Path Unchosen Cover

Path Unchosen is the title of my novel. It’s the story of an apprentice necromancer who discovers that someone is deliberately raising zombies. She risks her life, and her soul, to stop them before any more innocent people die. This book is the first in a somewhat darkish urban fantasy series I’ve called Daughter of Ravenswood.

I’m very happy with the cover, which was designed by Andrew Brown, of Design for Writers.  I like its feel, its just the right amount of creepiness 🙂

According to Dr. Carl Jung ravens symbolize our shadow selves, the dark side of our psyches. If we want to be whole we need to acknowledge and communicate with that dark side. Wholeness brings balance, and facilitates wisdom (something the wise raven would be very pleased with). It might be the end of the series before we see how much balance and wisdom my heroine achieves.

Can you see the dragon? Nothing thematic here. I just like dragons, and can’t imagine writing a story without one!

I am also pleased with the series and book titles. It’s funny though, as soon as you decide on a book title, you can’t remember or imagine any others. The hours, days, even weeks of indecision and brain pain are forgotten.

The name Path Unchosen was suggested by one of my beta readers when I begged for help after pulling out the last strands of my hair! The series name and future books in the series came slightly easier 😛

It will be available as an eBook soon, and in print in a few weeks. I’m so glad I decided to self-publish. Even though its mentally exhausting I can’t imagine not being in control of my own business. Exciting times ahead 🙂

What do you think of the cover? What does it suggest to you?

On Being Welsh

Beddgelert, North Wales by A Roger Davies on Flickr (cc)

I’m not sure why I feel so Welsh.
Though I do.
I always have.

I grew up in Birmingham in the UK. But my family hails from Wales (and before that Ireland) and we spent every holiday in our caravan in a Welsh camping ground. Mostly we stayed at a small village near Rhyl.

Late sun on New Years Day, Conwy Valley, Wales, UK by erwlas on Flickr (cc)

Perhaps it’s because of the happiest memories: of forest walks and mountain climbs. Donkey rides on the stony beach. Hot chips in newspaper, the salt rough on my lips. Ice-cream cones melting down my wrist. Vinegar on bee stings and bulls in green fields. Waggly tails on black faced lambs. Even in summer, it rained like old ladies and sticks (mae hi’n bwrw hen wragedd a ffyn). Spots hammered against the caravan windows, and we grabbed books and jigsaw puzzles to wait for the sun to come out.

Wales, UK by neiljs on Flickr (cc)

When I first started writing my short story (the one that turned into an urban fantasy novel, you can read about that here) the setting was always Wales in my head. No-one wants to read paragraphs of description anymore, so the trick is to give a snippet of setting in context that sets the scene for readers. I hope I’ve achieved that!

A stormy day at Mewslade Bay, Gower, South Wales, UK by geographyalltheway.com on Flickr (cc)

My father, like a dog with two tails (fel ci efo dau gynffon), remembered a few words of Welsh at the end of his life and told us stories of scrumping apples, catching rabbits for dinner, and doing anything to avoid working in the pits. That’s how we ended up in Birmingham!

Knowing who I am makes me stronger.

How about you? Do you know where you come from? Does it help you to understand who you are?

Until next time, Y Ddraig Goch ddyry gychwyn (The dragon will show the way).

Y Ddraig Goch ddyry gychwyn

Y Ddraig Goch ddyry gychwyn

Do You Believe in Ghosts?

Have you lain awake at night and felt someone or something watching you? Walked into an empty room and seen flickers of black spots at the corners of your eyes? Felt an unexplained coldness cut to your core? There could be a perfectly sane scientific explanation. Or you could have experienced something we don’t really understand.

Do ghosts really exist?

I think they might.

My grandfather died when I was five years old. I was deemed too young to go to his funeral and he was whisked away by adults who spoke in whispers and pushed me out of the room. But I never forgot him, he had taught me to read and cuddled me while I read haltingly from my Children’s Bible almost every evening.

Once, I was about seven or eight years old, I fought with my mother and ran away from home. It wasn’t a well-planned escape, I had no money and only the shorts and T-shirt I was wearing. At dusk I became disoriented and realised I was lost. I pressed myself into a doorway and slumped to my knees. How would I ever get home? And what would my mother do to me when I did?

It felt hopeless. I had no idea which way to walk. But as I sat in that doorway I heard my grandfather’s voice calling me. I followed the sound to the end of the alleyway, then along the street and across the road. At the busy intersection I didn’t know what to do, until an elderly man crossed the road and turned into another street. As he disappeared around the corner, he lifted his cap and turned to smile at me. I sped after my grandfather; of course he wasn’t at the corner when I got there. But the road to my house was.

Had Grandpa come to help me get home? My mother didn’t believe me. But I don’t know how I would have got home otherwise. How about you? Do you believe in ghosts?

Gargoyle Smile

Image via Wikipedia

Walk with me in the moonlight
crunching along gravel paths
skipping over clumps of moss
past fallen angels and crumbling Madonnas
unfurl your wings and stretch out your claws
leap from broken stones to crumbling mausoleums
breathe deeply the damp air of decay and neglect.

Lift up your wings and soar over forgotten tombs
around and up, looping and diving
then landing at my side
for me to clamber onto your back
and nestle in my special place
between your wings
before climbing again
into the crisp night air.

Fly with me above ancient forests and oceans
under the moon and infinite galaxies
past ruined castles on lonely hilltops
and rat-race cities eased into once pristine bays
eyes gleaming, smile untwisted, this is our time
our time until the rising sun calls us back
to our prisons of stone and wood.