Something Old: I have previously done a few posts where I ask for input from my readers on a sticking point that has come up in my writing, but instead of laying out the whole scene and biasing the responses, I instead ask for more random ideas in a bit I like to call "Ideas Without Context."
Ideas Without Context #3: How do they find the secret entrance?

Something New: A few...gosh was it really years ago? Anyways, a while ago I had an idea for an app that was called "Think About It!" and featured daily questions or tasks to stimulate the mind and generally make life more fun. Only problem was, and still is, that I don't know how to program and the programmer of the house is usually working on about 3-5 of his own side projects at any given time. I still have hopes for it, but I also figured that it wouldn't hurt the project too much to throw a few of the prompts into my blog. So here goes!
#7. If you were the hero of a novel, what would the last sentence be?

Something Blue: So skipping on the borrowed (mainly because it would make the title of this blog too long), let's get straight to the blue, which is an update on my most recent guerrilla marketing attempt (please see previous post). I am a little sad to announce that the U of M copy of my book has left the starting gates first and is hopefully on its way to many new caches. Again (being an MSU alumni), I implore those in the Lansing area to check out the more spirited caches on campus that might be large enough to house a paperback, and make this a real race!

So, I am apparently a glutton for punishment and refuse to give up on the idea of guerrilla marketing in the face of overwhelming and spectacular past failures. That being said, my latest attempt involves two full-length copies of my novel that are currently masquerading as travel bugs in two separate geocaches. One cache is on University of Michigan property and the other is on Michigan State property, and they are in a race to prove which school is superior...sort of. I am hoping to cash-in (please forgive the pun) on the in-state college rivalry to promote my first novel, Moonlight Medicine: Onset, leading up to the release of the sequel, Moonlight Medicine: Epidemic, in August. Geocachers who find one of the books and want to participate in the challenge, will read one chapter and then pass the book on to another appropriately-sized cache. The book bug that travels to the most caches will be declared the winner and the better school!

So I am appealing to any geocachers out there reading this (especially if you live near MSU) to help me get the ball rolling on this one, keeping in mind that a full-sized paperback will only fit in size regular caches or larger. Thanks in advance and I'll keep you all posted on who is in the lead once the books leave their starting caches (*crosses fingers*).

But necessary. Currently I am ensconced in a brutal revision of the second novel of my werewolf series that is coming out in August, and I have come to the irrefutable conclusion that writing is the easy part. Editing is hard, and I think that the biggest problem with editing is that when you have written something, novel, short story, what-not, you want to be done with it. You want to say, "Ha! I have accomplished something. My work is done here!" When you put in all of that work and then have to go back over it to edit it, it makes it seem like your work will never be done. It is a terrible feeling that I know well. But on the other hand, editing is so important. I have read several disappointing stories lately which have made me really worry about people being disappointed in my stories. As much as I want to be done with my work and move on, I want more for people to appreciate and enjoy my writing. So back to that editing grindstone I go. Hopefully the results are shiny.

Clem knelt in the brush listening to his friends make noises that men's throats should never make. He desperately wanted to go to them, but he wouldn’t be able to do much good until he loaded the shotgun in his hands. The night was chilled, but sweat poured down the back of Clem’s neck and across his forehead dripping into his eyes. He tried to calm down and still his shaking hands but the screaming and howling made it impossible to concentrate. Clem had heard about the malice of the wolves of Alaska, but he and his friends had taken every precaution: food was hanging away from camp in animal-proof containers, the garbage was likewise secured and distant, and their campsite was clean and tidy. They hadn’t seen any evidence of a den or recent wolf activity around the campsite. It just didn’t make any sense for the wolves to attack them in the middle of the night without any provocation.

Clem loaded both barrels with buckshot and lamented that he was unable to find the deer slugs in the chaos. He chambered the rounds and took a deep breath. The screams had subsided now into moans and whimpers, and Clem knew it was too late to save his friends, but he could still hear the beasts tearing the camp apart, so he knew it wasn’t too late to exact some revenge. He eased around the tree and tried to make out movement in the darkness. The fire had gone out and the night was moonless, but Clem had always had excellent night vision. He saw a furry shadow, and took aim even though something about the shape seemed wrong. The shotgun blast thundered and blazed in the night, and a sharp, feral cry told Clem that he hit his mark. He took refuge behind the tree again and pulled more ammunition from the pocket of his jacket.

Clem opened the gun once more, but before he could reload he heard snarling rapidly approaching his hiding spot. He shouldered the gun and got a hand hold on the tree. He wouldn't be able to outrun the wolves, but wolves couldn't climb trees. Clem heaved himself up and swung his leg onto a branch. He was reaching up for another hand-hold when he felt a claw wrap around his leg and he was yanked down. Clem hit his head on the trunk of the tree and bright stars exploded in front of his eyes. He was stunned and confused as he felt himself being picked up and thrown against the tree. He felt hot fetid breath on his face that reeked of blood. Clem struggled to focus his eyes, but he was now aware that the creature was not a mere wolf.

The beast lunged and Clem instinctively thrust the shotgun into its jaws, but still felt a blinding pain as the teeth sunk into his shoulder. The thing shook him viciously then abruptly let him go, and let out a pained sound. Clem's body toppled over limply and he was subjected to a kick in the face from a boot. Wolves with boots? Clem thought dully as a dragon of pain breathed its fire through his body, and consciousness ebbed away.

Sorry, lots on my plate at the moment, but am trying to post weekly, so here is a little flash fiction for your reading pleasure.

With shaking, bloody hands Sunjar lifted the glowing green orb from its resting place in the mouth of the frozen giant. It was heavier than he expected and the swirling patterns rippling along its surface dazzled his eyes. He held the globe high over his head, then heaved it towards the ground with all of his might. The magic shell shattered like glass and Spring, the essence of birth and renewal, the banishment of winter, the harbinger of summer's warmth, burst forth in a flash of pale green light. Sunjar felt the warmth of a gentle sunbeam on his cheek, smelled damp, fertile earth, heard the soft trill of birds, and tasted the bitter freshness of a new bud. The quiet power spread out swiftly and seemed to grow with each passing moment. Tears began to stream down Sunjar's face. He'd done it. He'd freed Spring from Winter's icy grasp. He fell to his knees. Now that the task was complete, he could finally allow himself the selfish mercy of death.