Sorry for the late post, guys. As a full-time college student with a part-time job, I'm not always available to post on Thursdays. I had a science test yesterday, plus I had to watch a documentary about babies for my childhood development class.
Anyway....
I wanted to give you guys a quick update. You might have seen on social media that the release date for Where I Stand has been pushed back a bit due to technical errors. If so, I have some good news for you. The official launch is going to be October 1. But, since the book has to be available on Amazon so I can design and run advertisements, you will be able to buy it earlier than that. I'll call it the friends-and-family special. The paperback is already on Amazon, and the eBook should be available sometime tomorrow.

​At first, when the boat refused to start, we did not panic. Surely, we thought, the problem was easily fixed. So my father and Uncle Joseph stood knee-deep in the lake, fiddling with pipes and blades and various other boat parts. 
As I have before mentioned, I know nothing about boats. I should; my calling as a writer necessitates my knowledge of most subjects, seamanship included. I can differentiate between port and starboard; I know that one ties the halyard to the bitt and that the yard holds the sail in place. But the innards of a modern vessel? God have mercy! My mind is not mechanically oriented. Taking my car to get its oil changed taxes my knowledge of such subjects. So as the menfolk fiddled with pipes and such, and my Aunt Lily stood ready at the helm, I sat silently, praying for the repair of our vessel.
Low thunder rumbled to the north of us. A pontoon boat raced past us.
"Joey, we should get a tow," Aunt Lily said.
"Nah, we got it," Uncle Joseph said. "Call Timmy. He had the boat out this weekend. He might know what to do."
So a message to my cousin Timothy was duly sent, and I continued to wait, helpless and useless, in the luxurious seating in the prow.
A second boat passed us, and this time my mother took notice of it. "We're going to run out of boats to flag down," she told my father.
"We got it. Don't bother."
Nevertheless, when a third pontoon boat passed us, we managed to attract their attention by waving our arms and shouting. They came in close, a merry party surrounded by a cloud of cigarette smoke. The woman who addressed us had a gravelly voice; I wondered if smoking had damaged her larynx.
"You stuck?"
"We need a lift," my mother hollered to our rescuers. "There's sand in our jets."
A rope was quickly secured to the prow of our vessel, and soon, we were moving at a snail's pace through the brown waters of the lake.
It is at this moment that I learned an important fact about aquatic vessels. Whenever one boat tows another, they must travel slowly--at five miles per hour, so as not to leave a wake behind the craft. Doing otherwise can damage the engines of the crippled boat. So we went slowly, very slowly, painfully slowly, and we finally arrived at the marina where our helpful cigarette addicts docked.
"You good here?" the friendly captain asked us after helping us tether our craft to a
"Oh, yeah," Uncle Joseph promised. "If all else fails, we can call an Uber from here."
And so we settled in, the men at the aft fiddling with the motor, the women at the prow. I opened my compilation of Doyle's tales, but a sprinkling of raindrops prompted me to put it back on the Ziplock bag I'd stored it in.
It was past four. We should have been home by now.

Give me five seconds to scream into the void.

And now I'm back. Thank you for waiting.
Writing books is fun. Going to college is fun. Taking care of a dozen boisterous middle schoolers is somewhat fun. But doing all three at once? I'm running up and down a flight of stairs every half hour to check on my science experiment, I have a book cover to retouch, I have to be at work in three hours, I have church this evening. I had church yesterday evening, too. At least I had Monday off. I was too busy eating ribs and swimming with friends to post a blog, so you have my heartiest apologies for that.
But, on a cheerier note, I got my first look at Where I Stand yesterday.
The proof came in the mail. I got to stroke the matte cover, smell the soy-based ink, thumb through the pages. And see all the little things wrong with it.
Most things I don't necessarily care about. Drawing something? I'll lose interest in half an hour, so whatever I do in that time is going to be the finished product. Writing a sign for something? The letters aren't the same size. Good enough. But when I'm writing a book? Everything had better be perfect or I won't be able to live with myself.

I have excellent news for you, dear readers. Where I Stand, the long-awaited sequel to Where the Clouds Catch Fire, now has a release date. Saturday, September 14.
​More than that, I will be joining the Author's Round Table Society at Frontier Village Fall Festival on the 14th from 9:00 to 4:00, although I might have to duck out a bit early for church. God willing, and  assuming Amazon gets my books to me on time, I will have copies of Where I Stand available for purchase.
I might also be selling hot pads. It depends on how many videos my online classes have me watch. Anyway, expect to see something handmade there. I might even be wearing a handmade Viking costume. You never know.
Some of my relatives have been pestering me about my next live stream. The first one went well, the second one didn't so much, but I'm excited to try again. So at 1:00 p.m. on Sunday the 15th, join us at www.facebook.com/dontraidmymonastery for our third live stream event! I'll be answering any questions you have about the sequel, its production, any future books in the series, or the characters. 
I don't know if any of you, dear readers, call yourselves writers. But if you do, I'd love to give you whatever advice I can. So if any of your questions involve writing advice, I might be able to help you.
When I started my writing journey, I wanted to be a published author by the time I was fourteen. Four years, I thought, would be plenty of time to write and publish a book in. Under normal circumstances, I would have been right. But I had to write at least 250,000 words of absolute garbage before I was able to start putting out good material. And those 250,000 words of garbage put me three years behind schedule. I was disappointed, but I got over it. The joy isn't in the end result. It's in the process.
And that's why I'm going to start work on Book 3 in the Clouds Aflame series just as soon as I possibly can.
Do you plan on coming to the Fall Festival if you're in the area? Do you think I should dress up like a Viking? Let me know in the comments below! God bless you, dear readers, and don't forget to Like us on Facebook!

Being 11:00 a.m. on the seventh day of September, I and five of my many relatives set forth on Castle Rock Lake. We had every intention of gamboling in our boat, which was owned and captained by my Uncle Joseph, and returning around four in order to ready ourselves for supper.
Our expedition began uneventfully. We had brought with us a tube, which we tied temporarily to a stranger's unused dock while my father skiied behind the boat. We then retrieved the tube, and I was given command of the helm while my sister was towed behind us. Having never captained a vessel unto this point, and being unfamiliar with the controls, I did my best and traversed perhaps a mile of open water. Uncle Joseph then regained control of his vessel, and I joined my sister upon the tube.
Only a handful of times have I ridden in such a vessel. The tube's handles were in odd locations, so that my sister and I were nearly lying on top of one another. But we sallied forth at tremendous speeds, and my body was lifted into the air multiple times, soon after which I requested to return to the main vessel. My sister, however, continued tubing; we lost two hats and a pair of goggles on our voyage, and only one of the hats was recovered.
The time now being past noon, we put off our gamboling to find a sandbar on which to consume a picnic lunch. The first sandbar we lighted upon was far too small for our purposes (there was a mere two feet between the water and the underbrush), and so we left once more. All this time, my sister we towed behind us on the tube, and she nearly fell asleep as we drove slowly beneath a railroad bridge, then through a channellock (a word that means nothing to my non-nautical mind) to another bar of sand.
This island proved much more suited for our purposes. It was surrounded by minnows, some quite large, and at least three frogs leapt into the bushes as we set up our umbrella and chairs. After running the ship aground, we dined on sandwiches prepared for us by my Aunt Lily, and as we had misjudged the amount of water we would need to bring with, I drank soda in an effort to save the healthier beverages for my parents.
With our luncheon thus finished, my sister and I decided to explore our surroundings. We found a small cove of lily pads, which I had never seen before in person. We waded to another sandbar where we found the tracks, we presumed, of a doe and her fawn, along with more minnows and a beautiful pink flower that our mother thought might be cloves. We then explored the extent of our original sandbar. There was a large area we could wade through, but it dropped off steeply past a certain point, so that I was treading water while my sister four feet away from me was merely ankle deep.
After a pleasant foray into Doyle's The Sign of the Four, as I had brought the book with me sealed in a Ziploc bag, we desired to return home. The hour was 3:00 p.m. or shortly thereafter, and there were ominous clouds forming to the north of us, the promise of rain along with them. We weighed anchor, loaded our chairs and our persons, and shoved off.
Uncle Joseph plied the throttle, but nothing happened.
The jets were clogged with sand, and we were stranded.
​​

Good morning, everyone! Or afternoon, or evening, or whatever time you happen to be reading this post. I just wanted to let you know that my college classes start today. Since you've finished reading Chapter One of Where I Stand, I'm afraid we'll have to wait until next week to get a new short story. I want to give my classes a few days to settle before I tackle any major extracurriculars, including my blog. So if Thursday's post is late (which it shouldn't be), you'll know why.
Regardless, I wanted to tell you that you're doing a great job at whatever you're doing, God loves you, and keep up the good work! Be blessed!

Leif laughed. “You couldn’t find a man to row anyway, not with Althing coming up. We’re hosting this year.”
Caitriona muttered something under her breath—whether it was a prayer or a profanity Alynn couldn’t tell, but the latter was unlikely. She kicked at the rushes that covered the dirt floor, then took a breath and collected herself. “Can we plan on leavin’ the moment Althing ends?”
“As soon as possible. I promise.” 
“Perfect. Now give me somethin’ to do before I go mad with worry.”
“I might have you stay here for the week, act as hostess if you’re willing,” Leif said. “And say a prayer. Neither Drostan nor I are officially going to be the chief of this island until one of us sacrifices to Odin—unless something changes. And blast it, we need something to change.”
“We’ll be prayin’,” Caitriona promised.
“Isn’t Althing rather powerful for a meetin’ of tribes?” Alynn asked.
“It’s a parliament, not just a meeting, so it demands power,” Leif said. “I’m surprised they haven’t killed us for converting to Christianity.”
“They wouldn’t have done anything after the Battle of Faith,” Drostan insisted. “Alynn would have disbanded Althing singlehandedly.”
Alynn blushed. She debated punching Drostan’s shoulder, but finally decided to lean against him and close her eyes. “You’d have helped me, just as you did on the battlefield,” she said.
“You don’t need help,” Drostan insisted. “You’re a berserker, for Thor’s sake. Or do Irish girls tend to fight fiercer than Norse madmen?”
“Drostan, don’t even think that she’s a berserker, and Alynn, sit up,” Caitriona ordered. Alynn sighed and straightened, but not without a caustic glance at her mother. Caitriona returned it.
“Master Leif, will you be needing anything else this evening?” Valdis asked. She was combing her hair that barely passed her shoulders—hardly longer than Leif’s or Drostan’s.
“No, thank you. Go on to bed,” Leif said. “Cait, we can think more in the morning. I’m exhausted.”
Caitriona laughed. “I can’t believe I’m still standin’ up. Where can I sleep?”
Leif gestured to the raised platforms that lined either side of the longhouse. “Pick a bed, any bed. Or the closet, whichever you prefer.”
“I’ve always hated that closet.”
Drostan nodded towards the bedcloset—a paneled-in section of bench that was more like a human-sized dresser drawer than anything else. “Do you want the closet, Alynn, or would you rather I take it?”
“I’ll take it. It doesn’t bother me.”
“Don’t forget to lock the latch,” Caitriona cautioned.
Drostan snatched a few sheepskins and a blanket and tossed them into the closet. “Have a good night.”
After glancing up to see his smile, Alynn returned the gentle embrace he offered. She buried her face in his tunic. Drostan pressed her head against his chest, and she could hear his heartbeat. He smelled of wood and sea and hard work, stained with a medley of scents from the midsummer forest. She smiled.
Thank You, Lord, for Drostan.
He kissed her forehead before leaving for his own bed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he said, raking his hand through his hair and making it even wilder than before.
Alynn smiled. “Goodnight, love.”
Alynn crawled awkwardly into the bedcloset and rearranged the sheepskins before she shut and latched the door. In the complete absence of light, the only sounds those of her family readying for bed, Alynn found a call to pray.
“Be with Tarin, Lord, if he’s not with You and Father already,” she murmured before drifting to sleep. “And if he is...please tell him I said hello.”

Alright. This time, I have a good excuse as to why I didn’t post my blog on Monday. I was out of town. And more than that, I was at Barnes & Noble.
My family and I were driving around town, heading towards a restaurant where we were meeting a friend of Dad’s for Second Breakfast, and I saw a Barnes & Noble off the side of the road. “Mom, Dad, can we go to Barnes & Noble?” I asked.
My sister scoffed. “Why go there when you’re not going to buy anything?”
Now, I had two decent reasons to go to Barnes & Noble, the first one being that we don’t have one near us in Texas. The closest one is about forty-five minutes south from where we live. I’ve been there exactly twice, both times to exchange a defective Nook which I ended up trading for an iPod Touch. We do have a bookstore—Books-a-Million—but it’s smaller and, honestly, not as cool. Secondly, there was only one other place I’d asked to go on our trip—Culver’s, a fast food restaurant that we don’t have in Texas
Mom, however, came up with a third reason. “We’re going to Barnes & Noble because it’s fun,” she said. And sure enough, as soon as we finished up at the restaurant, we went to the bookstore.
Oh, glory. So many books. So many words. I was in heaven.
The first rack—new releases. Hardcovers. I touched their jackets, gazed at the reviews on the back, read the blurb on the inside jacket cover. I thumbed through the pages and inhaled the glorious scent of ink. I searched for the price tag—twenty-five dollars for a book? No, thank you.
The second table was even more glorious. Five-dollar classics—big, thick books, too big for the average purse but perfect for the average bookshelf. Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, works by Tolstoy and Bronte and some Russian dude whose name I can neither pronounce nor remember. This deal was too good to pass up. Seriously considering The Art of War, I instead picked up a collection of Sherlock Holmes books. I’m currently two hundred pages in.
But then I kept going. Immediately to my left were some Bibles and Christian nonfiction. I did a quick search for C.S. Lewis—I’d just ordered three of his books online, so I knew I wasn’t about to buy any of them—but I found Of Stories, a collection of his views on literature and storytelling. I read just enough to learn that he, like me, thought George Orwell’s Animal Farm was better than 1984. I confess that I haven’t finished the latter, and I’m not sure if I can. It’s both boring and frightening.
“Can I help you find anything?” a clerk asked me.
“Nope,” I said. “I’m just browsing.”
Oh, and browse I did. I wanted to spin through the aisles, touching every book, stroking every soft cover. I lingered over a table of $25 classic editions of books, their covers ornate and gilded. I gave half a glance at the children’s section, but I found a special surprise with the board games: hnefatafl, a Viking cross between chess and checkers. I gave a
“Did you have fun?” Mom asked my sister and I as we got back in the car. We were off to see my uncle. My reaction was unnecessary; everyone knew I’d enjoyed myself. My sister, however, gave a smile that was quite unexpected.
“I got to make fun of the politicians,” she said.
Which bookstore do you live by? Which one’s your favorite? Let me know in the comments below! God bless you, dear reader, and don’t forget to Like us on Facebook!