Dreamer - Promo

My Work Space---

On a beach at sunset----the burning orange globe is falling low to the west casting tiny rivulets of light that flit enticingly across the dark blue of the water. A spark of unseen flame ignites a nearby fire--- imagination takes hold. The reader joins the dance.

Unlike a painter requiring space for canvas, a writer carries the work area entirely in the mind like a storyteller of old. All that is needed is a pen and paper or a keyboard to set the words free. My desk ---such that it is--- is portable, my workspace often contained in a heartbeat.

The actual place where I usually transform ideas into communicable bits and pieces is a rather dull space. It’s a tiny corner of the world where all manner of beasts inhabit only my mind. Populated by computer, printer, keyboard and mouse, it would win no prizes for elegance or cleanliness. Yet, it is in this unremarkable spot where ideas become words.

I have worked outside on the lawn and in the woods, by the river and behind the barn---anywhere an idea becomes a spark. My current favorite lies near the river—a stone bench within sight of the water’s edge. I have been known to sit there for hours ‘contemplating nothing more than my navel’----according to some.
My most important companion in writing is my coffee mug. A creature of habit, I prefer a certain cup over others---until it succumbs to destruction. Like an ungrateful student who changes mentors at whim, I choose another porcelain container and move to the next cup of coffee…

Like other artists, writers are never alone---writing is only half of the process. The desk isn’t a magical spot. The enchantment comes from the reader when the small black and white scribblings are translated and reformed into ideas that take shape in the mind. For the work to be complete it must be read----it depends on you!

Excerpt

When the queen had realized that the scaly arms enclosed her, it was too late for her to scream. One clawed hand covered her mouth, the other wrapped tightly around her waist. With very little effort, the creature hauled her away into the brush, dragging her over rough terrain, jutting rocks, and spiny cacti toward the cliff. She tried her best to scream, fiercely biting the claw that held back her air, but the grip only tightened. She could feel rough scales at her back and hear the creature’s clucking breaths.

Umbra was carried to the cliff’s edge and held there for a moment as her life passed before her—over, gone, lost. She looked down on the sharp rocks among the roiling surf below. The wind blew hard, trying to push her back to safety. No human would survive that fall. She tried desperately to dig in her feet, to hold on to the edge, to stay on the towering cliff, all to no avail. The creature hurled her off the precipice into the air, cackling gleefully. Her heart pounded as she felt herself melting into the eternity of doom. For searing moments that seemed like hours, she flew unfettered through the night sky, high above the black rocks, and just as suddenly, she was caught in the grasp of strong claws. Only then did she hear the beating of its wings. Umbra screamed long and shrill, but the wind told her to be silent as it carried the sound away.

The queen was a rag doll in the clutches of a flying demon. The creature flew raggedly, carrying her weight with some difficulty against the shifting winds. She looked up helplessly and examined it. The beast was only slightly larger than a man. It was black from head to toe, a scaly skin and hair covering its wings.

A morgith, she identified it, a creature of the night. Neither man nor dragon, these lizard beings were beasts of legend. None had been seen for hundreds of years on this coast. It was thought that they sought the flesh of young women and children to feed their broods. Her grandmother had told her stories of these monsters to frighten her as a young girl. They were a myth. Now the myth carried her far north following the shear coast.