Tag Archives: wolves

I WON PITCHWARS! *true fact

*Because I worked my ever-loving bananas off and I am talking hours/day – I took a week off of work and didn’t see the outdoors, but I made the book the best I can, and I subbed it off and whatever happens now happens, but i can say for sure that this was all achievement: unlocked, and what not. Because. Yeah. It’s a good feeling to work your ass off and have something to show for it. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this focussed on anything in my whole life. And for those of you that know me, you know I’m an old lady – so. Go team me and what not. If there’s extra Pitchwars news, I’ll share. But for now, I’m kind of feeling amazeballs (it doesn’t hurt that I met a new CP, and she’s great).

So, this, is kind of how I am feeling right now (also known as: my day in rockstars)


I did take some breaks, though, and played through Last of Us again, which is like, one of my happy places (not necc. all of the Joel Killing Bloodshed stuff, but because it’s the video game version of The Road, and it’s complex and has great storytelling and has a great father/daughter relationship at its core and you should go play it right now), not the least of which is because (and i have no shame) Joel is so damn hot.


And, so, in an homage to my Joel, and because of my love for The Road, I’m going forth with The Mourning Wolves, my not-a-werewolf monster/transformation novel about Ash and her sidekick Fig, and the adventures they have in Northern Alberta. My hands hurt from typing 10 hours/day, but I’m kind of excited, too.


Worldburners Unite, indeed.

another project: mourning (wolves)

Everyone has an enemy and sometimes they’re not who you expect. Enemy. Fren. Eh. Me. Some days. Some days it’s just enough to keep on walking. My sneakers are riddled with holes and my socks don’t match. Ask me if I’m happy and I don’t know the answer. Some days it’s the guilt, and some days I forget until your photograph falls out of my torn-up bag and lands face-side up on the pavement I remember, I remember blood and claws and it didn’t matter that your heart didn’t beat, didn’t move anything like blood through your system. When you died, I still felt it stop.

I did, and I’m sorry and I found this house for us, and just as soon as I can get the electrical to work, and get that sign off the lawn, it’ll be beautiful.

But for now, it’s just this alley I’m walking down. It’s just silent of my footsteps; I smell like a wet dog.

I’m hungry.

Buildings hang over me, their weight in rebar and concrete and I look up.


i do have them:

Short Stories:

Mourning Wolves – (the werewolves are coming!): draft

And the Woods are Silent – (the fox is coming, except I think I need to change it to a wolf!):  almost final edit


Ellis, Underground – (the memories are going, and why is that guy dead?): draft

A Single Murder (Ballad)- (what if, after they left the Witch’s house, Gretel did something and Hansel died?): only an idea

ASMB, because that’s easier than typing it out in full, is going to be a mixed around version of Hansel and Gretel, without stealing too much from Bill Willingham’s Fables (it’s good to know where our influences come from), in that Hansel won’t kill Gretel, but will, perhaps choose her own life over his, and somehow I think this is going to be YA, but maybe it won’t be?

Who knows!


what else have I done? Movies:

“12 Years a Slave”, “Dallas Buyers Club”, “Pacific Rim”, “Enders Game”. Right now I’m watching “To the Wonder”, a film in which I’m quite sure Ben Affleck (I know!) does not speak.

wake up, wonder where we are.

a while ago I posted a story intro over on hitRECord, not for my story, but for the story of how all these sorts of critters and creeps might end up in some alternate New York, a place hidden away from simple smiles, whose doors only open with a very specific rat-tat-tat.

Part of it, the end, went like this:

I am not sure how we got here, in our top hats and sequins. An invitation overheard in a cafe whose croissants are never eaten. We grow hungry, waiting.

Overhead the moon.

Does it listen? Does it overhear our thoughts and eavesdrop our stories to the sun?
You pull your coat tighter. A taxi cab weaves through the streets. The road is wet, thick with slush, the toes of your satin slippers are marked, water-stained.

Our pocket watches are careful creatures and they mind what they say.

Unfortunately in the time between there and here, Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s brother passed away and the doors to the Fall Formal were locked and closed forever.

So now I  have a story that exists in some perfect moment of stopped time, wound around with sadness.

But when I wrote it I also knew that was the kind of feel I wanted for Ellis, my not so victorian, not so steampunk, not so much of anything familiar tale.

Now it’s winter and cold and the tips of my fingers are icy and I have a choice to make, I think:

There is a light, harvest yellow and orange. There is a light burning from a mouth, a mouth carved and opened and a candle. There is candlelight burning from inside the mouth and it warms the night and it is autumn, and there are haunts, and we hear their low groan, the voices that are lighter than wind, heavier than air and they float like a sigh and that is how we hear their words, and we are just as tired, and we are just as old.

which fits because hi, winter and and cold, ftw!


The rain comes down.
Lightning cuts through the water as the tail-end of comets, of stars falling and burning out.  Ellis stands on a balcony with no rail, feet curled over the rot-wood edge as if she means to jump and across the street, behind glass that keeps safe both rations and wishes, a boy raises his hands in the air.
To the west a hare waits out the rain.
They are all waiting.

I can’t decide. On the top end the first book is almost finished and the second, not so much, but I wonder if it shouldn’t be in first person.

Is that a bad thing, maybe?