​As I started writing 4:05 a.m.: An Ice Era Chronicle, I became interested in a side character named Haze. The more I wrote, the more Haze stuck out in my head—I don’t know why. Finally, I had to consider that I might be giving this man his own book.
I struggle with that. I could write him a holiday story or just an Off-The-Rails story, but I am on the fence about which to do. 
I hate being on the fence. 
Haze plays an integral part in Ronan’s story, so I must give him some serious focus in 4:05 a.m.

So, to start with, I want to make sure Haze isn’t dull. I also need to introduce him clearly. I want to ensure I don’t have a reader doing that thing where they are flipping back pages and asking who that guy is.
Next, I want to make Haze memorable. I must establish his purpose and ground him in the Ice Era world.

Having fun side characters is great, but at this moment, I need to add a little more because I am considering a story for my character. I just don’t know where it belongs.
Of course, that doesn’t stop me from writing it...
​I just hit 10,000 words.
***

Chapter One:

Haze was so, so, so in trouble.
But instead of freaking out, he did what his madam taught him. He needed to slow it down.
Standing before Madam Granite as she sat in her wheelchair scowling, he took in the grand dining area of the Pochwa’s castle. He’d lived here since he was eighteen and never stepped out of line. Not once. He wanted to serve this all-female tribe that had built a fortress near Palmillas. He liked it.
Though these women were often referred to as man-haters, Haze had been with the group for so long that he didn’t see them that way. Yes, almost all these females had powerful gifts and had come here to not be around men, but even if they were leery of males in general, they never punished too harshly or hurt the men who decided to attend them.
Well—except that one time. Haze bowed his head and slowed his spinning mind. It would be okay. Madam Granite was old but kind, caring, and sharp. She wouldn’t beat him to death.
Probably...

​I love writing the first kiss. My daughter said to me the other day that I romanticize everything. 
But it’s not everything. I romanticize that flutter of excitement right before two people’s lips meet for the first time. However, as I evolve as a writer, I think about more than just that first kiss.

I read the other day that, as a writer, I need to consider my characters’ first touch. The post I was looking at mentioned how the initial physical contact between your characters can make or break your readers’ emotional investment.

Interesting. I’d never considered that before. Now, I am supposed to consider that fleeting moment when fingers brush while passing a gun or a steadying hand on someone’s back. The idea is that those little moments could spark more tension than a passionate embrace.

Hummm?

I read that physical touch releases oxytocin, often called the “bonding hormone.” Readers instinctively understand this chemistry, even if they don’t know the science behind it. That means I should craft a story that has these early moments of contact with intention. If I do that, I will tap into my readers’ emotional memories and experiences. I need to make every touch count, not just the first kiss.

Easier said than done… but I am up for it.

So, as I work on my next book, I am trying to keep this idea in mind. I always want to keep getting better as a writer, and if I succeed in tapping into your emotional memories sometimes, yay for me. I hope you come back for more.

A long, long, long time ago, I wrote a book. It was something I liked to do. Who am I kidding? I still like doing that!
Anyway, one person in the world read this book. I will call her BFF. Now, BFF liked this book. Even with all the terrible writing, the long story, and the silly nonsense, she LIKED it. I always thought she liked it simply because she was my BFF and was being nice, but no! She really liked it. I met up with her, and she was adamant.
Alas, I told BFF I was going to toss the story in the trash. That is where it belongs. She said she would kill me. If I die under mysterious circumstances, you will all know what really happened.
Yesterday, I pulled the book out and asked myself if it could be saved and if I could give it a second chance. I feel like I am back with a cheating boyfriend. Can I trust this manuscript that I wrote before I knew how to write? I know deep down that this should never see the light of day! How can we ever get along? 
But I might try for my BFF. This book could save my life. 
Penny For Your Thoughts?

***

“We can do this, Penny Rose.” Cash’s gruff sentence jolted her awake. “You’ll only have to be out here like three days.”
The reassurances sounded like they were more for her brother’s benefit than for hers.
Groggily, Penny tried to acknowledge her brother and lift her eyelids. She needed to ask where she was. After a few tries, she gave up. Her head swayed with her cheek pressed against her brother’s muscled back. She tried to shift so her brother wouldn’t bear the brunt of her weight, but she couldn’t. The drug in her system held her immobile.
Even with her eyes closed, Penny could tell that Cash had squished her in a bag and carried her strapped to his meaty shoulders. He huffed as he trudged, but she didn’t think his lassitude was because of her added balk. Cash was a short man, but he was muscular with fantastic endurance. At least, that is what she remembered from when they used to be around each other. Instead, she guessed that his puffing was due to walking a long distance and traveling at a swift pace.
But where were they going?
Penny tried to recall what happened in the last twenty-four hours. Drat, most of it was a blur. She’d argued with one of the doctors at the Female Care Center. The quarrel was a minor disagreement about her not eating again. Two female guards held her down and gave her that horrendous immobilization drug. Penny didn’t think the exchange warranted the use of the powerful injection. Besides, as of late, she had been so weak she wondered why they even bothered.
After the shot, she couldn’t recall much. She fell asleep in the recovery room. One thing she knew for sure was that if Cash had gotten her out of the Female Care Center, he’d done so illegally. No part of her cared that he’d committed a crime against the H.S.P.C.
In fact, the more she thought about what happened, the more she was sure that if she’d been awake, she would’ve helped. As far as she was concerned, FCCs were women’s prisons. Penny would willingly commit a dozen crimes to be free. If she could’ve smiled, she would’ve. Yes, and yes. Maybe she should feel bad that her brother had risked a lot to come for her, but she didn’t feel guilty right now.
Right now, never returning to the FCC was the only thing on her mind. For the second time, she worked to lift her eyelids. Sniffing, she detected clean soil and plants. Where were they? She needed to know. Staying proactive was what she needed to do. That way, she would never get stuck in a care center again.
Fear began to win out over her excitement at her brother’s daring rescue. She couldn’t sit back and let Cash do the work. She had to fight. The first time around, she’d sat by doing nothing. Not fighting had gotten her mother stuck in a care center as well. Penny wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. She would ask Cash what happened and how he saved her in case she was ever trapped again.
Prying her eyes open, she forced them to stay wide enough to look at her surroundings. Her brother had a headlamp on his head. Odd. The light illuminated a large space before them. They were walking on a dirt path. Darkness surrounded them. There was only the crunch of gravel. Why were they not on a train zooming toward the Equator? The busy area of the C.T.O.N.A. would be where they would never be found. A dozen questions rolled through her brain.
Penny strained her neck as she worked to speak. Bummer, her voice was as frozen as her body. Okay, no walking or talking, but she could figure out what was happening. Think. If she remembered correctly, her brother always had a plan. Knowing the strategy would make her feel safe.
Opening her mouth, she tried again. No sound emerged. Drat, there was nothing except the crunch of her brother’s boots on loose rocks. Tears sprung to her eyes. The drops slipped down her cheeks to wet the scratchy cloth. She didn’t know why she was crying. This wasn’t the first time they’d given her the immobilization drug, and her voice wouldn’t work. Usually, her voice came back in a week or so. Penny figured she cried because she’d barely seen Cash in thirteen years, and now she couldn’t even talk to him.
Her brother’s shoulders rolled, and he turned his head, scattering light in a new direction. Sucking in her surprise, she caught sight of the plants.
No and no. The landscape had Penny’s heart hitting the ground. Not here...

​This blog post will sound strange, but I hope to take some of what I have learned in this life with me when I die.

I don't believe in natural talent. Natural talents or people who are a prodigy might just be someone who worked on it in a past life. I will give you a piano player as an example. We will name him Tim.
At first, Tim comes across a piano, and he plays it a little, and Tim kind of likes it. And then, in a second life, Tim played again. Maybe Tim liked it again. I picture Tim drawn to the music or the instrument, and it felt familiar, so he would want to play.

Okay, now let's say Tim had always touched those keys, and maybe it was just a reminisce of Tim's last life when he played. And so, in the next life, Tim encounters a piano, and he is a panio teacher. Or maybe Tim played in a jazz club. (I could see Tim as a jazz guy.) Tim was good but not great. Our boy Tim simply likes the music or the instrument and is captivated, and people say things like, "You picked up the piano so fast, Tim." Or they say, "You must have an ear for music, Tim." 
But it's not as simple as that. I think Tim played and learned, and some of that knowledge goes with him into the next life. Tim got to keep it when he died. Then, he becomes a prodigy who plays Mozart at the age of five.
​
Am I explaining this right?

One day, I want to wake up and be able to write a book even though I'm only four years old. I want writing to be a familiar comfort, like the hug of a family friend.
I want to take what I have learned and keep it for the next life. I want to keep going. Here's to hoping.

When I started writing One Strong Gale, I thought deeply about how to create this love story because I didn’t want jealousy to be a problem. Realistic handling of jealousy, insecurity, and conflict is crucial when building a story that involves three people.

I had to solve how Gale, Josie, and Vin would navigate falling in love and what tensions would arise.
When handled thoughtfully, these elements would form a coherent story that was woven properly.
While I am writing, it isn’t just about three attractive people coming together. I want to explore the complexities of love, loyalty, and personal growth in a unique and engaging way.

At the core of this novel, I had to look deeply at each character’s power dynamics and what they wanted out of life. Vin, Gale, and Josie all have their own goals and interests, and I had to consider how their pasts would shape their approach to a relationship. I wanted each of these people to be captivating and have a unique personality, background, and set of skills. My hope was that these characters would bring something different to each other’s lives.

Now the question is, did I hit my mark?
​
Well, that will be for you (my awesome reader) to decide. No matter what, I will just keep trying to give all my characters in whatever story I'm writing depth, flaws, and their own character arcs. I just have to keep going.