Poem: How To Be Alone On Valentine's Day

In the spirit of Tanya Davis’ and Andrea Dorfman’s short film ‘How To Be Alone’, I have composed a poem regarding Valentine’s Day – that traditional celebration of romantic love. Romantic love is only one type of love, and it is not necessarily even the most fulfilling or valuable type of love. Far more important is to love and accept yourself: by all means improve yourself, but understand that you cannot truly love anyone or anything until you love yourself.

How To Be Alone On Valentine’s Day
On Valentine’s Day,
Date yourself.
Use your favourite bodywash in the shower;
Or take a three-hour bath with candles and bath bombs.
Wear your favourite scents.
Get dressed in your favourite clothes – pyjamas, jeans, or tuxedo.
Wear your favourite jewellery.
Smile at yourself in the mirror: you look amazing.

Take yourself out walking, to the movies, to a park,
And imagine how many people wish that they were you –
Envying your self-confidence, your self-sufficiency,
Your strength in not needing a partner to validate you.

You are enough in yourself.
Your looks – your body – your intellect – your personality –
Are enough for you.

Go your favourite restaurant. Buy yourself dinner. Forget the cost; enjoy. Breathe deeply. Today is a gift to yourself.

Or curl up at home with books and D.V.D.s.
Eat straight from the tin, with a cocktail fork.
Make yourself your favourite dessert.
Light those special fancy candles. Enjoy them.
Put flowers on the table, for yourself.

This day does not have to be one of loneliness.
It does not have to be a day of regrets, or insecurity.
It can be a day of devotion and strength and sureness.
On this sugar-coated, pink heart-shaped day,
Remember how to love.
Not how to give gifts or how to buy flowers,
But how to show a person that they are valuable … precious … cherished … adored.
Humility is not self-hatred.
Confidence is not conceit.
Self-love is not selfish.
Love yourself, listen to yourself, be honest with yourself, accept yourself, honour yourself,
As you would love and listen to and be honest with and accept and honour a person who was most precious to you;
And you will find yourself loving and listening to and being honest with and accepting and honouring
Others
And the planet
And all good things.
There are so many ways to love.
Start with yourself.

In which I talk about books that are nocturnal and require sugar

Some of my books refuse to be written in daylight. They are nocturnal.
It's quite bizarre. Raymond, for example, was written very quickly: 21 pages in 3 days, and most of it written between 15:00 and 03:00 (3 p.m. and 3 a.m.). It was written in Winter, and where I live, the Winter dusk starts to fall at about 16:00–17:00. So the vast majority of the story was written during the hours of darkness. If I tried to make progress during daylight, the ideas would not flow. As soon as the sun went down, the muse awoke, and the story unfolded itself in my head. I did not try to fight this phenomenon: it very quickly became apparent that this story had its own way of doing things, and I was not about to argue so long as the ideas kept flowing.
Seven years later, when I wanted to edit Raymond for publication, it refused to be edited in daylight. I spent hours staring at the manuscript on my computer monitor, but could not make any progress on editing it, no matter how I tried. And then, inexplicably, as soon as the sun went down, I could.
After the editing was complete, I needed to format the text for publication, and this the story allowed me to do during daylight. Formatting requires little creativity, so perhaps that is why I could format in daylight; although, in theory, editing doesn't require a lot of creativity either. Editing does, however, require lots of decisions to be made – lots and lots of tiny decisions – and apparently I couldn't make them while the sun was up.
The sequel, Raymond's Nemesis (due to be published in December 2018) was the same: in daylight, nothing; at night, the inspiration flowed. It was harder to write than Raymond was, and took much longer, so there were more sleepless nights and more sugar was consumed.
Incidentally, some stories require certain sorts of sugary treats – in addition to my usual hot chocolate, masala chai lattes, or mochaccinos – to be consumed whilst writing them. Raymond's Nemesis, which was also written in Winter, was – if I recall correctly – the strawberry Oreo book: I had access to a large box of those biscuits, packaged in threes, and every hour or two would leave my computer to make another hot drink in the benighted kitchen and retrieve another packet of Oreo biscuits, to be eaten at my desk while the heater blasted warm air into the room. Another nocturnal book, The Vine, required a large box of Turkish Delight, which I already had in my possession (I love Turkish Delight), and which I started eating so that I could describe the taste of it really well for the story, then kept eating because I was writing at night and wanted the sugar to keep my physical brain awake and functional while the muse fed ideas into it.
To anyone who does not believe in muses, or who is not possessed of an artistic temperament, or whose muse is less capricious, this must seem ridiculous. Surely, one can set a time for writing, then sit down and write. How hard can it be to put words on paper, or on a screen?
Certainly, that is what one tries to do. But there is a thing called 'inspiration'; one cannot wait around for it, else nothing will get finished: one must write regardless of how uninspired one feels; but at the same time, inspiration is the magic without which stories simply cannot exist. One cannot force it; one cannot wait for it; and when it does arrive, one must allow it to seize and drive one's imagination for as long as it will do so, because the result of such possession is always wonderful and beautiful and far better than anything one can produce without it.
So if inspiration descends upon me late at night when I am tired and want to sleep, I have a choice: tell it to come back another day, and risk it not doing so, or stay up and write for as long as I can, until either I or the inspiration is exhausted. This is why I call the particular type of inspiration that comes to me my 'muse': she seems almost like a person, with whims and moods, sulks and passions. Sometimes she ignores me; sometimes she pesters. Sometimes I can almost see her in my mind's eye. And the magic – the inspiration – that she causes to flow through me is worth losing sleep over.
These nocturnal, sugar-laden writing processes are neither healthy nor sustainable, occasionally frustrating, and certainly not my preference; but when that is how the story insists on being written – or how the muse insists I write the story – that is what I must do, and a series of nights of sleep-deprivation and sugar highs is worth it in the end when I have a complete, or near-complete, story before me.

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.