Tuesday, April 2, 2013


So April has come along and I find myself with a lot of things on my plate.  I've signed up for Camp NaNoWriMo. 
Giving myself 30 days to finish 35000 words of my novel.  It didn't sound like a lot at the time, but then life has a way of throwing things in your path.  I've become bogged down with the thought of short stories.  My little circle of writers I'm developing have been discussing using short stories for character development.  I've got some back story shorts rattling around in my head.
I signed up for The Midwest Writers Workshop and have said I'd enter the writing competition, short story or poem.  Scribophile is having an April short story competition for a chance to have your first 50 pages reviewed by David Corbett
I really need to put my computer in Airplane mode and just start hammering away at my novel.  My goal is still to have a rough draft completed by the end of May.  Here hoping. :)

Well here's a little taste from chapter 1  Olivia Harmon explaining her job:
When I was elected deputy coroner last fall, I didn’t realize the deputy part meant I got all the 3am calls to suspicious deaths and accident scenes. Sycamore Spring still ran on the antiquated coroners system, meaning anyone could do the job. You just had to be elected, no medical background required. I really enjoyed the work, even though the lead coroner still handled the bulk of the cases.
I was excited when the news first reported some states were allowing witches to do a death reading in lieu of an autopsy. They were still hashing out which magical working could be used and so far empathy wasn't on the list. But I still jumped at the chance to use my gifts and ran for coroner in the next election.
I was able to certify death using magic but still had to send for a medical examiner from one of the bigger towns when homicide was suspected. I held out hope that the law would change.
If I was going to keep doing this job, it would have to change. I’ve started to run out of pathologists who would still work with me. Doctors really didn’t like it when you told them they were wrong. And when I called out Dr. Fitzgerald for missing a homicide, word got around fast.
I headed towards the accident. Red flares reflected off the rear window of the black Toyota that sat a fair ways off the road. It had left a long trail of upturned earth, before coming to rest by the edge of the woods. The compact car showed little damages besides the gaping hole in the windshield. Passers-by might think the occupants had pulled off to go for a stroll in the nearby stand of trees. However, the headlights of the vehicle, like a macabre spotlight, lit a solitary white sheet that told a darker story.

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