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jacquclyn-blog · 7 years

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hi my guys ! name’s honey, i’m 19 and i’m actively doing everything in my power to keep from going back to campus to get my books because that means classes are about to start and...yep, no thanx. anyways, i’ve been eyeing this bad boy and when i saw lizzie the loml got reopened i’d figure hell yeah, let’s do this thing, so here i am and honestly just accept that you’re never getting rid of me. beneath the cut is more on jackie, ofc, so feel free to hmu or just like this and i’ll come to you !! #buyrainbowonitunes

——— woah! wait, was that ELIZABETH OLSEN i just saw walking down mainstreet? no, of course not. that was just JACQUELYN VANCE. they’re TWENTY-SEVEN years old and identify as CISFEMALE. they have been in Alder Heights for TEN YEARS and work as a MAGAZINE EDITOR. i’ve heard they can be OBSTINATE and PEDANTIC on their bad days. but don’t be put off, because JACKIE can also be FERVENT and DISCERNING. no wonder people around here call them the AMARANTH.

born in los angeles, california, jackie grew up very comfortably; both parents are lawyers and during the clinton administration, jackie’s father served as the us ambassador of france. she was nine when they first moved, and was seventeen when her father’s run overseas was finished, and being back home was an interesting transition for her, since she felt like the odd man out considering she’d fallen in love with the french way of life, i guess? she didn’t really want to leave when the time came, but it wasn’t entirely up to her (her least favorite president is w. bush, 3 guesses why lmao)

instead of going back to la, they moved to alder heights, since her father wanted to continue pursuing a career in government/politics, and it was much closer to dc than la was. her two younger sisters adjusted to life back home a lot easier than jackie did; she wound up completing the last little bit of high school online, since she’d had an accelerated course schedule overseas (she loved school) and would’ve rather been eaten by wolves than go back to public school tbh. she started classes at georgetown uni (rich parents lmao) at seventeen and for awhile, her major was in political science since she had every intention to follow in her father’s footsteps, he was her hero after all

and then somewhere along the line, she realized she didn’t really like political science, she liked having an opinion on and discussing politics, so she moved over into mass communications and her parents weren’t thrilled at all, they totally thought they were going to have a vance legacy and be able to start some family dream team thing and being the oldest, they expected her to be the one to fulfill this, and it definitely started a few fights but they eventually shut up about it just because arguing with her is arguing w a brick wall tbh — they are still slowly coming around, they’re not crazy about it but they still support her, things are Tense, fun times

so she graduated, went on and got her masters, blah blah, fast forward to where jackie finds the job of her dreams at an unnamed, v popular magazine (it’s unnamed bc i want it to be lmao, givE ME TIME but if you need a comparison, think cosmo) and she chased after it hard, like all she wanted to do was be a writer and after spending roughly two years as an assistant, she got promoted to a writer and she loved it, absolutely loved it. got to write about the things she was passionate about, loved the people she worked with, she was living the Dream

and after a few years of just really, really enjoying her job her higher-ups were like “hey, we’re gonna promote you if you want” and in jackie’s mind she was like, hell yeah, more responsibility, more control, all the things she loves tbh and she took the job as the lifestyle department editor since it was broad and encompassed a lot of the stuff she’d enjoyed writing for and of course, Loved it...to a point

jackie is married to her job, and it’s highkey unhealthy tbh, she’s very very hard on herself and now that she’s moved up in the hierarchy of things she’s beginning to see what they ask of their employees and it’s not always stuff she agrees with? it’s a lot of pressure and she’s beginning to fall out of love with all of it in general, the writing, being responsible for stuff, etc and part of her is like fuck this, i’m over it but at the same time, she’s forcing herself to stick w it because she wants to prove to her parents she can too see their successes in the career path she chose

basically, she’s currently conflicted as hell when it comes to work and is currently a don’t ask, don’t tell type of situation

has begun doing freelance writing on the side?? she doesn’t post or share any of it since most of it is just her rambling and she’s not got that much time to dedicate to it as it is but it’s kinda keeping her sane in the moment and reminding her as to why she loves what she does

her label is the amaranth, one of my faves, which p much means that they’re hard to forget and leave an impression and that’s certainly jackie lmao, she’s got a very strong personality that makes it hard for you to confuse her w anyone else

y’all see the traits up there in that app....that’s Her. she’s the kinda person you want in your corner, not the person you want opposing you bc she will end you and show no mercy

is a sagittarius

can sometimes let her emotions get the better of her??? she’s stubborn and gets conflicted very easily and that basically just leads to disaster, she’s great at making problems in her life that aren’t a big deal a Big Deal and what she wants, she’ll get it even if she’s got to step on toes or scream really, really loudly for someone to hear her; her parents taught her to never settle and settle she does not

also bilingual, speaks fluent english and french. usually only slips into french when she’s pissed so...beware

connections i’d love to see for jackie (but aren’t limited to, i just know it’ll be a hot second before i get a page up and running!):

best friend — self explanatory, obviously, but just give me someone who jackie can sit on the couch and drink wine with in her pajamas, someone who’s got her back if they go out to a bar, her go-to if she’s ever got a company thing and she needs a date last minute, someone who’s gonna butt heads with her when there’s a conflict in either of their lives but they still love one another no matter what *cue true friend by hannah montana in the distance*

sibling like relationship — another self explanatory one but jackie’s got a mad mom side to her, she’s v protective of the people she loves so give me someone that might as well be a long lost vance, they do dumb shit together, have each other’s backs, try (and fail) at matchmaking for the other, having a toothbrush with their name on it at their apartment, the works

summer flings!!!!! someone jackie met while she was on vacation or even off on a business thing and they like hooked up and she never in a million years would’ve expected to bump into them back in alder heights......except, she did

tbh just give me a friends-esque group of people for jackie where they all hang out and eat and act like their lives aren’t constantly falling apart, that’d be N*ce too

exesssss!!! the good, the bad, the inescapable, the ones with lingering feelings, the ones that swear they’re over but have a problem every time the other even looks like they’re about to go on a date w someone else, this is free range

college friend — basically someone that she met back when she was in college and was the first bit of american companionship that she’d had since she was like, nine?? like i said, she started classes at seventeen, and hadn’t really interacted with anyone since she did online schooling for her senior year; this could’ve been a roommate, someone she had a class with, someone that she met on campus and got coffee with, we can talk this one out obviously but you get the gist!

angst — idk what, idk how, i just live for it and i want it thanks

someone who lives near jackie and whether it’s really weird stuff like coming over to ask for some milk to put in their coffee since they’re out and forgot to buy some or they like hang out and have dinner together a few nights a week, switching off and stuff, i think this could be Fun

family friend — jackie’s parents are both lawyers and her dad’s been involved in politics for awhile so i can imagine jackie’s gone to her fair share of parties and whatnot, meeting clients and coworkers and all kinds of people so this would ideally be someone she met because their parents were acquaintances/friends; they could’ve met as kids, stayed in touch while jackie was overseas and resumed their friendship years later when the both of them found themselves back in dc, they could’ve met on the more recent end of things, they could totally understand the other’s pain and get along gr8 because someone finally gets it, they could lowkey hate each other bc their parents are rivals/ they’re trying to work through it...the possibilities are endless

and while i’m on the topic of past connections: jackie occasionally had to come back to the us and visit dc while her dad was serving as ambassador (aged 9-17) so if you’re interested, we can totally work something with that

a plot where they’re acquaintances at best, they’ve maybe got mutual friends and therefore they hang out a bit but they’re always arguing w one another for whatever fucking reason, they both probably annoy each other but they’ve got mad sexual tension going on?? maybe they act on it, maybe they don’t, but either way, they lowkey enjoy the bantering and being at one another’s throats even if they act otherwise

#「 •• 𝓗𝓔𝓡𝓞𝓘𝓝(𝓔) ; mun.#alderintro #this will not show up in the tags but Hoe well *throws confetti*

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luninosity · 7 years

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And the epilogue - and therefore the actual writing - of Prophecy is complete! Time to send it in to the editors! (I told them about two weeks; this is really closer to one, so maybe we can indeed find ways to shorten some of that 10-month publication process...)

Here, have a piece of the epilogue! (If you read the Evanstan fic version, by the way, this bit is all new - actually the whole story is about twice as long, from 17,452 words to 35,859 words!) (also you can come and order a copy here, if you would like! it should be out roughly around October!) (also for the record there is - in the epilogue, along with some politics and kingdom-merging - one very PG-13 sex scene, nothing explicit, and actually the sex bit is offscreen - we pretty much stop with them naked and looking at each other and happy)

Oliver had just got Tir tucked into bed, propped up by pillows and concerned woolly blankets, when the knock came; they shrugged at each other, and Ollie called back, “Come in.” He didn’t want his fairy to move; Tir claimed to be no worse than normal but had been leaning on him more after the stairs, and had cold hands. He’d been planning to grab the latest novel and read aloud until Tirian fell asleep.

The knock turned into Lyle; their family butler and general font of palace-related knowledge cleared his throat. “We were wondering how Tirian was feeling; Ben said you had to leave the table, upstairs. You know I can always summon the doctor if you’d like.”

“He’s—”

“He’s fine,” Tir put in, peeking around Ollie’s shoulder. “Only tired. Thank you, though.”

“Oh,” Lyle said, radiating paternal worry and pride, “of course you’d be, those big feasts would tire out anybody, all those courses and polite conversation, not to mention you’re barely up and about most days, would you like anything else, then? A tray, extra blankets, the fire lit? We’d meant to have it going but you came down so soon, not that that’s a problem, indeed not.”

“I think,” Oliver started, meaning to say no, meaning to simply close out the world and shelter Tir alone, “we—” Those fingers in his were cold. Rain hit the cool translucent glass of Tir’s bedroom window, and poured silken ribbons over ancient castle mortar and new-grown climbing vines, and fell noisily to the ground far below. “A fire would be nice. We won’t need anything else for the night, but if you could light one, we’d be grateful.”

“No trouble at all.” Lyle vanished; Tir, Ollie discovered, was laughing silently.

“He thinks we’re still twelve, doesn’t he…”

“Permanently. Sorry. He was lecturing the castle into tidiness before I was born. Are you comfortable? Want anything?”

“Only you. Come kiss me?”

They were deliciously engaged in exactly that when Lyle and two log-bearing footmen appeared, accompanied by Meadowsweet the second housemaid and young Polly, who worked in the kitchen or wherever errands sent her around the palace. They came in laden down with trays of covered dishes; Ollie dove for the closest one and made hasty space on Tir’s bedside desk, and tried not to think about what his hair and lips and shirt-collar looked like. Tir’s mouth was willing and tempting and thoroughly kissed.

He sat back down on the bed, crossed his legs, and inquired, with regard to the army of trays, “What in the name of the Great North—”

“Well, and we thought you might be hungry,” Meadow said, “having missed the feast and all, and Tir needs strength, you know,” and added one more plate to the table: blonde, cheerful, stubborn as an older sister. “Nothing fancy or fiddly, but good ham and some cheddar biscuits and my mum’s lemongrass chicken soup. It’ll warm you up.”

“Tea?” He investigated the silver pot.

Polly beamed at him. She had mismatched eyes, some silver-streaked fairy legacy someplace in her orphan past; she’d pestered Tir, in calmer days, to examine her for any other signs of magic. “Chocolate. Nice and hot and dark and sweet. We know what he likes.”

Tir took a sip of hot chocolate, and beamed right back at her. His cheeks were pinker, flushed by kisses and steam; his hair was tucked behind one ear, because Ollie’s hand had run through it, stroking it into place. Under blankets, with pillows and soft happy eyes, he looked cuddly and cherished and very much loved. Ollie had done that.

His chest expanded with pride.

The fire leapt upwards, hearty and hot.

The collected palace staff looked at Tir, and then at Oliver, and then at each other, and hastily vacated the room in order to perform unspecified other tasks. Lyle put his head back in to order, “Oliver, don’t tire that boy out!” and then closed the door definitively behind him, keeping them secluded.

“Hmm,” Tir said. “Imagine the new additions to the ballads. Ravished by a human.”

“I’ve been told not to tire you out,” Ollie pointed out, and fed him pieces of ham and cheddar biscuits for a while. He tried not to think about ravishment. He couldn’t help it now. Especially when Tir kissed his fingers after a bite, and those eyes sparkled.

He might’ve thought, if he’d had room to give it any thought, that kissing his best friend, the boy with whom he’d grown up and learned to use a telescope and gone through sword-training in the practice-yard, could be awkward. It hadn’t been.

It’d been easy. It’d been another piece of who they were together, new and familiar. A homecoming after a long journey away. A rediscovery, with clearer sight.

He wanted Tirian rather desperately, he’d found out. He wanted to know it all. To kiss every inch of what he’d once taken for granted. To learn.

Tir looked up from chicken soup. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, anything you want, go ahead.” He took the soup bowl when his fairy appeared to be done, and set it out of the way. The fire gossiped to the rain, cozy; he’d kicked boots off and let one leg dangle to the floor, sitting on the side of Tir’s bed. “If it’s about the wedding, I’m drawing the line at the white samite floor-length robes suggestion, thanks. I’d spill something on it at the first fitting. You know I would.”

“I like the way you look in blue,” Tir said. “All sort of blue and gold and big and tawny. Like an oversized version of that historical sun-god from the old Southern kingdoms. With a pencil behind your ear. Sorry, what was I asking you?”

“You got as far as asking whether you could ask me a question, and I said yes. The sun-god who gets chopped into pieces and swallowed by an alligator?”

“And brought back to life, and it’s a metaphor for the flood season. No. Um. I remember. You don’t…it’s not because you don’t want me, right?”

“Because I don’t what,” Oliver said, or thought he said. His lips moved, at least.

“We keep stopping,” Tir explained, sitting up. The hair got in his eyes again. “You—you kiss me, because I ask you to, and then you stop and pull away and—and tell me you don’t want to tire me out, or you’re worried about me breathing unevenly, or—or whatever it is next time, and I know I’ve wanted you for years but this is new for you and if you don’t—”

Ollie dove across the bed. Ended that sentence right there. Tir’s arms slid around him, holding him close, pulling him down on top. Ravishment, he thought, fairy-stories, seduction, and love. He demanded, lips brushing lips, kisses between words, “You think I don’t want you?”

“I said I was trying not to think you didn’t want me—”

“I am worried.” They’d ended up sprawled across the bed, Tir on his back amid pillows, hair dark and long against creamy sheets, eyes wide and not yet convinced but wanting to be, hopeful grey rivers under clouds. Ollie took his own weight, balanced atop him. “I don’t want to—to—we might, I don’t know, set back your recovery or something—”

“I asked Fadi, you adorable rutabaga.” Tir managed to kick him in the calf, no force behind it; the rivers got exultantly relieved by life-giving downpours. “Which you could’ve done if you were worried. He said I should be fine as long as we don’t try anything more than usually strenuous, and also that it’s about time we got around to this, because he was tempted to lock us in a broom closet.”

“You and the root vegetable comparisons,” Oliver grumbled, nibbling at his lips, his throat, the enticing little spot just below his jaw. “Is that a thing? Do you have a thing about root vegetables? Should I bring a carrot to bed? And is this okay?”

“I do not have a thing about—oh yes that’s very much okay, thank you—remind me to make a joke about the size of your carrot—” They were mostly dressed; he’d gotten Tir out of the top layer of banquet clothes and into a quilted robe, earlier, but hadn’t bothered with himself. The robe was nice; he could slide hands under it. Apparently the hands could make his fairy stop talking and gasp in pleasure. He did that again. Tir made a delighted tiny sound, a sound that went straight to his heart and shivered down his spine and made his toes tingle, a sound he’d remember hearing for the first time forever.

Nimble fairy-fingers were unlacing his shirt; they ran over his chest, curious and enchanted. “I admit to having had dreams about this…every time we went swimming, or you ran around the training yard in the summer with your shirt off…”

“Okay, unfair, now you have to tell me about those dreams—” His fingers froze on Tir’s hip. “You. Um. You, um. That—it’s not just—you have, um. In. Sort of. Reality. Have you?”

“What?” Tir managed to give him a quizzical head-tilt while lying down. “Would you please get back to what you were doing? I liked what you were doing. I love your hands. Artistic hands.”

“Tir,” Ollie said, not moving the hands, “that’s—that’s not helping.” Tir liked what he’d been doing. This sounded a lot like someone who hadn’t tried that, or the other thing, or the soon to be next thing, before. “You, ah…you know our wedding…”

“Yes,” Tir said, with the expression of a man trying to be patient but on the verge of kicking Ollie in the calf again, “our wedding, what about it?”

“The, um…the wedding…night…”

“Are you inquiring about the mechanics? I’m quite certain you know what we’re doing. You said as much to me after nearly every experience you had, growing up.”

“No! I mean, no, I’m so sorry about—how did you ever put up with me, I was awful, I’m awful to you, why didn’t you throw a book at my head—not, um, not me…are you, you know…you haven’t, um…” Now would be a perfect time for magical underhearing. It refused to assist.

Tir’s mouth fell open. This was unfairly attractive, though that might be because he was lying in bed with legs parted for Oliver to lie between, robe puddled in quilted invitation beneath him. “Are you trying to ask whether I’m a virgin?”

#original fic #my fic #inkshares fantasy contest #a prophecy for two #fluff #happy endings #yep #fantasy #m/m romance

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raisingsupergirl · 7 years

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My Weird Writing Journey, Thus Far

The life of a writer can be pretty glamorous. Authors can go on book tours around the world, hang out on The Today Show, and go to world movie premiers of their novels turned to film … and then there's me. At thirty-years-old, I've been in the game for around ten years, and I have no publishing credits to show for my efforts except a few flash fiction pieces. I've been promised contracts and commercial success more times than I can count, and I've had enough strikeouts and rejection letters to crush any man with at least an average helping of common sense. But here I am, a writer light-years ahead of who I once was and further still from the writer I desire to become. And again I stand on the brink of an opportunity, looking out at all that could come of this new stage in my journey. But to understand what's at stake, you should know where I started.

The first thing I should say is that I never wanted to be a writer. I never wanted it because I never knew about it. I inherited a passion for reading and a gift for art from my mother, and my father bestowed upon me a love for all things weird—science fiction, fantasy, and Stargate SG-1. But my brothers loved sports and trucks and other wholesome, manly things, so I figured I should love those things too. And despite winning first place in a school-wide creative writing contest in the third grade, I spent the rest of my adolescence riding bikes, playing baseball, and getting lost in the woods. In high school, sports were again a center focus, but there was something creeping up from underneath—something a little … weird.

I then went off to college for Physical Therapy, so most of my undergraduate studies were in the sciences, except for a few required philosophy and writing-intensive English classes. But slowly, in the quiet areas spent in my room, hiding from my housemate (a Russian, Jewish, elitist, pothead … not that there's anything wrong with that), that weird thing surfaced. That need to express myself. To explore words and thoughts and adventures without the limitations of reality weighing me down.

The first thing I wrote since my mermaid story in the third grade, aside from droll school projects, was a contemplative description likening my college room/cell to Plato's cave. Exciting, right? I did several of these little allegorical gems, exploring free will, racism, and other riveting subjects. But I never saw them as anything other than convenient creative outlets. And then, in my parents' basement, on Christmas Eve, 2007, it happened. The weird exploded.

I was sitting on my old bed, reading the book of Revelation, as all totally normal college students do, when I stumbled across an interesting passage about the 144,000 people who would be chosen, in some capacity, during the second coming of Jesus Christ. "Huh," I thought. "144,000 people, saved from a dying world. What if they just, like, went to some other planet that God created for them … that would make a pretty cool book."

And BAM. It was like my mutant gene finally activated—that spark of consuming fire that us lucky few experience when we know our purpose in life has finally been revealed. And I'm not being dramatic here. I flopped back on my bed, awestruck at the path unfolding before me, wondering how I had not thought of it before. I was going to write a book! And of course the book would become a best seller and I'd be uber-rich and famous.

So I set out immediately writing this story that God had pre-ordained to change the world. In the spare moments of my degree work, I plotted and outlined. As I planned my wedding and prepared to start a new life in Virginia with my new bride, I built worlds and formed characters from formless lumps of clay. With the Wednesdays off afforded me in my first real job, I would sit for literally 10 hours straight, clacking away at my keyboard. And in 2010, only three years after I started, my masterpiece was created.

And then I spent the next three years realizing I had no idea what I was doing. I went to writing conferences, joined critique groups, read craft books, and they all said the same thing. "You did everything wrong." So I threw book one into a drawer and started again.

Since one book proved too easy for me the first time, on the second attempt I decided to write two at the same time. The first was a young adult urban fantasy titled Night Games. In it, a high school boy fights vampires, werewolves, zombies, and his own fears of eternal damnation. The second novel was a sci-fi/fantasy adventure novel set in Antarctica, a place where magic is real, and the dying world will do anything to harness it. And since four heads are better than one, I set out to write this novel with 3 other authors. Needless to say, we're still working on it … 5 years later. And despite its awesomeness, an unfinished book generally doesn't have much chance at publication.

Thankfully, I finished Night Games in about 2 years, and it even caught the eye of a literary agent. And then I hit the big-time. I was officially represented. I had an agent. My agent. My own. My … well, my agent. Then, she pitched the novel to several publishing houses, with great feedback. But in the end, they all passed because there was, "no market for that kind of fiction in the Christian publishing industry."

Oh, yeah. Did I mention that everything I'd written so far was meant for the CBA (Christian Book Association)? And everyone failed to tell me Christians don't believe in zombies. But, when I finally realized that precious fact, my agent teamed me up with a ridiculously talented non-fiction author (Clay Morgan, check him out!) to re-write the highest-selling fiction work in the history of Christianity, A Pilgrim's Progress, and we added … wait for it … zombies.

It was brilliant. And I'm not just saying that. Probably my favorite creation so far. The ending made me cry. But, it didn't sell either. I mean, it sat at a large publisher who promised publication for about a year, then fizzled. So I threw it on the stack and searched for my next target.

And then my moment finally came. My agent contacted Clay Morgan and me about a "special request" from a publisher. A quirky suspense novel without an ounce of anything weird. Naturally, I was immediately intimidated since I would have to endure the journey without a single dragon or robot, but with a publisher specifically asking for the story, I couldn't pass it up (especially with my friend Clay by my side). So we drew up an outline and some sample chapters, and they were a hit. I mean, more like a grand slam. The acquisition editor loved everything about it, and a contract was just a matter of time. And then, once again, it all fell apart. I can't get into specifics, but it was bizarre. Divine intervention barely explains it, but the point was, it fell through.

And that's when I hit my low point. I had this story idea that I loved, but I couldn't find the strength to write it. I mean, why put in so much time and effort just to lay it on the stack of unpublished works? I sought council from my agent, and from Clay, and anyone else who would listen. I begged them to read sample chapters, and give feedback, and pour sugar in my ear. But in the end, it didn't matter. The story wouldn't leave me alone. I had to write it. Whether there was a "market" for it or not, I had to get it from my head to paper.

So I did. I poured myself into it for another 2 years, creating something I could be proud of. And when I finally turned it into my agent, she ripped it apart. You see, I'd written it as a young adult novel, but apparently I was wrong. The main character turned out more like Scarlett O'Hara when I'd intended her to be closer to Jo March (from Pretty Women). And I'd focused too much on the journey and not enough on the story.

So I RE-wrote it. The whole thing. In about 3 months. And I loved it even more. And my agent loved it. And my beta-readers loved it. And then I turned in the official proposal to my agent. And then I had seven heart attacks. You see, this was the first novel I'd finished that was not an overtly Christian book. And my agent was pitching it into the Pacific Ocean of publishing. Huge Houses with intimidating track records. And all I could do was wait.

And that's what I'm doing. Waiting. Again. I feel good about this one, but I felt good about the others, as well. And as I wait, I can't help reflecting on how far I've come. As I've said, I don't look much different on paper (so to speak), but the last 10 years have been a wild ride. I've met a massive network of sensationally gifted and peculiar people. I’ve become the executive editor of a wonderful literary magazine. I've navigated a world I never knew existed. And I've found fulfillment I never knew possible. Writing has been a blessing. It has shaped how I see the universe and the individuals who populate it. And most of all, it has taught me to never give up on something worth starting. It may be stubbornness. It may be delusions of grandeur. But it's definitely worth it.

And believe me, I want to scream that to the struggling people I see every day. Those guys and gals wondering if it's worth it. Whether "it" is a career, a healthy lifestyle, a friendship, a marriage, or life itself. "Don't give up!" I want to say. I know what they're going through, because I've asked every single one of those questions at one time or another, and the answer has always been yes. God gave us choice for a reason (If you don't believe me, I'm happy to send you one of my college allegories to explain it), and it's that choice that makes life worth living in the first place.

So whatever happens with my insane choice to be a writer, I'm satisfied. I've committed to something bigger than me, and I'll leave a legacy long after I'm gone, one way or another. And if this latest novel becomes an international best-seller, well that's just icing on the cake. So stay tuned. Things are about to get awesome.

#writerlife #writer probz #amwriting #momblr #mumblr #dadblr #publishing #worthit

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