I, Margaret

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

So... This is what I do when I'm bored.
I may as well put the story with it. Some got erased but here you are people.

The wooden shingles of the Maclocken estate crunched under Margaret’s boots as she inched along the wall of the second story. Above her, the condensation from the fog dripped from the second story roof. Beside her the wall offered a comforting sense of support. And below her, a steep slope invited fool-hearty travelers to take the fourteen foot drop to the lush grass of the Erish countryside.
It was, however, what lay before her that kept common sense from overriding determination. The shutters on her brother’s window stood open like arms waiting to enfold her. Inside, her father’s conversation with the doctor was obstructed by only the thick tapestry drawn to keep out the light. It was much easier to access than the two inches of sturdy oak that created the door that her mother currently guarded, most likely listening and weeping at the keyhole.
Women were not to be present while men were examined, even if they were siblings and sons. But at the age of fifteen, Margaret was hardly old enough to take any advantages that came with womanhood, so naturally she could not be expected to reside under the consequences of her kind. And even if she was, she had shared a womb with Kethann. She could hardly be expected to stay out of his bedroom while the likelihood of his future was discussed.
Her heart pounded, legs trembling from the messages sent by her mind of their peril if they collapsed and took a plunge from the heights. She pressed her back against the wall, turning one ear toward the opening where low voices murmured.
She could not understand her father’s words, but his tone only increased the drive to discover what no one would confirm. She pressed a finger to the tapestry, inching it slowly forward so there was a small gap for the sound to travel around.
“… cannot handle excitement…. keep things quiet….”
Her teeth grit as she twisted to press her face as close to the cloth as possible, hoping to distinguish shapes between the tight weave.
“It is essential that he does not strain the heart in any way.”
This sentence came clearly but more pressing was the swift steps that carried in her direction. Margaret jerked back, nearly loosing her balance on the roof when the curtain folded in on itself as her father removed the remnant of secrecy and safety.
“Margaret!”
Toryn Maclocken’s grip was accustomed to the steel hilt of the sword and was hardly any less gentle when it wrapped around her arm. She stumbled over the window sill as he hauled her into the safety of her brother’s room.
“When I shut and lock a door, there is a very precise reason for it,” Toryn’s voice stayed low, the way it always did when he was displeased.
Margaret’s eyes traveled from his face, to the doctor packing his bad, to the boy sleeping in the bed.
“If you would simply share with the family about Kethann, there would be no need for locking doors in the first place,” she said. “Is he dying?”
“That depends entirely upon how well he is cared for,” Toryn replied. “If he’s frightened at someone clambering through his window, his heart might very well stop right this moment. You know better.”
He nudged her toward the door, turning the key in the lock. He would shove her out and lock it behind her and then she’d have her mother to face. “You’re late for lessons.”

“Lessons don’t matter!” Margaret pleaded. She was a failure at social graces and had no interest in learning them. She pointed to the boy on the bed. “This matters!”
“There’s nothing you can do about this.” The door opened with her father’s dismissal. “Obey me and go. We’ll talk when you return.”
“Lessons don’t matter!” Margaret pleaded. She was a failure at social graces and had no interest in learning them. She pointed to the boy on the bed. “This matters!”
“There’s nothing you can do about this.” The door opened with her father’s dismissal. “Obey me and go. We’ll talk when you return.
Margaret’s throat worked as she passed her mother to gather her lunch from a servant. The basket banged against her skirt as she stepped into the yard.
It was a short walk from the main house to the training grounds. There a squadron of soldiers parried in the rings. There was something comforting in the noise of iron striking nails into a horse’s hoof, the taunting of the group watching the fighters. The smell of leather and cooking fires.
A few men nodded toward her as she passed, one calling out, “You’re late, lady Margaret. You’d better run!”
“Yes, I am late, Rothonal.” Margaret turned her steps toward the man with a smile.”Which I am sure is why you will forgive me for taking your horse.”
“My horse?” The man’s eyebrows rose. “My horse?”
“Yes,” Margaret reached for the animal’s reins. “You’ve gotten it ready for me, I see. It was very kind. I’m sure you can get another should you require use of a mount.”
“I can, my dear.” The man held the animal steady while she swung astride. “You just make sure you and horse get safely back. I have no desire to be whipped for loosing an animal.”
“I’ll treat him like my own child!” Margaret answered, prying the straps loose from the man’s hand.
She pushed the horse into a trot while Rothanal made a show of quoting a prayer of protection, clasping a fist to his head,
The curls bounced around her shoulders as she kept the horse at a brisk pace that simultaneously energized her and threatened to spill the contents of her basket.
Every last girl had disappeared inside the doorway of Mistress Lavith’s room before she entrusted her steed to a servant’s care. Brushing the creases from her dress, she sucked in a breath as the darkness of the interior swallowed her.
There was an usual amount of movement in the hallway as servants rearranged portraits and scrubbed the boards that lined the bottom of the walls,
Veshath hopped on her cousin, patting the extra seat beside her as Margaret located the room where all eight girls of consequence took their lessons.
“Did you hear?” the girl whispered even before Margaret got close enough to hear anything. “King Dougherah is coming to visit Master Drageth.”
“He’s coming to see my father,” Margaret replied.
Though the king’s interests lay closer to poetry than plotting warfare, his duties often brought him to their estate which served as a basic training ground before the soldiers were moved to the more experienced levels.
“Weeding them out’ her father called it. Deciding which boys to keep and which to send to entertain the king’s court.
Undaunted by her lack of awe, Veshath leaned closer while defeating the purpose by raising her whisper. “He’s bringing his sons!”
Margaret’s heart picked up. She had never formally met Prince Galaphy. Their relationship remained as a peasant who only saw the boy from a distance. But it was the plurality of the words that caught her attention.
She glanced sideways. “Prince Terrant?”
Veshath’s voice squeaked as she nodded. “He’s turning twenty and he’s going to reveal himself as the prince.”
Margaret’s stomach fluttered as the girl grabbed her hand. “Oh, isn’t it exciting? After all these years of guessing which soldier he is. I’ll bet he’s Mathorn.”
Margaret shook her head. “Mathorn is too old.”
“He could have been lying about his age,” Veshath argued. “Just to think we could have been talking to him all these years and never known it. What sport!”
Margaret had often thought of it, trying to guess herself or bribe soldiers to tell her. She’d gotten a few different answers and even had several claim to be the prince.
His age was really all that could give him away, for a man who had lived within the ranks since he was a child, was well able to fit in. Many of the soldiers did not know who he was.
Perhaps her father did, but he was suck a stickler for the secrets kept within the ranks.
Even if Terrant was an ugly, dull toad, it would be a relief to have the mystery cleared up. He couldn’t remain anonymous forever, for even though he wished to be treated as a common soldier, the fact remained that he was a prince.
“When?” she whispered as Lady Lavith entered, armed with a basket of embroidery to torture Margaret.
The woman rose her eyebrows until the room developed the silence required by the teacher. When everyone was all but holding their breathes, the woman said, “Girls. I need your undevided attention. I have a most important introduction for all of you.
Veshath squirmed, feet pressing under the couch as her body went ridged with excitement.
But it was not the prince everyone dreamed of meeting.
It was a girl. She could not be called plain for she was quite pleasant complexion. But if one were called to define which feature lent her beauty, they would be hard pressed for an answer.
Her mouth was small and straight, her eyes brown but not particularity large or any color that made them stand out. Her hair matched her eyes - not light or dark or mixed in with any interesting highlights.
Her clothing, however, immediately drew the eye, for her dress was created a shade of blue that could not be found on any Erish market place. It’s looked as though the sky itself had fallen around her shoulders. Her bodice was tailored tightly around a petite waist that disappeared into a skirt that flared in full folds to the floor. Her hair hung in a dozen braids, that cascaded down her back before they looped again, their tips disappearing back into the gathering at her nape.
It was clear that she was not Erish even before she opened her mouth to butcher their accent and language.
“Girls this is Setta Makiver. She is the daughter of Gharon an ambassador from Kathonia.”
The girl curtsied and said in the simplest and most formal phrase possible. “I am pleased to be here.”
At least, that was what Margaret thought the girl meant to say. What had actually come through the narrow lips was, “I am pleased to be a horse.”
Chuckles and a few smirks rippled through the Erish.
Setta flushed though she didn’t seem to understand her mistake. Her voice was heavily accented, pronouncing her vowels as though they had all been pushed to the front of her mouth and her R’s sounded as though she was spitting instead of being properly rolled. It was a sound that Margaret could not duplicate even when the soldiers who spoke the language of Kathonia had taught her their tongue.
But she ventured to give the girl an answer in the Setta’s native language, butchering the accent and rolling the R’s when she said, “And we are pleased to have you here.”
Relief and interest poured into the girl’s eyes as they flickered to meet Margaret’s.
Several girls scooted forward on their chairs, surveying the two. “What did you tell her?”
Margaret only raised her chin as the teacher motioned the girl to sit and Setta chose the empty spot next to her.
After that, Margaret spent an hour poking her fingers with stitches that Mistress Lavith claimed were entirely too long and the only interesting thing that happened was when the servants dropped a painting in the hallway.

It's all in how you view it.

Once upon a time, I strove to be the perfect Christian. I wore long skirts and modest shirts. I grew my hair out. I regularly became guilty of my music choices and threw out my Broadway soundtracks, my burned CDs and my Irish music that contained a drum. I memorized large portions of scripture. I read pamphlets on the evils of dancing to remind myself why I had to stifle my longing to move to music. I bit back arguments when people called me "sheltered" and "nieve."
I went to the nursing home with my family once a week. I sang hymns at church and anywhere I was asked. I helped with children's programs. I knocked on doors, invited people to VBS, handed out Jesus videos and cookie tins. I left tracks places where people would find them, scolding myself for being too afraid to hand it to someone outright.
Once upon a time, I knew how my life would be. I would graduate high school, perhaps go on to study at a good college so I could teach my own children while they were growing up. When I was about twenty, I would meet a wonderful, Godly man who would marry me and be a strong Spiritual leader. I wouldn't be afraid to have children - and that secret worry that I physically can't have children would be gone. I'd lose my desires for anything besides raising them, cleaning the house and making meals.
That was what good Christian girls did, right?
Once upon a time, I beat myself up for not being this good Christian girl. I didn't really like babies. I was terrified to think of having my own children. I wanted to dance - I wanted to dance so badly, I would cry while watching someone else do what I wanted to. I listened when people told me I couldn't be an actress. In my imagination, I filmed movies. Some I wrote - some other people wrote. I was confidence and pretty and dressed modestly but modernly. I could travel away from my family without feeling homesick. Everyone liked me.
Once upon a time, I lived in my imagination, doing what I wanted to do, while I continued stifling my dreams to fit into the Christian mold.
As it seemed right on schedule, my twentieth birthday came and I began courting a wonderful, Godly boy from my church. He was smart. He was mature. He was responsible. He even wanted to learn to Swing dance and we planned on filming a movie together.
Once upon a time, I sat sobbing in a Church pew as adults yelled at each other. Our church family that had done so much together was splitting. Once upon a time, I stood with my hand on the door of that church, finding the locks changed overnight.
"You locked me out. You can't criticize me for living in the world, when you locked me into it."
I never did get back into that church building.
Nine months after I began courting, I gave up waiting for God to show the boy what he had shown me - that we would never be good as a couple. I called off the courtship - and spent the next few months explaining to the kids at my new church that I didn't tell their friends to leave. I lost my boyfriend. I lost my best friends.
I had my first argument over the break up with some of my other friends.
My perfect Christian life collapsed around me. I had done everything I knew to do. I'd taken up my cross. I'd denied myself.
I didn't understand.
Once upon a time, I locked my heart away. I threw up walls of bitterness. I'd never court again. I'd act in whatever I dang-well pleased. I'd wear pants and dresses that made me feel pretty. I only went to church to please my parents. I'd dance. I'd pursue film. I'd finally stop listening to what people thought I should be doing to serve God.
He was capable of telling me what he DID want me to be doing.
I quit telling people I was a preacher's daughter. I stopped looking at old pictures of people who hurt me beyond what I'd ever been hurt before. I cut my hair. I let my neckline drop and my hemline rise. When people told me I needed to loosen up and live, I'd laugh and think they should have seen me five years ago. But I didn't want them to. I was embarrassed to look back at that girl in the frumpy clothing who lived in a bubble world.
Once upon a time, I began looking on the inside as well as the outside. I dropped any preconceived ideas of what I was supposed to be. I forgave myself for not rushing across the room screaming "baby!" when a bundle of joy was carried in.
God told me if I was willing to wait for a man, he would bring me a deeper love than I ever imagined. I said 'yes' and released the image that the only way a Christian girl can serve God is by marrying and raising her family.
I stopped beating myself up for wanting to show my emotions and my true self. I let myself dance - even in the kitchen when no one was watching and let myself become as a child before God who doesn't suppress her joy.
God commanded me: "Write "Flames" as a screenplay and I will produce it." I said 'yes' and realized I can serve God through the media.
I've learned everything that was shattered was what was holding my back from becoming who God truly wanted me to be. Now he's bringing people back into my life - those who formally shunned me - those whom I began to avoid - and I feel no bitterness, no sorrow, no hatred.
I'm finding that that little girl who lived inside of me and cried for release wasn't a sinful version that must be sacrificed to God's will - but who He made me so that I could fulfill God's will in my life.
Today, I'm free to ask God who He wants me to be. I'm not held back by preconceived ideas of what the Bible says I should be doing. I'm no longer that 'perfect Christian girl.' I'm a girl who doesn't have the answers. I'm a girl who's been hurt and can help others who are hurting. I'm not so worried about offending other Christians by what I say, do, or wear, that I can't focus on what God wants me to say, do, or wear.
When God speaks to me, I don't have to worry about whether or not it is my place to share it in the church. When I turn another year older and there's no boyfriend or family in sight, I don't have to fret that I'm doing something wrong with my life. When I finish my screenplay, when I step onto stage, when I sit in front of a camera, I don't have to wonder if I'm compromising myself.
I'm not.
I am finally being the person I always wanted to be. The person God wants me to be.
The girl I was meant to be.

More on "Flames"

How can something feel so wrong when I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's right?
Writing "Flames" feels like such a betrayal to my Christian community. There are more controversial issues in this manuscript. It's brimming with the issues that are normally suppressed or frowned upon in the Christian books and literature.
It doesn't sugar-coat the Christian families. It's not the story about a wretched sinner who makes all the wrong decisions until he meets a Christian person who has it all together and points him to God where he says the sinner's prayer and his entire life is turned around to continue forever on the right path.
This is the story about a stressed out pastor, whose family is breaking under the strain from the church.
It's the story of a girl trying to understand the Christian standards of her new step-family - and why her father loves children so much when she knows that he tried to talk her mother into aborting her.
It's the story of a church who is more worried about the low neckline on a newcomer's dress than the state of her soul.
It's the story of a girl who appears to be a perfect Christian on the outside - but is terrified to tell her own Christian family about what she has done.
It's the story of a boy who pushes drugs right across the street from the church, who's told they're all hypocrites.
It's about a boy on fire for a God-given ministry but who can't find enough faith from people to help back him on the project.
It's about a preacher who vomits every night from stress-induced stomach ulcers.
It's about the lies and deceit and hatred that sprouts from between the church pews.
It's about the casual comment that fuels a destructive rumor. It's about the criticism that drives people away from the church, instead of showing them the truth in a way that would draw them.
It's about a church split.
It's about the truth that so many Christians are dealing with today. It's not until we can trust each other to be transparent about our issues that we can give them to God to work through. It's not until we can come to church with no pretenses or pretending that God can make us united.
It's not until we stop fighting over the proper way to live in the world, that we can reach the world.

It's the hardest thing I've ever written and I honestly wouldn't touch it if God hadn't shown me very clearly that he wants me to. I expect that some people will not believe that I've prayed every time I write that I will not write anything that's not from God. I fully expect to be "flamed" when it is presented to the world.

But God has spoken. For whatever reason, He has chosen me to write it.
So I will write it and let him work through the hearts that He means to touch it. Hopefully, if one person can stand and admit the truth, others will be able to follow. Perhaps - just perhaps, we can turn our approach to others and make the church a place of love and acceptance where Christ can be found.

Book Tours, Broken Cars and the Missing JoP

This week was my first official book tour. I suppose on my Journey of the Author blog, I really should write when the author goes on a journey. My journey started last weekend when we went to the "Austin Town" reenactment. Jami had never been camping so I decided to take her along this year and sleep in one of the canvess tents. We had two offered us but we took the large one with the big rope bed. It was cold that night and we roughed it Erish army style (with a few more blankets). In fact, I had my purple half blanket, my fuzzy white blanket, a woolen blanket on top of that and an imitation down blanket. As I said, it was cold.
I worried that Jami would be miserable, but the next morning she popped up and said, "Can we stay another night??"
So we did.
I love the Jinkins. They've let me come and crash their couch for an entire week. I've even gotten used to having three dogs in the house.
The first book signing in Angleton started off - frazzled.
It started when I discovered my computer clock was two hours ahead - I'd just been commenting on how it felt much later. So I scrambled to get ready, changing my outfit a few times to fix this or that or the other. Jami and I left in good spirits in time to get there half an hour early.
Or so I thought. I was ten minutes into the trip when I recieved a phonecall from a friend asking where I was. Apparently, the signing I was sure started at 7:00 - commenting how easy it was to remember it was on the 7th at 7:00 - it was at 6:00. So instead I got there thirty minutes late to a poor group who had been waiting for a bit. It was the quietest signing I've ever done.
Another group came in at 7:00, so it was the first double signing I've ever done. All in all there were 29 people and I sold 8 books.
The next signing clashed with the home game of the home town. The West Columbia librarian was very kind and gracious. When it became 7:00 (Yes, this time, it truely was at 7:00), she went and made an announcement. I had a very informal signing with her and a woman who came in from browsing the shelf. I sold 1 book.
The night at Brazoria, the Jinkins came along with me so I knew ahead of time there would be at least three people there. We hit Subway on the way and I two-stepped with Jami while waiting for the sandwiches, much to the amusement of those waiting in line.
This signing had seven people and three librarians. We had a grand old time and they were surprised to find the character descriptions that matched the quiz they took, fit them uncannily well. It was fun to see them get excited and I made a good friend named Tanner. All in all I sold 4 books.
Tomorrow I'm going to Hastings. I also discovered today that the Harry Potter book is coming out at midnight tonight. I'm hoping that will help up the traffic tomorrow. I'm going straight from being an author to being an actress.
Which means I'll be changing out of my book signing clothing into a grey, ghostly victorian dress.
There's only one little problem.
I met Pete and friends in town today to go to the movies. We had a grand time but on the way home - my car stopped. The steering wheel grew stiff. The break grew hard. The accelerator quit responding. I steered for a driveway and ended up in the ditch.
I waited a few moments and turned the key again. The car roared to life and I turned around to go back to that street I'd driven past.
I got about half a mile and it did the same thing - only this time it was all I could do to get it past the bridge before I had to pull off again. This time into a very steep ditch. So steep, in fact, that when it stopped, I couldn't get it to the smooth ground. The world was slanted. I feared if I shifted any more to the right, the car would tumble over.
I called Daddy Jinkins and he came out like a knight in shining armor. When he drove up I was laughing - and stuck. Because I couldn't push the door open. I wasn't strong enough to hold it ajar to climb out.
He towed me to his driveway where - the car started again.
I have no clue what's wrong with it but if you happen to see a grey, ghostly girl walking around tomorrow on the side of the road, it's probably me.
I need to sell lots of books.
Making me feel slightly better about my blunder on the book signing time, I attended a wedding with the Jinkins today. Thirty minutes into it, they were still stalling and I realized they were waiting on the J.P. A phone call revealed that he had forgotten about the wedding and was out of town. A.J. made a phone call to the preacher who belonged to the church next door - to find him willing to perform the marriage, but currently in Houston.
An hour and a half later, they were married.
And we'll all live happily ever after.

November 3

The 3rd of November, in the second year of Obama.
Lindsey informs me that’s an odd way to record a date, but that is how I know to do it. In Erilerre, we would say it’s the winter of the first year of the reign of King Kael. Thus, I rarely date my letters.
Tehveor has passed off the recording of this nano-nonsense to me, though I don’t understand because so far she’s only written a tiny bit of Tehveor – nothing at all about me – and she’s obsesses with this book called “Flames.”
But I have nothing better to do until she remembers Eirlerre exists so I shall amuse you, dear reader, by letting you know what an odd creature Lindsey is. She started today huddled under the covers moaning about the cold – it was somewhere in the forties, I think – quite a high temperature for Erilerre. It was 5:00 in the morning, before it was light. Lindsey had intended to get up – but she did exactly what I would have done in the circumstances. She complained of a headache, accounted it to lack of sleep and fell back asleep until 9:00.
Then she spent 45 minutes trying to coax herself out of bed. Remarr would not approve. She wrote some of “Flames” with a few friends – I do wish they’d coax her into writing “The King”… we’ve been waiting so long but she’s talking about having orders from her king – who is not Obama though he rules her land – it’s quite confusing. But orders from a king are a good reason to put off a project I suppose. I still hope she’ll manage to do both.
When she grew tired of the cold, Lindsey loaded up the typing thing she has and decided to go sit in the sunshine at the bay. First though she wanted a hot chocolate so she headed down to the bookstore. There she talked with the bookstore owner and a man on the Palacios city council about books, bookstores, the need to fix up Palacios, people who littered from cars, the Alamo and all sorts of things that held little interest for me.
But she had felt like she should carry a book with her – then decided against it or talking to the owner about her boom. The owner found out she was an author and looked up her name but said Ingram was out of stock. Lindsey arranged to put three books there on consignment.
Then she tried to call the bookstore called Hastings back about some problem they were having ordering the books. (Anyone want to guess maybe it’s that Ingrim was out of stock?) but the woman wasn’t there. Then, dear readers, Lindsey called Val.
All my hopes that she would work on “The King” were dashed. Lindsey and Val have been talking a lot lately about what their God is doing and the exciting plans He has. Which is all well and good but they’re so excited about his plans that they can’t actually work on them.
Lindsey gave up on getting the stove to work and heated rice in the microwave Now it’s getting cold in the house again. I’m trying to nudge her toward writing.
She’s thinking about a hot bath.
Why? Tell me, why do we have THIS girl to record our country’s history?
Well, I’ve done my duty so I’m off to Eirlerre to see what amusement I can find there and what character I can blackmail into do this.
Farewell, dear reader,
Prince Darshon

November 2 - God Speaks

This quite possibly might be the Nano that changed my life. My plans to come down here were simple. Go to Palacios. Write. Do the Austin Town reenactment. Write. Stay with the Jinkins during some book signings. Jinkins. Yay! Book signings *gulp*. Go back to Palacios. Write. Play the lady in the grey taffitta dress. Return to Palacios. Write. Do two last signings. Write, write, write… free and clear.
Whoo-hoo.
But there’s something about that three hour drive between here and Seguin. I’m usually sad about leaving whichever place I’m at and not looking forward to the drive. I spend the first few minutes trying to remember what I forgot – this time it was my cellphone.
Then I usually end up scrolling through the radio and listening to the Christian station.
Then about the time I hit the long country roads… bam. God starts talking and the radio goes off.
I’m never planning on it turning into a prayer/sobbing/praising session but the more I think about it, it happens quite often.
God spoke to me on the way here. I was driving, thinking about Flames. Someone on the radio talked about a blog that was pointing out the way that believers criticize each other and commenting on how brave they were to face that truth. That is essentially the message of “Flames.” I felt sure that God will turn Flames into a film. Then – I can’t explain it but I was amazed that he would choose me for that task and asked why.
It felt like he was literally pressing his words into my heart. But not in writing. Not even in words. It’s hard to describe. A vibration, frequency, feeling, touch… almost another language or symbol or something that he pressed in without words or letters – and then I would know what it meant.
He told me he loved me. He told me Flames would be a film. He told me he was going to use me. He repeated everything. He reminded me of when I was a child and had the dream I went to heaven. I couldn’t see him, but I saw myself standing there with a bright light shining on me as we talked. Later I couldn’t remember what he told me, except that I was to witness to my uncle’s family – and later I led Lauren and Kayla to the Lord and I’ve had the chance to talk to Tyler about Salvation, though he hasn’t made a decision yet. But the one thing I remember clearly is asking him if I was dead.
He said “No. I’m sending you back to tell the world.”
But waking I could never remember what I was supposed to tell the world.
But maybe I wasn’t supposed to remember. Maybe the point was that I would be telling whatever He wanted – to the world. How can one person reach the world at one time? Through the media. Through the written word and through film.
Maybe that was the point of the story.
After that it got a bit tricky. Satan kept trying to interfere. It was hard to understand everything.
I prayed about sin in my life – the addictive kind that you want to get rid of, but you feel as though if you were to tell God you wouldn’t do it anymore – you would break your word because you can’t stop. But I prayed about it. I released it to Him.
He told me some things I think I’m supposed to convey to a friend – not because He can’t tell him/her Himself – but to show me that he can speak to other’s through me. (This was Val.) I have no idea why He picked me for any of this. I’m not good at complete obedience. Satan started taunting with all the normal things. What if God won’t let me write Eirlerre? What if God won’t let me watch my favorite TV show?
But the fact is – I’ve fought those battles before. I wouldn’t like to stop writing Eirlerre – but I’ve surrendered it to Him multiple times in the past. So – technically, there is no decision to be made. If He wants it surrendered, it’s surrendered. It’s not mine to take back.
But I don’t think He’s saying that. I think that’s Satan trying to hold me back with fear. Later she texted and I said, “If you want me to tell her now, have her asking to call me.”
But she was saying it would be light when I got to WI.
Later I called but got her voicemail. I don’t know if that means I shouldn’t tell her – or that he didn’t want me telling her then. We’ll see.
I tried calling Val but I was in the dead zone. Then I got her voicemail. I reached Palacios in the dark, finding an unusual sense of urgency and fear falling on me.
I unloaded the car as quickly as I could thinking the entire time, “Get inside. It’s not safe out. Get inside.”
I finally ran with a load, tripping in the back door and locked it leaving the rest for later.
I’m in Palacios now, excited about Flames but feeling an underlying – creepy feeling. I don’t know if it’s just because it was dark when I got here and the house is quiet and someone was playing that creepy kind of music or what but – I’m a lot more nervous than usual.
I also felt like God was telling me something may happen to me soon – something bad. But that He’s going to use it the way he used the church split to convey Flames. I don’t know what it is but at the moment – I feel okay with that. But I’m not sure I really feel like that was from Him anyway.
The house was so, so, so quiet. I turned on the radio. Fired up the laptop. The internet wasn’t working well. But Val texted. So I asked her if I could call and the call didn’t drop as usual.
I wasn’t sure if I should tell her what God told me but I ventured the first part. She was quite shocked and quite excited and she told me that she had (less than 24 hours before) asked God to speak to me about her.
With this knowledge helping my disclaimer that I could have misunderstood God, I kept going, telling her some things he had spoken to me about her life – that she hadn’t spoken to me about – which ended up being what she was praying about.
Needless to say, we were quite excited.
So excited that I’ve been calling her more than writing. Writing Flames is such a unique experience for me. It’s not full of exciting scenes, the way I’m used to writing. But when I sit down, I can write. When I stop writing, the story stops with it. Every time I go to write, I pray that God will not let me write anything he doesn’t want in there. Looking at it, I’m thinking, “Lord, how are you going to use this? Most of the main characters are young adults and teenagers. And the quality is crappy. It’s not a good novel at all – even though I’m doing it as backstory to be converted into a screenplay.”
But I know that He is going to use it because He told me. “The Captive” has been put on the backburner. I’m excited. I’m scared. I’m lapsing into doubt. I’m enthusiastic about the story. I’m bored with the story. I’m so many thing I don’t even know what to make of all of it.

November 1 - Nano begins

Takasto Comel,
My name is Tehveor. Lindsey informs me you already know who I am – assuming you’ve read the first Secret of Sentarra. Because of something called Nanowrimo, Lindsey will not be writing her blog (I think it’s a journal but thus she calls it) this month. Instead she has driven a bargain. She’s writing my story – so I must write hers or assign another character to do so. It’s not entirely fair since she’s writing two books this month and so far has not started my story, but I’m keeping my end in good faith that she soon will. I fear I will not be as entertaining of a writer as she is, but I shall try.
Today is not a normal day for Lindsey. She woke late – her alarm was set for 5:00 before the sun is up, but she said she forgot to turn it off of silent mode from the show last night. Darshon wants to know if we can give the town crier a silent mode to. Anyhow, instead of waking at five, she woke at 7:15 when the light out the window informed her that it was too late to be at five. It’s just as well because the internet didn’t work anyway – she’s yet to get the nano site to go through and even her email is not working.
I must listen carefully to her random snatches of chatter because her world is rather new to me and I do not always understand what she is speaking of. But I have a good memory so I assume that you from her world, will understand what I can only relay.
She is going back to the home of Clara Castle – which is also her home today so the computers are packed and shut down. We loaded her car with boxes of books for the signing, various costumes for reenactments and filming, the sewing machiene and surger that she brought here and has not used and her bedding.
She laughed and said it looked like she was a hobo. I asked what that was and she said it was comparable to our gypsies. We don’t really have gypsies – they’re travelers but they don’t have an English word so we compromise and call them gypsies when I speak to Lindsey.
Her Grandfather took her car to prepare it for the journey and help her do some errands before she goes. He takes very good care of her.
Right now she has gathered her “odds and ends” for what she’ll need for the entire month. When her grandfather returns, we will load the rest of the car and spend hours on the roads, arriving at the house after dark. She doesn’t look forward to that but I am in hopes she’ll get settled in and begin to write my story. Tomorrow she shall have the entire day to dedicate to writing.
So she says anyhow. It’s hard to tell with Lindsey. Sometimes she works hard and steadily like Master Remarr. Other days she flits frantically from one to the other like Kael.
She is excited by the trip, I think. But also apprehensive. It should be interesting to watch her. She is nervous about all the travel involved in selling my book – I’m not sure why anyone would want to read my story, but she insists that people like to know about my life.
That makes me nervous and sometimes I don’t tell her what I’m thinking. Because of this – I think she’s going to open the first chapter from the viewpoint of my wife.
Yes, I have a wife now, though I’m not allowed to tell you who she is. I have not had her long. IN fact, it’s only been a few hours if we’re going by what she has written.
Can you wonder why I am anxious for her to start? I’d much rather be with my wife, enjoying our few hours of peace before like gets frantic again, than recording Lindsey’s day of packing. (Shh, don’t tell her that. It’s our secret.)
After today, I must work hard to find another character to record the events. If you have any suggestions, please do share. She has lots of charecters to choose from.
Yours faithfully,
Tehveor Castallion – Korvier of Erilerre, Prince of Sentarra, Husband of… well, never mind.