I have a list of things I want to accomplish in the next three weeks.

The re-edits for Witch’s Sacrifice aren’t that bad. I’m mostly finished with them anyway, so I will probably try to get those done over the next couple of days, and re-uploaded so that everything is great.

The print version of Witch’s Curse and Witch’s Stand both need to be finished by end of the month. I also want to put up the trilogy as an omnibus for those who would rather have a boxed set. It will, of course, have the bonus short story of Witch’s Sight included.

Yesterday I wrote a large part of Magi, a short story, and did some of the editing for Witch’s Sacrifice. Today I’ve already gotten through half of Minotaur, another short story. I’d like to get these two short stories finished for the Bradbury Challenge (since I haven’t been doing that well for it lately) and I think I’m on track. Both are all plotted out and I just have to finish putting the words down on the page.

It’s strange learning to work from a plot. It does make the writing easier because I know what’s going on, but sometimes I’m still confused as to HOW to say it. Making the words pretty is different then just putting words on a page. You want them to make sense, but they also need to engage the reader, draw images in their mind, and make them want to continue.

For Minotaur I have a Minotaur walking through a dilapidated village in the middle of the night with rain pouring down on him, and he’s carrying a sack with something in it dragging along the ground. There, I just set the scene for you, but I just wrote that would you read it? Of course not, that isn’t a story, that’s just a setting.

Rain pelted down on Rojar’s back, dripping down across scared flesh. He walking along the cobbled courtyard, uncaring of the storm above him. His hooves clattering against the stone. Shaking his massive head from side to side, the water flew off his horns, splattering in thick droplets beneath him. He welcomed the rain, licking it off his rubbery lips, tasting the sweetness of freedom and pain. The rain, and the heavy weight of the war ax on his back; that was freedom.
He pulled a rough sack along behind him, the contents clunking against the stones. Clunk, drag. Clunk, drag. Down the cobblestone path to the center of town.
He could feel eyes on him, peeking out through slats in boarded windows, and peep holes in doors. Hear their hooves tapping out across caked dirt floors just on the other side of the wall. His people, his family. The same people that sold him into slavery.

Now that’s more like a story.

Alright, now I need to get back to work and finish what I’ve started. I want to complete one short story and get to formatting the print books tonight. I’ll update you tomorrow.