I thank all of you who are on this trek with me, whether you've been here since the beginning or joined along the way, or are even just coming abroad now. I am grateful that you enjoy what I write, and I hope you'll continue to do so.
There's more after the cut...and more than ever, I need to hear what you think.
Still here? Good. Here's why I wanted you to stick around.
Earlier this month, an idea for a new series of books popped into my head. It's different in many ways from anything I've written before, and it draws from different influences, It's not connected to the Monkey Queen setting and characters. It's different enough where I'm not sure it's any good, but I'm enjoying it a lot. I need to see if I should continue with this.
I've nearly completed (as of this writing) a short story set in this series. I'm going to share the first bit with you. I'm hoping you'll take the time to read this and answer three questions: What did you like about this, if anything? What did you dislike about this, if anything? And do you want to read the rest? Leave a comment here, or on Facebook or Twitter, And thanks again.
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Looking back at that chaotic weekend, it seems fitting that I started it by waking up on Saturday with a throbbing cranium. My dear friends Priscilla and Mabel had come to Darbyfield, and we had spent the night before at the fine establishment known as the Fractured Tankard. We had split several bottles of elfish wine, swapping stories and catching one another exaggerating said stories. Alas, said happy night led to an unhappy morning, and as I lay in the bedroom of my manor outside of town, my gray matter was now pleading for a sweet mercy, or a swift demise should mercy be in short supply.
Had I slept three more hours, I might have been in less pain that morning. However, the additional time in Dreamland had been denied by a certain gnome valet who was shaking my shoulder, albeit and to his credit gently. “Madame Alice?” Macalley said.
I tried to ransack my poor aching brain for a suitable reply. It had none within reach. “Aaugh,” I muttered.
“I suppose a cheerful ‘Good morning!’ is out of the question at this point.”
“I think a ‘Let me sleep, you thrice-damned monster’ is more fitting.”
Macalley restrained a sigh. “As much as I agree that your further slumber would be best for both of us, I must remind you that you have a pressing engagement that you cannot miss.”
“Who claimed that this cannot be missed?”
“I believe it was a certain Alice Peavley, madame.”
“Was I besotted at the time?”
“This was well before the besotting, madame.”
I groaned loudly and plaintively. “So what is it that, in my younger and more foolish days--”
“As in, yesterday afternoon?”
“--I authorized such a rude awakening for?”
“The Darbyfield Book Fair, madame.”
My eyes, which been sealed tighter than an elflord’s purse when it was time to stand a round, snapped open. I sat bolt upright. “Ye Gods!” I exclaimed. “I’m not late, am I?”