Writing

Honest, I’m Writing Just About Every Day Now

Honest, I’m Writing!

sleep but still writingHonest. Really, I mean it. From little snippets to long parts of chapters, I’m writing every day. Well, including my column featured in Ind’Tale magazine (see December 2018). The current project is Rowlinson Inc, the first book of the Zero-G series.

Yes, the novel that started my journey into writing novels is getting a face lift. And that means the whole series will come available soon. Well, soon as they are completed.

The change around is how the story will unfold and, of course, the actual writing. I pulled the plot and premise from the other work and have molded it into the point of view of the antagonist. It will warp around his journey while seeking revenge. The problems, the issues, and finally, the end. It will lend itself to the next novel, The God Drive. That novel will also need to be rewritten to hold the same style as the first.

So what does it mean? I have to put all other writing projects behind. The editing will continue, but other things will slow as the novel unfolds on the pages.

What to know a little more? Sign up to my newsletter. Honest, only once a month I’ll send out an update on the novel and what is happening with life in general.

And now, for a little preview of Rowlinson Inc.


The antiseptic of the hospital hangs heavy in the air. Doctors rush past the doorway behind the nurse, sometimes with a coffee, other times examining charts. My head pounds as if my brain wants to escape into the world beyond my ears. This is not the first time I’ve been in pain like this, and it seems it won’t be the last.

An accusing eye stares at my mother from behind a transparent plasteel sheet. Another invention of the 21st century designed with the intent of keeping people safe, but all it does is add a barrier between humanity and the worker. The eyes find their way down to me and soften, concern for another one of God’s creations dances behind the the glistening orbs.

Spikes of heat jab at the backs of my eyes. I scream, squeezing my lids closed with all my four-year-old body can muster. It’s not enough. I throw small skinny arms around my head. The pounding subsides a little. Not a lot, it is still there, just enough that I don’t have to cry at the top of my lungs. Whimpers escape from between my lips.

There’s a muffled tapping sound “What is the boy’s name?”

“Shalain Dilain.” Mother kisses my head.

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