and the concept of 'deadlines' start to become rather meaningless.
It appears that I cannot write to a deadline. Hours spent trying to write do not equate to progress being made. The stories will be finished in their own time, and I cannot pressure them into hurrying. I had always suspected that this was the case, but I had hoped to be proven wrong.
In fact, trying to finish the story by a certain date increased my frustration when the muse disappeared, and certainly took a lot of the pleasure out of writing it. I cannot say whether I would have made more or less progress had I not been trying so hard, but I am sure I would have been less frustrated.
Still, it is good to know, so that I can avoid setting deadlines in the future. Apparently, I have no say in when my stories finish themselves: I'm just the writer, and all I can do is make sure I have the tallest, most waterproof boots I can find, and plenty of snacks in my backpack.

The cover for The Enemy Soulmate

I am working on the story I want to publish next, and, as sometimes happens, the cover image is ready before the book is finished.

This cover is the work of two artists: Em Krebaum and DrRiptide. Em did the character art, while DrRiptide created the background and turned both pieces of art into an e-book cover. I love the result.
(You can see more of Em's beautiful art, and his storytelling skills, at creationmythproject.)

A blurb about the book:
In this short fantasy, when soulmates meet for the first time, matching tattoo-like soulmarks appear on their bodies. Eighteen-year-old Fedir is hunting in the woods when he discovers, to his horror, that his soulmate is a young man from an enemy tribe. If Fedir kills his soulmate, the problem will be solved … but can Fedir bring himself to kill the person who is fated to become his closest friend?

The book itself is nowhere near finished, which is slightly alarming as I want to publish it within the next month. Either I will surprise myself and finish it in a few weeks' time, or I will discover that the book refuses be rushed and I will have nothing to publish in July.
Either way, I can console myself with the thought that when the book is finally published, it will have this glorious artwork for its cover. 

In which I confront my fear of blogging

I am an extremely private person, and two nights ago, right before I climbed into bed, I was thinking about how much I struggle to share anything about myself. This haiku popped, fully formed, into my head.


How many layers
Must you be buried under
Before you feel safe?


I struggle with blogging. Apparently this is common to many fiction writers: we spend so much time in our heads, listening to our characters and writing their thoughts and feelings, that when it comes to trying to write ‘in our own voices’, we stutter and fall silent.

I don’t enjoy talking about myself. I hate sharing any personal information. Sometimes I think that if I never had to tell anyone anything ever again, that would make me very happy. So when it comes to blogging – i. e. sharing my opinions and thoughts – I shrivel. Besides, I didn’t start this blog to talk about myself: I started it to talk about my work. 

But … 

But actually, that’s not quite true. One of my intentions with this blog was that I would use it to say things. To share my opinions and say things that I deem important. And are not my opinions part of my work? Can a writer not write about anything they wish to? 

But then, who cares about my opinions? Sometimes even I don’t care to listen to my opinions; why would anyone else? 

In fact, it’s entirely possible that no one is reading or will ever read this blog. So I could share any and all of my opinions, or none at all, and it would make no difference. 

But the very fact that someone could read them, – might, someday, read them, – is scary. And I ask myself, Why? 

Are you so afraid of being judged that you’ll say nothing? Imagine if every great person of history had felt that way. Where is your courage, G. Wulfing? Why do anything at all if you are so afraid of being judged and criticised by people? 

Will you stay silent forever? 

How many layers – how much security – how safe does the world have to be before you’ll risk sharing an opinion? 

The world is not safe. It never will be while you live. And courage does not lie in being safe. Courage lies in the heart of fear: it is fear that gives courage meaning: without fear, courage does not exist, for courage is the defiance of fear. 

I have so many fears. I have always been a very fearful person. 

Fear keeps us small. Keeps us dead. Keeps us from trying anything. 

And a lesson I have learned over and over from my dear friends, stories, is that heroes are made when fear is defied. 

If I wish to be anything other than small and dead, I must look my fear in the eye and defy it. 

Here’s to future blog posts.

My fifth book: Purple Flowers; Or, How To Get Your Best Friend To Forgive You

My fifth book, Purple Flowers; Or, How To Get Your Best Friend To Forgive You, was published at Smashwords yesterday evening. 

I've not been sure what genre to call this story. At Smashwords, it's currently listed as 'Young adult or teen', subgenre: 'drama'. Here's the short blurb:

Best friends Jay and Jonathan are so close that some people who see the young men together think they’re a gay couple. It’s hilarious. Until, one day, in order to spare himself the mockery of his unbearable workmates, Jay panics, blurting a lie that could ruin Jonathan’s reputation; and Jay realises that he will lose his lifelong best friend in mere days if he can’t find a way to apologise enough.

And the cover, by the excellent DrRiptide:

Back in February, I posted a short extract from the story on my blog here.
You can read the whole story, and/or download it in a format of your choosing, at Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/721240
You might also find it at your preferred e-book retailer (it will still be free!).

The cover for Purple Flowers

Here is the cover for Purple Flowers; Or, How To Get Your Best Friend To Forgive You. The exceptional DrRiptide painted these beautiful purple irises for this cover.

Purple Flowers; Or, How To Get Your Best Friend To Forgive You is about two young men who are best friends, until one of them makes a huge mistake, betraying his friend's trust in order to spare himself. It will be published next month at Smashwords (you can find my other books on Smashwords here). You can read an extract here on my blog.

A preview extract from Purple Flowers

Coming soon: Purple Flowers; Or, How To Get Your Best Friend To Forgive You.
Here's an extract.

––––––

As she came downstairs, heading for the kitchen, Sophia heard laughter in the front hall. Her younger brother and his best friend had evidently returned from the cinema.

In the kitchen, Sophia filled the electric kettle and switched it on to boil. The guys were still in the hall, laughing hugely. The movie must have been hilarious, Sophia thought to herself. She selected a mug from the kitchen drawer, and then, perplexed by so much laughter, approached the hall, still clutching the mug by its handle.

Her brother Jay, dark haired and blue eyed, was leaning his back against one wall, almost weeping with laughter. Supporting himself with one outstretched hand pressed against the opposite wall, his complexion pink with mirth beneath his light brown hair, was Jonathan, who had been Jay’s best friend for so long that Sophia regarded him as a sort of adoptive cousin.

“Was the movie that good?” she asked them.

“No,” Jonathan told her, catching his breath momentarily; “I mean, it was, but that’s not what we’re laughing about.”

Sophia looked from one to the other. “Well, what was so funny? You look like you’re about to collapse.”

“As we were coming out of the cinema –” Jay began.

“‘Coming out’!” Jonathan giggled.

Jay snorted with fresh laughter, and Sophia had to wait a moment while he recovered.

“As we were exiting the cinema,” he resumed, “we saw this little girl dropping leaves into the gutter, one by one, with this really serious, focussed look on her face, and Jonathan leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘Soon my death-ray will be complete!’” – both boys giggled “– which was a line from the movie, you see, and it was so funny …” Jay took a breath. “So we were standing there, trying not to show that we were laughing, because we didn’t want the little girl to be weirded out by two strangers standing there laughing at her, you see; and there was a lady standing nearby, – about Mum’s age, maybe; and she looked at us strangely –”

“Queerly, even!” Jonathan cackled.

Jay gasped with laughter, sliding his back down the wall until he was sitting on the hallway floor. “Stoppit, you idiot … I’m trying to tell her …”

Sophia raised her eyebrows, with a slight, patient sigh, beginning to smile at the guys’ mirth even before she knew what the joke was.

“And Jay said something about the human race being brought to its knees by the power of the death-dealing deciduous leaf,” Jonathan added, while Jay recovered somewhat.

“Okay,” Jay resumed, “so we’re standing there, sort of sniggering and whispering together but trying not to look like we’re sniggering –”

“Sniggering in each other’s ears,” Jonathan supplied.

“Right; and this lady was looking at us strangely, and then she leaned in closer and said –” Jay took a deep breath to stop himself subsiding back into laughter – “‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but – are you two “together”?’”

Jonathan giggled anew, holding his abdomen with one hand while the other covered his mouth to keep himself from interrupting Jay’s story.

“And we looked at her blankly, and then we both realised what she meant … She was asking if … she was asking if we were in a gay relationship! And so Jonathan …”

“I put my arm around his neck,” Jonathan said, through his laughter, “and kissed him on the cheek, and said –”

Jay roared with laughter on the hallway floor, knowing what was coming next.
“– ‘Why? Are you jealous?’”

Sophia cackled gleefully.

“And the look on her face … it was just a beautiful moment.” Jay held up his hand, and Jonathan leaned down to high-five it.

“Totally worth being temporarily gay for,” Jonathan agreed.

“What business was it of hers?” Sophia asked rhetorically. 
 “Exactly,” Jonathan agreed. “What kind of question is that to ask a couple of total strangers?”

“But it did give us an awesome story to tell.” Jay wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, almost hiccupping in the aftermath of his mirth.

––––––

Purple Flowers; Or, How To Get Your Best Friend To Forgive You will soon be published on Smashwords, and from there it will be distributed to a variety of other online booksellers.

Poem: Promise Me

Promise Me 

24 June, 2007.

Two adventurers paused on a mountainside;

On the flank of a mountain they rested.

The smoke from their fire curled wafting away,

And they pulled at their pipes and talked easily.

The view was vast and varied, and they watched with experienced eyes;

Then one turned to the other and spoke —

Promise me that you’ll never stop adventuring.

Promise me that you’ll never grow old.

Promise me that

The youth inside you

Will not wither.

For I have lost many companions,

Though none were as dear as you;

And my heart is tired of loss.

For the spirit inside me will never grow old,

Though all around me die.

I need a companion who will not fall away,

Who will not leave me walking alone.

There is so much yet to see;

There is so much life to live.

Don’t leave me like the others –

Don’t grow old.

–––

I also post short poems to Tumblr sometimes. You can find them by searching my Tumblr blog for the tag 'poem'.