​I was going to keep writing my "In The Mountains" books. I did four of them, and I loved working on them so much that I thought, "Why not?" I started writing four more pieces, and in another blog post, I talked about how they would be called "Back In The Mountains." 
And here is the part where I changed my mind. I do that—a lot. Forgive me.
Anyway, I decided to write four more gay male love stories. However, I didn't want to be back in the mountains again, so I set the stories in a little southern town by a river. The little southern town is named Grand River, and though some of my characters know the men from "In The Mountains," they are separate tales. 
I decided to do this because I might want to keep going, and I can't have everyone in the same town. It would start to be like, "Is everyone in the mountains a gay man?" And that would be a good question. They are not. So, instead, I liked the idea of having more towns and different problems and places and issues instead of keeping it all in the same region. 
Anyway, my collection "By The River" is done. It is a four-story collection similar to "In The Mountains."
The first book you meet Skeeter. (His real name is Gage.)
The second book is Mule's story. (His real name is Winslow.)
The third book is about Bubba. (His real name is Oakley.)
And the fourth book is all about Blue. (His real name is Jesse.)
I don't know where these stories will go just yet, but they are written, and I now have an idea for four more books. I will pick a new town for these men. I'll keep you posted on what I do next. :)

.I have not gotten a great grip on 4:05 a.m. yet. What I do know is that it will be about the oracle. After 4:05 a.m. I was planning on writing a threesome love novel and then a short story that is set on the underground farms.

After that, I wanted to write about Quinn. He is an assassin that I already have a good storyline for him and his match. Once that's completed, his best friend will have a story. I want to call that book Hunky Dory. Dorian is the main character.

What is strange to me is that I have all these ideas but to kick them off I have to get my head on 4:05 a.m. and it's been going slow. I'm not sure why. Aliens? Maybe. Gay mountain men? Perhaps.
​Personally, I think I simply need some new inspiration. I plan to visit a friend of mine. She is a writer in her own right and has been hanging out with me for years. We are going to Lousanna, and I want to sit in the French Quarter and people watch. We will drink coffee and talk, and I hope it will clear my mind and get back on track.
​ 
We will see!

I really want to write more in the mountains books. And so, I started with this story for a guy named Skeeter. That's his nickname. I picked four nicknames for these four stories. These are names I have heard here in Georgia.
My plan is Skeeter's story, Mule's story, Bubba's story, and last is Blue's story.

The thing is, I don't know what to do with these books yet. I don't know where to put them. I want to create but maybe they don't need to be out in the world. I could put them under my bed. I like playing with them, but it doesn't mean anyone has to read them. Right?
I'm not sure.
But if you think I should put them up on Kindle Villa or make them into a book on Barnes and Noble... please tell me. I have them written but not edited yet.
​
Here is a small part of Skeeter's story. (Please remember there are no edits so far.)

***
Chapter 1: Back In The Mountains: Dane and Skeeter.

Tapping snow off his tennis shoes, Dane entered the small mountain town café and stopped. The place was empty, but that didn’t surprise him for a random Thursday night. As he wiped his feet on the mat, he scanned the little round tables, the glass case of baked goods, and the cash register.
Doc Henderson wasn’t here yet.
But he would wait.
“Can I help ya?” An older woman with a hairnet appeared from the back of the baking area. “Ya look froze to death.” She took a spot behind the cash register and smiled warmly at him.
“Sure.” Dane strode up to the case and scanned the items. He didn’t want to spend money on anything extra, but he figured he would have to buy a cookie. If he purchased something, he could sit here out of the wispy snow and call Doctor Henderson. They said they would meet at eight, but Dane knew that Doc’s home was in the next town over. Maybe he was having problems getting over the mountain. It was now fifteen minutes after.
“It’s mighty cold out tonight.” The woman walked toward an industrial coffee pot against the wall. “You want a coffee to warm ya? It’s on the house. We’re closin’ at nine, and I’ll be pourin’ it out soon.”
“Thanks.” Dane spotted a small plate in the case labeled peach cobbler. “I’ll take a piece of cobbler too.”
“Good choice.” The woman set a foam cup on the counter and went for the dessert. “Ginger made it and brung it over the mountain this mornin’.”
“I know you’re closing soon, but I’m waiting for someone. Do you mind if I sit?”
“Sit fer a spell. You look new in town.” She rang him up, and Dane gave her his money before he picked up the plate and the cup. “Who ya waitin’ fer?”
“I don’t know if you know him.” Dane paused. “Doctor Henderson?”
The woman picked up a fork and then paused mid-handing the utensil to him. She stood there so long that Dane wondered if she was having a stroke.
“Are you alright?”
“Oh, dear.” She finally handed him the fork, and then her eyes misted with tears. “Doc died two days ago. I’m so sorry. It was a heartattack. Very sudden. Everyone in these-here parts has been talkin’ ’bout it.”
“I didn’t know.” Dane’s mind spun. The doctor was dead. What the hell was he going to do now?
“Maybe ya should sit.” The lady gestured to a table, and Dane nodded. “Can I get ya anythin’ else?”
“No. I’m fine.” Dane sat with his coffee and the cobbler and tossed his overnight bag to the floor. Staring at the peaches, he tried to come up with what to do now. Traveling here to see the Doc was his last plan for saving his house. Suddenly, all his problems felt too big. What he needed was money and fast. Unfortunately, he wasn’t a criminal. Short of knocking off a liquor store, he had no idea how to fix his life so that the bank didn’t take his home.
The door chimed, and in walked a customer.
“Hey, Skeeter,” the woman behind the counter called. The name had Dane looking up from his cup. In the city, he’d never heard anyone called Skeeter.
The scruffy mountain man, Skeeter, was tall with broad shoulders, a trim waist, and thick thighs. With his right hand, he pushed back thick, shaggy brown hair in a mullet. His left arm he held close to his body as if protecting an injury. The wrist had a black brace from fringers to elbow.
The man wasn’t the type to turn heads like a model or an actor, but as he limped to the counter, Dane found himself appreciating how his blue jeans clung to his rounded ass and powerful-looking thighs. This man had a little something-something.
“Evenin’ Sharon.” Skeeter’s voice was husky and deep with that honeyed Southern accent. “Did Ginger bring cobbler?” The sexy tone swirled in Dane’s stomach.
As the stranger told the cashier what he wanted, he set two paper bags on the counter. Once again, Dane’s eyes raked his bulky coat, wondering if that was fluff or muscles.
He was pretty sure those were all muscles.
Dane had no idea why he was appreciating some random country boy in the mountains. Hook-ups, dating, sex, all those things were the last thing he had time for in his life. Dane had real problems to solve, and even if this guy did have broad shoulders and a nice ass, it didn’t mean anything. The man was probably straight, and Dane wasn’t into unshaven mountain men with their jeans tucked into their giant work boots. Plus, Dane now had to figure out a way home. When he returned to the city, he had to devise a way to pay the back mortgage before the bank foreclosed.
“Have a good night.” Skeeter turned to leave, and Dane lifted his gaze.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the stranger completely captivated Dane. Feelings of restless desire hit him. Sparks sizzled. Love at first sight wasn’t real, but something here came alive.
Soulful, dark hazel eyes penetrated him. They stared at each other for way longer than was appropriate in any situation, but Dane couldn’t seem to break the eye contact. The feelings that surged through him were like they had been together before. Maybe they had met each other in a past life since Dane was sure he’d never seen this guy. Skeeter wasn’t polished or groomed, but his face was still attractive with his beard scruff, and pretty eyes. This man looked honest, solid, and kind. The sense of dependability about him was hotter than sizzling good looks and a huge dick.
As if at the same time, they both realized they stared at each other, they both looked away. Dane dropped his eyes to his coffee. Skeeter fumbled with his paper bags, grabbed the plastic bag from Ginger, and hurried out the exit.
The bell chimed again.

I still have no idea what I plan to do with Daris and the next king of the Dagerstanteens. However, I am sure it will come to me. 
In the meantime, I have been playing around with a book that will introduce an alien called a vampshee. Here is a little part of a chapter. Keep in mind that this is a raw work. :)

***

ALL VAMPSHEES HAD a superior sense of smell bestowed upon them from the heavens. His species had many physical gifts and bodily advantages, but Graff always felt that his nose was his best attribute. And now, a horrible stink assaulted him.
So much for this being a gift.
As he stood deep in the mine where he pulled ribbons of zinger from the rock, he paused before a reproductive pod. He didn’t recall this being here when he walked by two moons ago, and he glanced around the dark tunnels before his eyes scanned the pod again. The waist-high brown bumpy ball was the only way for his species to have a child, and the generative life cradles were somewhat rare. Finding a creation shell while digging was a present from the mighty Light Guardians. Now, all he had to do was slide his flesh rod into the hole and ejaculate. He set his basket of zinger ribbons on the ground and stared at the oozing black hole.
Setting his hand gingerly on the shell, Graff paused. His lips curled in disgust.
His nose wrinkled at the rancid smell, and he looked up and down the dark tunnels once more. This shell was his chance to reproduce. Graff was alone, and no other vampshees were fighting to use this pod. All he had to do was climax.
Pulling his hand away, he stepped back. His eyes raked his only way of ever having a baby. He was starved for the touch of someone or something. A baby he could hold would be his to hug. He longed to love something that might love him in return— someone to talk to him. If the pod accepted his offering, a tiny baby vampshee would be squeezed out of the bottom of the round-shaped creation shell. All he had to do was get it up.
The life cradle smelled like rotting, putrid flesh, and he ran a finger over the hard surface. He looked down at his naked body, caked with dirt and grime from working his whole life underground. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get dirty from the gross brown pod that he had to expel into— no, it wasn’t that. 
He couldn’t get hard. His seven-inch length slept on his ball sack like his sex organ had been knocked out in a fistfight. Graff couldn’t get excited to do this. As badly as he wanted offspring, he couldn’t rise to the occasion. How did the others climax into this black goo? Sure, when he was young, he’d walked around ready to explode with the idea of getting close to one of these, but that was very long ago. And, of course, back then, every pod had five or six vampshees fighting to spray inside of it. So, he wrote it off as a lost cause. He refused to fight to do this. But now…
Now he was here, and he was alone. This moment was his chance, and he couldn’t do it.
Perhaps his lack of enthusiasm was the price of being so old.
Footsteps of other workers caught his attention, and he gathered his basket and started down a different passageway. He turned the corner and inhaled. The scent of zinger was strong in this area, and he started for the metal. As he strolled, he lengthened his nails on his right hand. Behind him, he could pick up the faint grunts of some young vampshee using the life cradle. He shoved that out of his mind and took another turn as he followed the metallic smell of the element.
Maybe he would go back and try again one day.
A band of zinger glinted golden and bright in the dark tunnel. Graff stopped and used his nails to carve the ribbon out of the stone. After he peeled the strip from the rock, he dropped the precious element into his carrier and surveyed his current work. His container was so full that he would almost consider the basket heavy. When he returned to the heart of the mine, he would get a decent amount of nourishment. Having this quantity of zinger, Graff would be given a sizeable ration of blood for his effort. Every weak cell in his body cheered with the idea that he would no longer be hungry—at least for a little while. 
Footsteps caught his attention again. Behind him, he noted a vampshee with a baby on his back. The little baby was sucking on its father’s neck. The baby’s black eyes fluttered closed as he drank hungrily, using his tiny fangs to pierce his father’s shoulders. The old vampshee kept gathering zinger, but the large male looked half asleep as he lumbered. His fellow vampshee was pale like normal, but with his blood loss, the worker became as white as his hair.
That didn’t seem healthy. 
Graff’s eyes flipped to the other miner’s carrier. Only a handful of strips covered the bottom of the weaved basket. That was barely enough to get a ration of blood at all. Graff frowned and wandered over to the father and child. He placed his basket next to the stranger’s container and peeled three strips from the wall. They were small pieces, and he considered this area a lost cause. He could smell more and stronger down further in the caves.
For a second, he wondered what would happen if he reached out and petted the vampshee next to him. He would probably get in trouble with the Light Guardians. Besides, all vampshees were solitary creatures that didn’t require love, touch, or companionship. There was something wrong with him. He was the one that wasn’t right in the head.
He was the one who wanted a friend, and it had always been that way.
Picking up the stranger’s holder, he left his full basket with the baby and parent. He walked away with the other empty container. The other vampshee made no sound to stop him, and he didn’t expect him to, nor did Graff expect the new father to correct what he just did. Besides the fact that the male needed the zinger more than Graff did, Graff also knew that vampshees weren’t that smart. They had gifts and strengths when it came to their bodies, but brains were not endowed on them by the Goddess in heaven. Graff figured this out at a young age. No one around here thought about anything. 
Thinking was all he ever did. The Goddess cursed him.
Elongating his black nails again, he let the sharp tips scratch the stone walls as he moved deeper underground. He took a left and right and inhaled. He followed the scent of zinger as the smell got more potent. 
He sniffed and then stumbled. Graff stood on a rope. Strange. Where did this come from?
Just as he glanced up, a net was tossed over him. A tall blue being stepped out of one of the caves. The creature had six tentacles, three on each side of its massive, muscled body. The blue creature used his tentacles to tighten the net until Graff was scooped up and tossed over the alien’s shoulders.
It all happened in a flash.
Graff’s white eyebrows rose in surprise, and he hissed. That was unexpected.