Of Afraid and Fear

"Don't be afraid."

Those were her only words before I walked through the door. The air was tense and the lighting just above pitchblack. Somewhere deep inside I heard rattling. The sound of terrible things with secret shapes. The imagination was their own limitation, and mine ran wild She told me not to be afraid.

Was she fucking kidding? If there was any reason to feel brave, it had to be the sword at my side. The weight was solid, reassuring, a reminder that the darkness was as light as air. I was made of stouter stuff than nightmares.

And if I wasn't, the sword certainly was.

Fuck, I got this update in under the wire, didn't I? Sorry about that! Work, life, and writing have been busy. I'm up to 45,000 on the second book, though, and waiting to hear from agents. A friend or two have taken a pass at the book, as well, reaffirming my self-esteem.

Apparently the book doesn't suck. Now the second one... that's still up in the air.

It's weird. You write one good book, and you're afraid. What if the second sucks? What if you've lost that particular bit of magic? What if you only had it in you to create one good story, and that was it? I think that's the writer's biggest fear. I'll probably hold on to that with every novel I happen to write. If nothing else, it'll keep me sharp.

After all, fear is one hell of a motivator, folks.