What Am I Working On Now? (Patreon)

So, I'm having a funny moment with the Lena book--I've somewhat painted myself into a corner. Normally, I'd let it sit for a bit while I thought it over and my subconscious would cough something up. Except I owe y'all a chapter, so I can't exactly do that. Which means I've tossed the book over to my friend J who is a speed reader and great about talking through plot with me when I get stuck. Which means I should have enough of an idea to get a chapter to you later this week. I owe J a pony at this point. Yay for writing friends!

In the mean time, I thought I'd let you know what I was working on currently and share a little snippet. The book is in very early days, so it's a bit rough...and I only have two chapters. I'm currently smashing a lot of research into my brain, so if you have any favorite shows or articles about frontier life, send them my way. (Except Frontier House. I just can't with that show.) I really wish they had something around that was the same caliber as Victorian Farm. 

When did I become the kind of person who had THOUGHTS and FEELINGS about shows featuring Victorian farming? I'd like to say that Young Lish would be shocked, but I don't think Young Lish would be shocked at all.

The place holder title I have for the new project is Frontier. I'll think of something better later. (Which is what I said about Curses, so who knows.) Anyway, meet Faolan Kelly during a really terrible time in her life. So just a head's up that this book so far is...less funny. Curses was a romp, and this is going in a totally different direction. Faolan's voice has a really sly, dry humor when she uses it. (And for those of Irish descent, yes I know that Faolan's usually a boy's name. There's a reason why she has a traditionally masculine name and why she's wearing a suit.)  Enjoy! More Lena soon! 

*****

I don’t remember my parents much, and what I do remember, I don’t mourn. Some people have a knack for mourning and despite all my practice, I don’t appear to be one of them. Pops has gone to his maker, and I’m left here in a suit too big for my frame that itched something fierce.

The service had been long, and my grandfather would have hated it. Pops didn’t put much stock in the teachings of the church, and I can’t say I’ve strayed far from his thinking on the subject. Life seems pretty complicated enough with out adding too much churching on top of things.

There’d been too much jawin’—the holy man sure had a lot to say about a man he’d barely met. The music was awful, the small piano out of tune. I would have liked to play some fiddle for him, one of his favorite tunes, like when we’d sit beside the fire in the cold months. But I’d had to sell my fiddle to pay for the doctor. Pops would have hated that most of all. It was a shock, seeing his still frame in a wooden box. Death gave his face a softness it hadn’t had in life. Made him look a stranger, which in some ways was a relief.

If it was a stranger in that box, than my grandfather hadn’t abandoned me to this world, leaving me with no one to call my own. I gripped his battered pocket watch in my palm the entire ceremony, just to remind myself of the truth.

He was gone and I was alone.