I, for the life of me, cannot think of anything to blog about today. I might as well take this opportunity to tell you about writer's block.
By the grace of God, I don't deal with writer's block very often. I don't have weeks or months where no words come out. I might have days or weeks when I'm busy and can't find time to write, or moments when I sit at the keyboard for two hours and choke out forty-eight words, but rarely do I leave my desk without accomplishing anything.
Rarely, not never.
​Instead of getting stumped, I tend to get distracted. It usually starts innocently. I'm writing and run into a question I need to answer--"What sorts of flowers grow in Orkney?" I might remember an unimportant task that--"I need to find the perfect name for a character in a story I'm not going to write for another five years." Or I might genuinely want to waste some time--"YouTube, show me a compilation of every Doofenshmirtz Evil, Inc. jingle."
Great. Now the jingle is stuck in my head.

Hey guys! Before I jump into our new short story, I wanted to let you know that Where the Clouds Catch Fire is still available for FREE on Amazon Kindle. But today's the last day to get it for free, so hurry and claim your copy!
Now, without further ado...
​Uncle Micheal says he's a man now because he has a mustache. It's a wee, patchy thing that you can't see unless the sun is right, and even then it looks like faint red moss on his upper lip. 'Tis nothing like Da's mustache. Da's mustache is red where the rest of his hair is blonde. It's so long that he has to braid it so it won't get in the way of his blacksmithing work. Da's mustache can touch his chest, and it tickles my neck when he picks me up for a hug. He forgot to hug me this morning when he sent me and my wee brother Tarin to Nan's house. He said something about angels that I didn't understand, but Nan must have, because she put me and Tarin in Aunt Ruari's care, told us to behave, and left to go see Mum.
Aunt Ruari is Mum's youngest sister, the only one who's not married yet. Her hair curls violently and every time she combs it, it sticks out in every direction like wool on a carding comb. Since she can't do much with her own hair, she's forever fussing with other peoples'. She's forever telling me to sit still so she can plow my scalp with a comb, and I can't stand for it, so I tell her to play with Tarin's hair and leave to find Uncle Micheal.
I smile when I see Uncle Micheal, Uncle Stiofan, and Uncle Oisin all together under a tree, watching Granddad's sheep. Watching sheep is easy, so Uncle Micheal, Uncle Stiofan, and Uncle Oisin spend most of their days making merry.
Uncle Micheal is the oldest of the uncles, but still younger than Aunt Ruari. He's the only one who claims to be a man. A year younger than him is Uncle Stiofan, the only one who cares for the sheep the way Granddad wants him to. And Uncle Oisin is barely twelve.
Uncle Oisin is my favorite. Uncle Micheal says he's a man and too big to play with me and Tarin, and Uncle Stiofan is forever trying to be a decent shepherd like Granddad, but Uncle Oisin causes mischief and steals food from the kitchen and knows better than anyone how to have fun. And since he's the youngest of the Quaid brood, he can get away with whatever he pleases.
Nan says she was so knackered from raising so many children that, when Uncle Oisin came along, she didn't try making a decent person out of him. All the women at church say they can't blame her, who else in Limerick City can say they raised ten children and buried four?
I run over to Uncle Micheal, Uncle Stiofan, and Uncle Oisin, and I see that they're carving a target into a tree. Uncle Micheal has a crossbow, Lord knows if Granddad gave him permission to use it, and three arrows.
"Can I shoot?" says I.
"You're too little," says Uncle Micheal, "you might hit someone."
I've been shooting that crossbow since I was five, and now I'm eight, going on nine, and Uncle Micheal still says I'm too little. "I can shoot better than you," I say. "I'll prove it."
Uncle Oisin laughs, and Uncle Micheal isn't about to show his brothers that a wee girl can outshoot a man, so he hands me the bow and three arrows and says, "Ladies first."
The bow is too big for me, heavy in my little twig arms, but I hold it up and aim carefully. I close one eye, then the other, trying to remember which one gave me a better shot.
"Fire already!" cries Uncle Oisin.
I pick an eye and pull the trigger. I fly backwards, and the arrow misses the tree. Uncle Oisin laughs, but I know I just closed the wrong eye. I load the next arrow, and this time, I hit the target. My third arrow hits close to the bullseye.
I smile and hand the bow to Uncle Micheal. All three of his arrows hit the target, but nowhere near the center.
"I say it's a tie," says Uncle Stiofan.
"I say Lynder won," says Uncle Oisin.
"It's most definitely a tie," says Uncle Micheal, but only because he's ashamed to say that he, a man with a mustache, lost to a girl.

Well, guys...today marks a pretty big milestone for Where the Clouds Catch Fire. We're on Amazon Kindle! You can click HERE to buy it. Or, better yet, you can wait until January 4 (this Friday) and get it for completely, 100% free. I'll be free through Monday the 7th.
It recently came to my attention that not everyone who reads my blog realizes that I have, in fact, written a book. The book is actually why I started the blog. I put a piece of myself in a Word document and wanted to share it with as many people as possible.
When people ask me what my book is about, I tell them that it's about a girl who has to help a monk fight off a Viking invasion. But it's about so much more than that. It's about an orphan who finds a home. It's about a lonely man who finds a family. It's about a child who comes to know God in a way she never thought possible. It's about faith, family, and the amazing strength that comes when the two are combined.
Perhaps you have an active imagination, like mine. If you do, please close your eyes (wait--keep them open long enough to finish the paragraph). Imagine the visual equivalents of Myrcella Baratheon from Season 2 of Game of Thrones and Captain Picard from Star Trek. Never mind their personalities; we just want their physical appearances. Now take Myrcella and make her a quiet, motherless, impoverished 13-year-old. Her hands are dry and bleeding from keeping house in the harsh Irish weather. Actually, she's lived in twenty-four houses in her short life, and she's been the primary caretaker in twenty-two of them. Now take her away from the few family members she has left, give her a chance to earn a home she'll never be taken away from, and watch her exemplify the idea that the quietest people hide the greatest strength.

I'm working on a new short story for you. But I'm also going ice skating with my family.
Our car is leaving.
​Wait for meeeeeeee………..

Merry Christmas, dear readers! I made a short Yuletide video, which you can watch by clicking HERE. Yes, I know I'm squinting in the video. I did it outside since it was an uncommonly lovely day, and I guess the sun was a bit brighter than I'd anticipated. I live in Texas. Oh well.
This Christmas was a bit different from the others I've experienced before. Sure, we did what we always do on Christmas Eve--go to my grandparents' house where we eat dinner, exchange cookies, open presents, and reenact the Nativity story with candles. I always learn a Christmas carol on the piano, and this year, I did Linda Hartman's arrangement of "What Child Is This?". By the grace of God, it turned out nicely.
It was our Christmas Day that was a bit different than usual. Normally, we'll open our presents, then have our grandparents over for dinner. This year, we had our grandparents over for brunch before leaving for a friend's house. I decided to stick my nose in a book and hide until the gift exchange, in which I narrowly avoided a catfish dinner with our hostess's eighty-something-year-old stepfather and ended up with a Dairy Queen gift card.
I was two weeks old when I first celebrated Christmas. Now, at eighteen, I'm trying to transition from a child's view of Christmas to an adult's. I'm full of questions. Am I too old to decorate sugar cookies? To what extent do I help clean up the kitchen after Christmas Eve dinner? How much am I supposed to spend per person?

​December 24, 2004
Dear Diary,
Merry Christmas Eve! So much has happened in the past few weeks that Christmas, believe it or not, has taken the back burner. At least for me.
It started on the 9th. I woke up to find Mom crying on the phone with Aunt Miri. Jackson was in the hospital; his heart had taken a turn for the worse. He might need a pacemaker; he might need a transplant. But I wasn't going to stand for either. I filled my backpack with research and, instead of taking the bus to school, headed for the hospital. To be honest, I didn't know what I was going to do once I got there. I knew Uncle Pete and Aunt Miri were probably going to be there, and any number of doctors and nurses. I knew there was going to be medical staff. But I didn't care. I was going to help Jackson.
I got halfway there when someone tried to steal the backpack right off my back.
I whirled around. It was Derecho, dressed in black with a ski mask and tinted goggles, not an inch of skin or strand of hair showing. "Buzz off, Derek," I snapped. "Yeah. I know you're Derek Whitley. I know you're upset that I stole your victory in the science fair. But my cousin might die if I don't get the serum to him. Let me take care of him, then you can beat the snot out of me."
"No, Kassie."
The robotic voice gave me chills. "Derek. Stop."
"I'm not Derek."
"Fine. Derecho. Whatever. Just let me get to my cousin, he's dying."
"Give me the research." He stepped closer to me, edging me towards the street. "Keep the serum. I get the research. I get the victory. You get Jackson. We both win."
I was tempted. But Jackson will need more serum eventually, and I can't save him once and not again. I have copies of my research--I typed it onto a library computer, and it's stored in a pair of floppy disks in my closet. Somewhere. I should be able to print it.
"Now, Kassie."
I was about to say yes, but instead, I said, "What are you doing to do with the serum?"
"I'll grow stronger," Derecho screeched in his robotic voice. "I'll grow unstoppable."
I was going to create a monster. I couldn't do that.
I took another step backward and slip off the curb. A pickup whizzed inches from me, honking, catching my backpack on its mirror. I was flung down, and Derecho was on top of me, trying to steal my backpack.
My research. My serum. Jackson's life.
I kicked him and slammed his face into the stoplight post. Nothing happened. He was insulated by his clothing. I needed to get his mask off. A glove. Anything. If he touched metal, he' would discharge. Shock himself. Hopefully incapacitate himself.
I dodged the series of punches he threw, then launched myself at his torso. He grabbed my backpack and tried to get it off me, but I twisted around and got a glove off.
Metal. I need something metal.
There was a penny on the sidewalk. I picked it up and pressed it into his palm, but I was unable to move before he discharged. He was shocked, I was shocked, and I think we were both robbed of our powers.
I was dizzy. My heart pounded, but with whatever strength I had, I ran to the hospital and took the elevator to the fifth floor, the cardiac floor.
I didn't know which room Jackson was in. I just knew I was getting dizzy, and my vision was blurring out. I ran from room to room, syringe in hand, trying to find Jackson. Finally. Room 520. Aunt Miri and Uncle Pete were there, and they were both startled to see me, but I plunged the syringe into Jackson's white arm just before my vision blurred too badly.
"Give him five minutes," I gasped. "Don't let him touch metal."
The next thing I knew, I was in a room of my own, with Mom and Dad talking to Uncle Pete. I felt like a wreck. I was weak, disoriented, dizzy, but I was alive.
"Where's Jackson?" I whispered.
Mom and Dad made a show out of calling me "sweetie" and asking how I was feeling and what I thought I was doing and sweet things like that. I ignored them. "Where's Jackson?"
"He's doing better," Uncle Pete said. "What did you give him? Cocaine?"
"An electrolyte serum," I said. "It won't hurt him. It didn't hurt me."
"He's undergoing testing right now," Mom said. "The doctors are going to review it, and they might put your findings in a medical journal. Would you like that?"
I nodded. Of course I'd like that. I looked at the TV to see a picture of Derek Whitley handcuffed to a hospital bed. I guessed justice had been served.
Well, now it's Christmas Eve. Jackson and I are home from the hospital, Derek is in juvenile hall, and I'm about to have the best Christmas of my life because Jackson is doing well for the first time in forever. He can play Dance Dance Revolution for an hour without passing out; he can participate in P.E. and stay up late and be a normal teenager.
I couldn't be happier.
Gotta go--we're heading down to Aunt Miri's for dinner and a few presents. I can't wait!
Kassie Kittredge, signing out!

"What are you doing to do today?" Mom asked as I finally sat down to breakfast at 9:00.
I nibbled at my granola bar. "Absolutely nothing."
I'd spent the night dreaming about filing papers and catching a stomach bug from one of the kids at work. There was about an hour during the night that I couldn't tell if I was awake or if I was just dreaming that I was lying in bed awake. But I woke up at 6:45 with postnasal drip and a stomach scolding me for eating expired fruit for dinner.
What did I do between 6:45 and 9:00, you ask? Well, I have the amazing ability to lie in bed and do absolutely nothing for hours on end. Normally, I'll take this time to plan out scenes for my books. I'll watch them in movie-form in my head, over and over again, tweaking what the characters do and say and where they're standing in the room and things like that. I'm pretty sure that I spent most of this morning dozing. After that, I read my Bible (distractedly), played on my phone, and finally acquiesced to my sister's demands to help her connect her PS3 to WiFi.
I'm done with both work and school until after Christmas. I figured I deserved a break.
Part of me rejoices in being lazy. Granted, my definition of 'lazy' probably doesn't match anyone else's. It involves getting out of bed at 9 (after waking up at or before 7:30), wasting time on my phone, playing piano, and going barefoot. I'll definitely get dressed and brush my teeth. I might write or crochet. I might watch an hour of YouTube, but I won't spend half the day marathoning my favorite movie or TV show.

​December 4, 2004
Dear Diary,
I think I know who Derecho is.
Quite a few kids were missing when we went back to school on Monday. That's only natural, considering that lots of people travel over Thanksgiving and all, but everyone was back on Tuesday. Everyone, that is, except Derek Whitley.
He came back on Wednesday, so I asked him in science class if he'd been sick. He nodded. When I asked him what he'd been sick with, he said he had a kidney infection. And then it all started to click.
Last year, Derek was terrible at P.E., but this year, he's one of the school's top ten athletes. He beat me in a chin-up contest once. I thought it was just him growing up and wanting to impress the girls and everything, but he admitted to doing nothing but playing video games and messing around in the science lab all summer. No one goes from last place to top ten without effort.
Point two: I made my science project last year about my reverse-robotic serum. It got second place, and Derek was a runner-up. He might have gotten third if it hadn't been for me.
Point three: Derek didn't seem at all interested when someone brought up the gas station robbery at lunch. All the other boys were going crazy--"Do you know who did it?" "Are they offering a reward?" "Dude, I'd tell them it was my brother. That way, I wouldn't have to see my brother again, and I'd get some extra cash."
Plus, he's been acting weird. He doesn't touch doorknobs with his bare hands--he pulls his sleeves over his hands first. He says it's because of germs. But today, he touched the metal rim on a pencil, and I saw him jump and drop the pencil.
I don't know what to do about this. Should I confront him? Tell a teacher? What do I tell them? Will I be forced to give up my own experimenting? And what about Jackson? He hasn't been doing well since Thanksgiving--he's white and tired all the time, and Aunt Miri gave him a pizza Lunchable for lunch today. She only buys him special stuff like that when his appetite is down, and his appetite is only down when he's having a bad day. He says he has a doctor's appointment on Thursday.
I want to do one more experiment on myself. Just to make sure it's safe. Just to make sure it works. But I don't know if it's going to work or not. I might overdose and kill myself, or I might end up saving Jackson's life.
This might be my last diary entry. If it is--whoever finds and reads this, my research is in a file labeled "Robots" in my closet. Please publish it under my name. And please apologize to George and Macy. I'm sorry I ever suspected them.
Kassie Kittredge, signing out

First off, I want to thank each and every one of you who checked out our Live Stream Q&A on Sunday! You can still view it by clicking HERE but I might not answer any questions you post. I'll definitely be having another Q&A soon. A shorter one. But I had a blast.
I'd also like to note the fact that I'm wearing short sleeves right now. In December. Part of me is upset, but the other part of me is happy that I don't have to wear a sleeping bag with arms every time I leave the house. But at the same time, being cold is fun. When I lived in Illinois, I'd always enjoy feeling the gentle kiss of a frosty wind on my face or cuddling up with my comforter on a cold night.
There were things I didn't like about the cold, of course. I kept gerbils for a few years, and I'd wash out their cage once a week. I'd normally do this outside, but in the winter, I'd run some water in the bathtub and sanitize it afterwards. My nine-year-old self disliked sanitizing the bathtub. In fact, my now-eighteen-year-old self dislikes cleaning tubs and showers. But the thing about washing the gerbil's cage is that your hands get wet. And when it's cold and windy and your hands are wet, they start to hurt and go numb, which is a rather unpleasant sensation. So I was forced to stick to the bathtub.
The wonderful thing about a northern winter is the snow. Snow is pretty. It shows animal tracks. You can build snowmen, make snow angels, go sledding, and have snowball fights. I'd try to build an igloo every year, but we never had quite enough snow for that.
The terrible thing about a southern winter is that there's no snow. There's just dead grass. I believe I once compared the empty field behind my house to a sloth pelt. It's a brownish-yellow color, not unlike a bale of hay. Add the skeleton trees and a few clouds, and you've got yourself a dreary landscape.

Not that it's all bad, of course. Like I said, I'm wearing short sleeves. I've been wearing sweaters and turtlenecks all week for work, and it's nice to have a break. I feel free! I thought my sister was crazy for getting me a short-sleeved Christmas shirt. Turns out, she wasn't!
I like being able to run around barefoot. I'd run around barefoot in Illinois, too, but not without Mom and Dad telling me to put on a pair of socks. I spent so much time standing on our tile entry-way floor that my feet are nearly immune to cold; I don't notice that they're cold until they start to hurt. I will go outside to feed my dog barefoot when it's thirty-five degrees and drizzling.
However, the few times I've gone on a hike over Christmas break and decided to wade across a creek that's higher than my snow boots, I've regretted it. It's cold, of course. It's painfully cold. Boots that are designed to keep water out are also pretty good at keeping water in. It's like walking around with your feet in fish tanks. Squish, squash, your sock is falling off, ouch, pins and needles, swords and shark's teeth. Where's the nearest shortcut out of the woods?
Next time I hike, I'll be sure to bring a canoe. Or at least a decently long two-by-four so I can make a bridge. If I hiked in Illinois, though, I might have more dire things to worry about. Like hypothermia or falling through a thin patch of ice.
In that aspect, a warmer Christmas is a better Christmas.
Do you enjoy snow, or would you prefer a warmer holiday season? Let me know in the comments below! God bless you, dear readers, and don't forget to Like us on Facebook!

​November 30, 2004
Dear Diary,
Thanksgiving is over. And I'm still clueless as to who Derecho is.
We got to Aunt Miri's house early, around noon, because for whatever reason it's perfectly acceptable to eat Thanksgiving dinner at 2:30. Jackson was there. He was sitting at the kitchen table, peeling and chopping potatoes.
"I have to take it easy," he said as I joined him. "Mom treats me like a baby."
"Are you okay?"
Jackson shrugged. "I got a little worked up playing Dance Dance Revolution last night."
"With Macy?" I asked.
"Yeah. Hey, I heard your gas station got robbed. You okay?"
"A bit shaken up. I still work there and all." (I mean, I still need money for food. I'm not about to stop experimenting on myself just because I got scared. Jackson should be able to play Dance Dance Revolution without having to fall breathless into a chair after every round.)
"Yeah. Mom took the three of us food shopping, so we didn't find out until we got home and heard your mom's voicemail."
"All three of you?" I clarified.
"Yeah. George had to carry the turkey, and Macy just loves shopping in general. I just asked to come with because I was tired of sitting at home the whole time."
So scratch George and Macy off the list of suspects.
I mean, who else could it be? Someone from school? Who are the science nerds at school? Amy Kessinger, Ollie Cooke, that quiet guy who I think is named Sam. It might be him. Isn't it always the quiet ones who snap the loudest? And who am I forgetting? Derek, Asahel, Maggie. But those are only the ones in my grade. What if it's a senior?
I couldn't enjoy Thanksgiving dinner nearly as much as I normally do because I was thinking. I mean, I ate like a pig. I hadn't been legitimately full since I started experimenting on myself, and it felt so nice. But I hardly tasted anything, which was a shame, because turns out Macy is really good at making pecan pies.
School starts again on Monday. Hopefully, I'll be a little closer to figuring out who did it by then.
I've given up on finding a costume, but I found a scrap of blue fabric and made a mask out of it. I don't want to have to save someone from getting robbed again. But if I do, I want to have something besides a cleaning rag to conceal my identity. To be honest, it's a really cool mask. It covers my mouth and nose, then there's a slit for my eyes, and it covers the top of my head so my hair will hopefully be less noticeable. I feel like a superhero when I wear it. I want to help people with my powers. But things might go badly like they did at the robbery. Well, I guess they didn't exactly go badly. I was still able to help Mr. Harris, and I don't think Derecho got off with much cash. God knows Mr. Harris needs every penny he can get. He actually gave me $20 for defending him.
But if I fight Derecho again, I might die.
I guess I'll figure something out.
Kassie Kittredge, signing out!