Dear friends, I have a sports-related expense coming up for which I need to raise funds, but am currently only in the early stages of writing my next novel, and have nothing else new to offer right now. I could come up with something like a subscription to a weekly story, but I like posting those here for everyone to read. Therefore this shameless post. If you know anyone who might enjoy an ebook of wild-hearted stories, or a fantasy novel about a dreaming woman caught in a strange, quiet mystery, or poetry, then I would be so very grateful to you for mentioning my collection of books. Perhaps sharing the link somewhere. Perhaps giving an opinion of them (for better or worse!) Only if you are so inclined, of course.
I would offer a special deal - one free poetry book with every storybook/novel chosen, that kind of thing - but people never seem interested. Just as I've given away free copies of books in return for a review, and that review has never been produced. So I'm sadly leery of "free" these days.
Over the years, I've had some very nice remarks about my writing, and people have equated it to the works of some extraordinary authors in a way which is far too generous - and none of it I can repeat because I am too shy for sensible self-promotion. One always takes a risk when getting a self-published book, but I hope people who have read mine aren't overly disappointed. And perhaps it helps that no profit is made, all money goes into a fund as explained on my books page.
To apologise for this tedious post, here is a tiny excerpt from my current work in progress (which is of course subject to change radically at any given moment).
Turning away, she moves her own foot slow, sorrowful, over wooden boards. She moves her hand as if tracing a breeze. This is how a private heaven went once, long ago. This was the dream.
Stepping between stars, trailing beautiful tempests.
Lifting up the sea.
But there is a great weight of peace on her now, and she is too tired to bear it. Drawing back the foot, she turns again to stare at the city until it eases with dawn.
She does not do this always. But more often than not lately, she finds it hard to sleep. Her mind is full of wings and weeping, and she must rise against them, go to a window, and see that the world is real.