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Nano Update

So, I'm deep in the third week of Nanowrimo, and with 20,000+ words still to go, the creative juices are spread thin (how's that for a mixed metaphor?). I figured for today, I would share some of the diamonds that have appeared in the rough draft (get it? get it? oh my gosh, I'm so tired). The book I'm working on is called TALON Force for now and it's about a fourteen year old hacker who is recruited into a covert government agency that protects magical creatures called phenomenals. Enjoy.


His mom looked up and squinted at him. “Don’t forget school starts tomorrow. Lights out by 11:30, okay?”

Nate’s stomach flipped. How could he forget? After five years of learning physics and calculus around this very table, he’d be headed to the local high school for ninth grade. But that’s what happened when your dad agreed to more hours with the Bureau and your mom was offered a position in the lab of her dreams.

“We’ve talked about it, I know," she said. "But it bears repeating. No working outside the curriculum. If you’re bored, read the next chapter or something.”

“No reprogramming the computers,” his dad added.

Nate opened his mouth to protest but his dad waved an S tile at him. “Not even to make them more efficient,” he said.

Nate snapped his mouth closed and scowled.

“And no building killer robots,” Jessie put in with a smirk.

“That wasn’t my fault. If Vince Price hadn’t messed with my power regulator everything would have worked fine.”

“Tell that to Mr. Holland.”

“How is he?” his mother asked.

“I hear his therapy is coming along really well,” Jessie said.


"Dr. Demarco, Mr. Demarco, your son has seen too much,” the man said.

Nate gulped. “You mean they’re real?” he said.

“What’s real?” his dad asked.

The men glared and Nate snapped his mouth shut.

His mom sighed. “We said no more hacking, Nate. You promised.”

He hung his head. Jessie had her elbows propped on the table and she was watching intently.

“So what are you going to do with him?” his mom said. “Hard labor? The gallows?”

The men eyed her sideways and one of them said, “He has two choices. The first is a maximum security facility designed to hold people like him where he will be locked away unharmed and he can never tell anyone what he’s seen.”

His mom raised an eyebrow. “Sounds cozy.”

“Mom,” Nate said. Even when things were dire she couldn’t help cracking jokes. It was embarrassing.

“Just be sure to feed him his vegetables.”

Nate really really didn’t want to go to prison. Especially one without computers or the Internet or Teen Titans. “What’s the other option?” he said.

One of the men crossed his arms and looked down at Nate who still sat at the dining room table, limp green salad pieces littering his plate and the floor under his chair.

“Join the agency that was created to protect and conceal what you saw.”


“Yes, of course.”

“I’d be working with them? Like up close?”

The man inclined his head.

“But that’s, I mean they’re—” He looked at his interested family and rephrased what he was about to say. “Is that safe?”

“You could always choose the other option,” one of the men said. He looked kind of hopeful. Like he really wanted to lock Nate away in a little room with no Internet. “It is safer, as you say.”

Working with monsters? Real life ones? Nate had always thought it would be cool to get a job with a game developer programming the creatures he fought in video games but this was entirely different. He’d be coming face to face with them, maybe fighting them. No, the guy had said protecting. But that girl in the video had definitely been fighting that snake lizard that looked just like the one in Slayer.

The corners of Nate’s mouth started to lift as he thought about it. He’d be a slayer in real life. Maybe he’d even get a sword.

“Well?” his mom said. “What’ll it be?”

Nate grinned up at them. “I, uh, choose the not jail thing.”

“Really?” the one man said looking disappointed. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I choose the agency.”


He realized he was sitting in water up to his waist, no big deal, but the hands were still clutching at him. He dug his own hands into the bottom of the bay and hung on so whatever had him couldn’t drag him any further.

The hands surfaced, long delicate fingers clinging to his jacket. They were attached to slim pale arms. A head covered in long blond hair appeared and a solid body pushed him back into the surf.

Nate found himself looking up into the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. Even Mei’s dark eyes and hair couldn’t compare to the perfect features of the girl who was lying on top of him.


Nate flushed before he realized all the interesting parts were covered by her wet hair. Even still, he raised his hands, keeping them out to his sides where they wouldn’t touch anything by accident.

“Hi,” the girl said and smiled. Dazzlingly.

“Nate!” It was his dad who skidded to a stop beside them, pebbles showering both Nate and the girl.

Nate held up a hand. “It’s okay,” he said. At least he thought it was okay. She didn’t seem to be trying to kill him. Yet. But his encounter with the kelpie had made him wary.

“Hello,” he said.

She beamed even brighter, if that was possible, as if he’d said the nicest thing in the world.

More feet clattered on the beach behind him and he heard a gasp. He tried not to groan. Because he really needed his mom and his sister to witness his humiliation as well.

“I knew they were real,” Jessie whispered somewhere over his head. “I just knew it.”

Uh oh.

“Um,” he said to the perfect girl who now had her fingers twined in his hair. “So what are you?”

She ducked her head with a shy smile and he felt her weight shift. He saw a tail emerge behind her head. A fish tail.

Oh god, he’d found a mermaid.

“Are you a sailor?” she said.

“What?” He tried to wriggle out from under her, but apparently five feet of fish and woman weighed a lot.

“You look like a sailor,” she said and bit her lip coyly. “Will you be my sailor?”

“Nate?” his dad said again.

“Uh,” Nate said. “Give me a second. I’m not really sure what’s happening.”

“She’s a mermaid, gnat,” Jessie said with a “duh” she didn’t say but he could hear anyway. “They’re always seducing sailors to drag down into their underwater kingdom.”

The mermaid smiled again and nodded. “Wanna come?” she said.

A Writer's Truth

Last night I met with the local writing group at our library and as usual we shared our responses to a writing prompt. One of the things I find amazing about writers is how we can look at the same picture and all see something different. Our work reflects our senses of humor, our backgrounds, our writing styles. Each experience molds and shapes us as writers and only becomes obvious once our words are laid out on the page. So I thought I would share a couple pieces that came from the same inspiration. The picture was our prompt. The first response is mine, and the second, my sister, Arielle’s.

Mirror Reflection

Alex shuffled her feet, heedless of the dew that soaked through her shoes as she made her way across the garden. Her throat burned as she fetched up against the side of the old wishing well, but she fought the tears with everything she’d gained from years of quiet perseverance.

Her fingers gripped the crumbling stone and she leaned over the still water as though she would leap into the depths. Her pale face stared up at her. She dropped a rock into the water, shattering her reflection the way Rob had shattered her that morning.

When the water smoothed, Alex gasped and jerked back. There were two reflections below her now.

She looked up at the figure beside her, only just stifling a scream. Her own face stared back at her, her own eyes slanted in satisfaction, and her own lips quirked in an unpleasant smile.

“What-?” Alex started. “Who are you?”

The other Alex cocked her head. “I am you,” she said. Her eyes narrowed. “The only you.”

She shoved Alex with a vicious grin and Alex stumbled back…over the low stone wall. And down, into the cold and damp.

Above her the other Alex laughed.


I have been many things, and I have been none of them. I’ve been you. When you smile, I smile. When you frown, I frown. When you talk to me, my lips move with yours. I see you, but you don’t see me. You look at me and see yourself. I am you, but only when you’re with me. When you leave, I cannot follow. I am left to wait for your return. Then silently I will show you yourself again. You will hate me for it. You will use me to make yourself better, but I will always tell you you’re not good enough. And you will never know I didn’t want to. It’s only what I was made for.


We both managed to turn out something fairly creepy (and to be fair, we are related, with similar backgrounds and influences), but there were other responses in our group that were amusing, nostalgic or passionate without the darker shading. I liked how some of us saw the girl looking in a mirror, and others saw her looking at her reflection in water. Some saw her as a tomboy, others thought she seemed fragile or abused.

At first, it may seem like there is only one truth here. There is a little girl, well dressed, looking down at her reflection. And this may be the one truth. But there are many stories.

On and On

When shadows creep and fall

Walk on, walk on

Against the wind and tide

Trudge on, trudge on

If you’re ever weak and lonely

Limp on, limp on

When darkness hides the light

Crawl on, crawl on

And the glow of hope is dim

Hold on, hold onCrutch

Inspiration in Sneakers

It's been a while since I've posted a response to a writing prompt, and since I've got a new one in my portfolio, I figured I'd share it with y'all. I met with my local writer's group this week and we all wrote on the same subject: a picture of a man's feet in seriously beat up sneakers. Honestly, I had a hard time with it. Didn't find it as inspiring as I felt like I should have. But I pressed on and came out with something I actually kind of like. Not really sure where I was going with it, but the character seems really interesting.

I'm going to kill the next person who offers me a free meal. Just cause I like to breathe through my toes don't give you the right to think I live in a cardboard box behind the dumpster on Sixth Street. If I could afford those fancy loafers imprisoning your tootsies, I'd rip the toes off those too. I've got to have room to wiggle, got to feel the breeze airing out the spaces between my piggies. Got to evict the fungus before I start charging it rent.

Like I've said before, I can be resentful of the challenges prompts present, but I usually get something out of them. I learn something. I like to think that stretching my brain around problems like this on a regular basis will serve me well the next time I'm staring at my screen suffering from writer's block. If I can find words to write about old beat up shoes, a story that's been haunting me for years shouldn't be a problem, right?

At First Sight

In the spirit of the holiday I have a special post for y'all. This is a short story I wrote back in September as a response to a prompt that said "write something that takes place in a public restroom". I'm not sure how a romance fell out but it did. I think it could use a couple more drafts but the foundation is there. I hope y'all enjoy, and happy valentine's day.  

The door of the restroom swung open. A young woman limped in, her flats shuffling across the tiles and her crutch clicking with each uneven step. She stopped and leaned against the cool wall, looked down at the bridesmaid's dress she wore, and burst into tears.

She should never have introduced them. Kara sniffled and reached into her purse to grab some more tissues. The wads in her fist which she'd been using all night were too soggy with tears and snot to do her any good now. Her fingers found some loose change, a tube of chapstick, and four pens, but no Kleenex.

Dammit. Her nose was leaking like that stupid kitchen faucet she still hadn't fixed. She ducked down to make sure the stalls were empty and limped across to the counter. She winced when she saw her blotchy face reflected in the mirror. That shade of red definitely clashed with the coral of her dress. She turned from the horrifying visage and propped her crutch against the counter so she could snatch up a few paper towels.

Really, this was her fault. She shouldn't have introduced them, she thought again. Or at least she should have refused the dubious honor of standing next to them as they tied the knot. Then she wouldn't have had to come at all and wouldn't have had to watch her best friend marry the only guy who had ever looked past Kara's crutch to see her.

Kara froze as the door to the reception hall swung open, letting in a burst of sound from the party. Oh God, if it was Emily, she'd just go ahead and die on the spot, public restroom or not.

But it wasn't Emily. Her gaze met startled gray eyes in a distinctly masculine face.

Kara squeaked and darted into the back stall, but her drooping foot caught the edge of a tile and she stumbled. Ready to start crying again, this time with frustration, she slammed the door shut and collapsed onto the toilet.

“Oh crap, I'm sorry.” His voice came over the stall door.

“What are you doing in the women's restroom?” she said. Her voice sounded too high, and she concentrated on bringing it back into a register discernible to humans.

“I didn't notice the sign,” he said.

“It's a chick in a dress. How could you not see it?”

“I just didn't.” He paused. “Are you okay?”

She blew out her breath. “I'm fine. Go away.”

“Your face is all red.”

“Gee thanks.”

He didn't apologize but there was an awkward silence where it kind of felt like he wanted to. “I have a confession,” he finally said. “I didn't come in here by accident.”

“You didn't,” Kara said, her voice flat.


There was another pause. This one went on a bit longer. “Are you still there?” he said.

“I'm trying to decide if you're some creepy pervert.”

He laughed. She liked the sound of it ringing off the walls of the restroom. “Not a creepy pervert,” he said. “I swear.” She imagined him holding up his hand as if swearing on a Bible. “I'm Paul. Emily's brother.”

That's right. She'd met him last night at the dress rehearsal, but she'd been so worried about not being bitter and not ruining Emily's wedding that all she remembered of him was a brief impression of light eyes and dark hair. But wait, if he was her brother...

Kara groaned. “Emily sent you in here, didn't she?”

“Yeah.” He sounded kind of resentful and weary at the same time. Guess he didn't like being sent to comfort the third wheel any more than she liked being recognized as the third wheel.

“Well, you can tell her I'm fine. I'm not angry, or upset, or-or anything, all right?”

She heard him shift and it sounded like he was leaning against the counter. “I don't think she expected you to be in here crying,” he said.

“Why else would she send you?”

“Maybe because she thought you could help me.” His voice was quiet.

Kara closed her eyes and pounded her forehead with her fist. Not everything's about you, stupid. Well, maybe if she helped him with whatever problem he had, he would go away and leave her alone. “Why do you need my help?” she said.

“I don't.” His response was too quick and too loud. “I'm fine. Emily's just overprotective, and she thought since we both have disabilities... you know, instant connection.”

Kara sighed. “Why does everyone think that crippled people are automatically attracted to other crippled people?”

“I don't know. It's insulting really.”

“It is.” Kara narrowed her eyes and thought back. She didn't have a great memory of him from the night before, but she knew she would have noticed if he'd been in a wheelchair or had crutches like hers. “Wait,” she said. “I don't remember you having a disability.”

“You're assuming you can see it.”

“So, you mean like vertigo?”

“I mean like PTSD.”

“Oh. Were you in the military?”

“Nothing so heroic,” he said. “I was a hostage in that bank robbery last year.”

“The one on 6th street? Geez, I remember that.”

“Yeah, nothing like being in combat or anything, but it kind of messed me up.”

She was getting better at reading his voice. He sounded embarrassed with something deeper underneath. Shame? “Paul, they kept those hostages locked up in that safe for three nights. And a couple people were shot, weren't they.”

She heard him swallow. “Yeah.”

“I'm not trying to remind you or anything, I'm just saying, that would mess anyone up.”

“Yeah, well, I'm better now I've got Warden. He keeps me sane. I'm usually too worried about him sticking his nose up women's skirts to be worried about myself.”

“Who is Warden and why hasn't he been arrested?” she asked.

“He's my service dog. And most of the girls forgive him once he looks up at them with those big brown eyes.”

“You have a service dog? Why didn't you bring him?”

He paused. “I did.”

She leaned over and looked under the stalls and saw Paul's feet in his dress shoes. Right next to him were four paws and the tip of a wagging tail.

“Sorry, I didn't see him.”

“He's big and slobbery and wears a bright red vest. How could you miss him?”

She heard the smile in his voice and couldn't help smiling in return. “I just did. Besides you startled me.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. So why are you in here instead of out there eating cake?”

Her smile disappeared at the reminder. “I'm being pathetic,” she said, going for a light-hearted tone. “I didn't want to ruin Emily's wedding by bursting into tears during their first dance.”

“You don't approve of the groom?”

“Oh no. I know he's a really great guy. That's the problem.”

“So you're in love with him,” Paul said.

“No.” The stall door made the perfect barrier to hide behind, so she found it easier to say, “I just thought he might be the kind of person who could love me. And those are hard to find.”

“Well, now it just sounds like you're fishing for compliments.”

Kara knew he was trying to lighten her mood, but she'd had a rough couple days and just wanted a moment of self-indulgence. “Oh, that's what it sounds like to you? Well, that's the reality I live with. Every guy I meet I have to wonder if he's going to be one of the ones who only sees my disability. Half of them have a hero complex and the other half get that glazed look right before they run away because I'd be too much work.”

“At least you can leave your house without having some kind of breakdown. Every day I wonder if I'll actually be able to step out the door. At every store I have an argument with myself about whether there are enough exits or too many people inside.”

“But no one knows what's going on in your head,” Kara said. “You can smile and nod at people and they won't be able to tell you have problems. I get judged before I even open my mouth. Everyone can see my weakness as I step out of a car or stand up from a chair.”

“And that's a bad thing? Do you know how long it took me to realize that I actually had a serious condition? This is something treatable, but only if you recognize that it's there. Once I finally acknowledged that I needed help, I had to convince the rest of the world there really was something wrong with me and it wasn't all in my head. You don't have to convince anyone.”

Suddenly, Kara was laughing, the tension and the anger spilling out until she felt loose and free. “Are we arguing about who's disability is more disabling?” she said.

His chuckle was warm. “I guess so. Is it weird that I kind of feel better?”

“Not really. I feel better, too. Maybe Emily knew what she was doing.”

He was quiet while she fished in the toilet paper dispenser for something to wipe her nose. The plastic rattled.

“Drat,” she said.


“It's empty, and I'm out of tissues.”

A package sailed over the stall door, and she reached up to grab it just to keep it from hitting her in the face.  It was one of those pocket size packets of Kleenex.

“Really?” she said, her breath huffing out on a laugh.

“Brother of the bride, you know. I have another confession,” he said. “Emily might have asked me to talk to you, but that's not why I came in here. I've been trying to get up the nerve to ask you to dance all night.”

“So you followed me into the bathroom?”

“I didn't want to lose my chance. I guess I got a little carried away when I realized you were alone and no one would overhear my awkward attempt to ask you out to dinner tomorrow.”

“First it was just a dance, now you want a date too?”

“I wanted a dance cause you're pretty. I want a date because you're interesting and I'm really enjoying our conversation.”

“Hmm. Are you sure you're not one of those guys that only sees the disability.”

“I don't know. It's hard to tell since I haven't actually seen you in a while. Why don't you come out and you can judge?”

“My face might still be splotchy.”

“Warden doesn't mind, do you? He says he doesn't.”

Kara suppressed a giggle and levered herself to her feet. She took a moment to smooth her dress and make sure her mascara hadn't run before she opened the stall door and stepped outside. Paul leaned against the counter, his lips curving up in a smile, a German shepherd grinning at his feet.

“Well?” she said. She turned like a model on a runway, hanging onto the stalls for support. Where had she left her crutch?

He shook his head. “No disabilities. I just see a beautiful woman.” He cocked his head. “Is there hope for me?”

Kara pretended to consider. “What do you think, Warden?”

The dog's tail thumped against the tiles.

“I agree.” She spotted her crutch propped on the counter opposite Paul, and she limped to grab it. Something cold and wet touched the back of her knee, and she felt the back of her skirt lift. She jumped, slipped, and caught herself against the counter with her hand in the sink.

“Warden! Sorry, sorry.” Paul was yanking the shepherd's harness.

Kara laughed. “I suppose you did warn me.”

“What did you agree with?” he asked the dog and then looked up at Kara. “Do I get a dance and a date?”

Kara opened her mouth just as the door opened and an older woman wearing a burnt orange sweater and a lime green skirt swarmed into the restroom.

Paul started guiltily when her eyes widened and she stopped short.

“Paul Jay Sherman. What do you think you're doing in the ladies room?”

“Aunt Phyllis. I was just-”

“You were just leaving, is what. Stop bothering this young woman and get marching.” She pointed to the door, and Kara had to cover her smile.

Warden stepped in front of Paul and leaned against his legs. Paul seemed to soak in the dog's strength and stood up straighter. “Not until I've heard her answer.” He turned to her and held out his hand. “So, what will it be Kara?”

His eyes stayed locked on hers. They didn't stray toward her crutch or her legs.

She placed her hand in his. “A dance then,” she said.

“And dinner?”

She smiled. “And dinner.”

They walked out of the women's restroom, letting Aunt Phyllis seek out a stall in peace.

The restroom door swung open. A young woman limped in, the clicking of her crutch muffled by the fabric of her wedding dress. She stopped by the mirror and took a moment to check her makeup. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a plastic package of Kleenex propped up by the sink. She smiled as she reached for it.

“Kara?” A girl poked her head around the door. “Paul says hurry. Emily's about to start her toast, and he says he can't live through it without moral support.”

Kara curled her fingers around the tissues. “I'm coming,” she said.

“Okay. Oh geez! Warden, no.”

Kara laughed and left the restroom.

Nano Wrap Up

Today is the last day of Nanowrimo so I thought I'd give you guys a rundown on how it went. I was pretty solid with my word-count for the first couple weeks and I even managed to get ahead before Thanksgiving (after four years I know full well that family plus turkey does not equal much writing time). But despite that head-start I somehow hit the second week slump in my fourth week. I managed to reach 50,000 words on Monday but it was an uphill slog. And since my personal goal was to write 75,000 words this month, I didn't quite make it. At least I learned something. I have a very hard time working on two projects at once. Whaddaya know? I'm human after all.

One of my favorite parts of Nanowrimo is the community. My writing partners and I get together once a week at the library and have our own write-ins. Hard at work above are my sister and Rebecca Green Gasper, who was kind enough to answer some questions for us last week along with Susan Oloier. Becca's been one of my critique/writing partners for a couple years now. If you haven't checked her out yet, you should take a look.

So, I'm coming out of this side of November with half of a new novel and about 8,000 words of a devotional (that was supposed to be 25,000, I told you the dual projects thing didn't work, right?). Not bad all things considering, and I'm really looking forward to finishing up The Robber Bridegroom. So far it's been a blast to write. The devotional has been more of a battle but just as rewarding. Looks like I've got my work cut out for me this next year.


Here's a sneak peek at The Robber Bridegroom:

"The building was large and imposing. Until now it had always meant fear and danger to me. Along with the rest of the Reaper’s crew, I had avoided it for the last ten years. I swallowed and mounted the steps. One, two, three, four, five steps separated my past from my future. Such a small distance for such a huge leap of faith.

I couldn’t keep myself from turning one last time to glance behind me. Across the street, Clarence and Aalan stood watching. Clarence’s lips were twisted in a contemptuous sneer but Aalan’s eyes were wide with horror and disbelief. Like the Reaper, he didn’t believe I would do it. He didn’t think I had it in me to throw away my whole life, everything I’d ever known, all the family I had, just for an ideal.

This was the end. If I took this step, I’d be hunted. I’d go from being the Reaper’s employee to being his next target. No forgiveness, no leniency, no second thoughts. I’d made my decision a long time ago but this was the moment it would become real.

I lifted my chin and stepped into the police station."

Accessible Excerpts: Full Circle

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. Merry and her companions encounter a creature who has the ability to make them relive their worst memories.


An invisible hand reached out and grabbed hold of my mind, dragging me deep into the darkest corners of my own thoughts.

My horse was leaping, a move I could feel was faulty even as she left the ground. She stumbled as she landed, and my foot came loose from my stirrup, my weight shifting and the edge of the gully rising to meet me as I fell.

A darkness I remembered all too well, the black behind my eyelids as I refused to wake, refused to face what I already feared might be true.

“I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid she will never leave this bed again. You may as well get used to it now. It will make it easier in the years to come as she realizes she will never live her life as a normal person would.”


“I'm here, Merry-child.” His voice was broken, and I opened my eyes to see why. His face hovered over mine, his eyes red-rimmed with pain and exhaustion.

“Papa, I can't feel my legs.” I tried to sit up but my balance was all funny, and Papa put his hand against my shoulder to keep me from trying anything more. I fought growing panic and threw the blanket back so I could see my legs and feet. They were there, everything was where it was supposed to be, but I couldn't feel anything below my waist.

“Papa, what's wrong? I can't move.” I tried. I tried harder than I'd ever tried anything in my life. The desire was there, I was doing exactly as I had the day before. The signal was leaving my mind but it was blocked. I told my toes to wiggle. They didn't. I told my knee to bend. It remained limp against the bed linens.


“I'm sorry, Merry. I'm sorry.” There were tears coursing down his cheeks. I couldn't look at him; I could only turn my face to the wall and scream. The bed sagged as he sat beside me and gathered me into his arms. His chest heaved with his sobs, but I couldn't tell under my own shrieks of pain.

I could feel two sharp personalities present in the back of my mind looking on in horror as I relived the moment I'd realized I would never walk again. I don't know how I recognized Zev and Whyn. There were others there too, though less distinct.

This wasn't anything like the memories I'd relived with Zev before. I'd never given him anything so personal or painful, and they had never been this vivid. I struggled to regain control, like I did with Zev

With a gasp I was back in my chair, feeling like I'd been thrown there, the frigid air flooding my lungs and making me cough. Zev crouched, quivering beside me, holding his head. Someone was crying, and I turned to find Lans holding a distraught Vira-we to his chest. I looked for Whyn and found him still sitting opposite me. His hands shook and his eyes were glassy, but he met my gaze.

Zev collected himself and stood, raising defiant eyes to glare at the creature who had accosted us. “You have gone too far, Elder. In attempting to prove how wrong I am, you broke a sacred trust. You had no right to take those memories from these people. You fed on their experiences without permission and for that you are no better than the Vachryn.”

“These humans do not deserve the respect we grant our own kind.”

“They are thinking, rational beings like us. Some are evil yes, but some are noble and worthy. These,” Zev said gesturing to Whyn and I. “These are mages. Like the ones we used to partner with. How dare you say they are not worthy?”

“These are the least worthy of all,” the elder said, his voice raised. “They aren’t born with the magic inside like the enchanters of old, so they steal it with cunning tricks. The enchanters would never have let their Realm fall like this. They would have weeded out pain and suffering from the human race long ago.”

Saints, the arrogance in his voice was almost tangible. I wanted to grab it and shove it down his throat. “You idiot,” I said.

“Excuse me?” His incredulous tone boomed with an intensity that willed me to back down, but I stood my ground.

“We shouldn't inflict pain on others, and I'm sorry there are those who do so willingly. But if we avoid challenges and difficult situations just because we might experience pain how will we ever grow? Suffering tempers us. You feed on memories, experiences, life. Life is nonexistent without challenge, without pain. What you seek is only the shadow of life.”

The misty figure leaned down to look at me closer. “And would you say you are tempered by your suffering? Are you made stronger by your horrible experiences?”

“Yes,” I said and swallowed. I hadn't admitted it to myself yet and it was wrenching to do so here with so many listening, but the truth of it swelled up through me. “I would not be who I am today if I hadn't gone through everything that I have. I am grateful I've had a chance to grow and appreciate the things that have made me stronger. I pity you in your safe, comfortable existence, always running, never standing to fight and grow.”

“You pity me?” he asked, his voice rising with disbelief.

“Yes, I do,” I said. “The next time you want to dig in my memories you will ask first. Is that clear?”


I had a really hard time writing this scene. The first couple weeks after my injury are very blurry due to pain, drugs, and a dizzying procession of doctors and therapy. So I don’t actually have any memory of a specific moment that I became aware that I couldn’t walk anymore. Which made it excessively difficult to portray how Merry felt in her own moment of realization. I think she ended up with something like an entire year’s worth of my emotions crammed into about five minutes of story.

I wanted to bring Merry full circle with this scene. This is the moment where we see that not only has she accepted herself and her limitations, but she sees how strong she is. She can finally acknowledge how her experiences have shaped her to be who she is.


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

AE: Easier Said Than Done                                                Not All that Different

Accessible Excerpts: Easier Said Than Done

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. After working with the Disciples of Ammon to fight the Vachryn, Merry feels more confident about herself and her abilities, but her work places her back in the situations which caused her so much trouble before, and she can feel her old mindset waiting to trip her again.


I smiled and accepted the thanks along with the others, but inside I was shaking. Too many people crowded me, their curious and sometimes pitying looks sending barbs into my heart. There was nothing nasty or rude behind their expressions, but it felt like I was right back at Madam Francine’s, with the girls giggling about me behind my back.

I'd thought I was done with that part of my life. The Disciples didn’t look at me with those all too familiar expressions. I’d thought I wouldn’t mind them anymore. But here I was, with the old mask creeping back across my face to hide the feelings that welled up inside.

Nothing had changed. I'd just been avoiding the realities of my life for the last couple months.

I wheeled myself out of the crowded house and into the crisp night air. I stopped at the edge of the light spilling from the windows and tilted my head back so I could see the sky.

A step behind me made me turn, and I saw Whyn coming toward me from the house.

“You left the party,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” I said, avoiding his eyes.

“No, you're not. I saw the way you looked back there. What's wrong? I thought things were better.”

“It's nothing, okay? I just don't like people.”

“You like us just fine,” he said, not letting it go. “You like most of the Disciples.”

I looked away. “They don't act like I'm some kind of abomination.”

Whyn nodded. “We treat you the same as everyone else. They treat you like you're different.”

“It's not their fault,” I said, realizing I believed that. “They're not used to seeing someone like me.”

“If you understand, then why were you so upset?”

“I can’t help it. I understand, but I still don't like it. I don't like who I am when I'm around other people.”

“Who are you?”

“Someone who’s always angry. I want to be mad at everyone else in the world because they can't possibly know what I'm going through. I hate them for not understanding. I hate them for being able to do the things I can't, but in the end I hate myself more.” Tears pricked my eyes, and I blinked hard, trying to get rid of them.

“Marion.” There was a catch in his voice that made my heart jump. He crouched in front of me so he could take my hands and look straight in my eyes. “You shouldn't hate yourself.”

“But I do,” I said. “I shouldn't feel that way. I know better, but I can't help it.”

The light behind me illuminated his face. There was no pity there, only sympathy and understanding. “I think I know what you mean,” he said. “There really isn't any kind of shouldn't or should when it comes to feelings. They are what they are. But sometimes we can steer them in another direction. When we first met you, I concentrated on one thing, and that was finding and destroying the Vachryn. I was so single-minded I shut out everything else, including my friends and everything I'd ever enjoyed doing.

“I didn't even realize what I was doing until Lans told me they were going to leave me at the Refuge the next time they went out hunting. My whole life had revolved around this one thing and suddenly it was taken from me. Without it I had nothing, and I realized I didn't like what I'd become. You said I was holding onto my grief to avoid living. Called me a coward.”

I gasped. “I said no such thing.”

He smiled. “No, but that’s what I heard because that’s what I was.” He pulled something out of his pocket and looked at it for a long time. When he passed it to me, I saw it was a child's jumping jack. The paint was worn thin and the wood was smooth, as if it was handled every day.

“That's Gisa's,” he said. “I gave it to her the day she died. I used to hold it when I got upset or overwhelmed. When the memories were too much, feeling it under my fingers would help calm me down. After you told me to let the wounds heal and leave grief behind, I used it to remind myself to be patient. Now every time I hold it I remember the life I'm supposed to be living and the person I want to be. It's helped me get there. You helped me, Marion.”

I couldn't look away from his earnest eyes, and my breath caught in my chest. His hand pressed the toy into my palm.

“Maybe it can help you now,” he said. “Any time you start feeling like you're that person you don't like, hold it and take a deep breath. Concentrate on it rather than the irrational reactions and when you have yourself under control, remember who you want to be.”

I didn't know what to say. His confession and his gift had left me breathless with emotion. I didn't want to consider the way my heart pounded against my ribs, or the way the light caught the white streaks in his eyes.

He squeezed my hand and stood. I watched as he walked back into the house, leaving me sitting in the dark holding a child's toy.


I’ve had a really hard time explaining what I was feeling the first year or two after my injury, but Merry’s confession comes pretty close. It’s frightening and depressing to hate the complete stranger who opens the door for you just because he can’t possibly know what you’re going through. Maybe part of it was that I felt so isolated. I was facing something none of my friends or my family had ever had to deal with and in a strange, twisted way I felt entitled to my pain and anger. Look, I have a right to be pissy, so just back off and let me wallow. But since then, I’ve realized I’m not the only one who’s ever hated themselves for something they can’t control, whether it’s frightening emotions, mental illness, or just the shitty situations life sometimes deals out.

I don’t have any pithy advice for the people who feel like this. I don’t know what it was that helped me crawl out of the mire. It probably wasn’t any one thing but several. I do know that at some point I realized if I hated who I was, there was absolutely no reason I should keep being that person. Easier said than done, right? But it’s the first step. Knowing you have a choice. And knowing you’re not alone.


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

AE: Worst Case Scenario


Accessible Excerpts: Worst Case Scenario

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. Merry and her companions are still on their way to the Refuge when they are attacked by bandits.


I'd seen the three of them in action before and figured the fight would be short. Five bandits wouldn't even come close to a couple Vachryn, but it soon became clear these men were well trained. Maybe they were mercenaries or deserters from the royal army. Whatever they were, they worked as a team as they surrounded Lans, Vira and Whyn, attacking them on all sides.

I whipped around, wondering how I could help, and grabbed the one thing that came to hand. When the bandit in front of me came into range, I swung as hard as I could. The hot frying pan clanged against the man's head, and our dinner went flying through the air, only half cooked. My victim screamed and stumbled against me, tipping my chair over so that I was flung to the ground.

My heart was already beating fast, but now it slammed against my ribs, as if trying to leap from my chest. Boots stomped around me, missing my fingers, and blades clashed above my head. I tried to crawl out of the way of the fighting, using my arms to pull myself along the ground. My skirt clung to the dead-weight of my legs, catching against leaves and bushes and slowing me down.

Another man stumbled into my victim, and they both fell across my overturned chair. There was a heart-rending crash, and they rolled away from the wreckage they'd caused.

I gaped at the pile of broken wood and upholstery while a wheel spun in the air at a crazy angle.

“Whyn,” Lans called, pressed hard against a tree by the bandit leader. “Get Marion! Get her away!”

Whyn grabbed his attacker's arm as it came around to slash him and sent a bolt of energy into the other man's body. The bandit fell down screaming, and Whyn's eyes snapped up, searching for me. His gaze found what was left of my chair and he went white.

I cried out and he finally saw me lying in an awkward pile on the leaf mold. He dashed over and hoisted me up, hugging me to his chest, before he strode off into the trees.

As the sounds of fighting faded away, I turned my face into his shoulder and convinced myself I wasn’t going to cry. It was just a chair. It was a tool. My father was not manifest in the wonderful contraption he'd made just for me.


First off, I’d like to point out I wrote this scene about six years ago when I first envisioned the story that would eventually become By Wingéd Chair – way before Tangled came out.

This idea came from a couple different places. From the very beginning I wanted to see what it would be like to get a character in a wheelchair through a fight scene. She’s been in a couple conflicts so far but nothing as physical as this, and as you can see, she doesn’t make it out unscathed.

Also, with character driven fiction we like to ask the question “what’s the worst thing that could happen to this character?” For Merry, that would be losing control of her own movement, having to rely on others for even the basest necessities. She’s been doing pretty well with the anger thing, so let’s see how she reacts to this new challenge. It’s evil, I know, but a character can’t truly prevail unless there’s something to prevail over.


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

AE: A Risky Kind of Fun                                                     AE: Easier Said Than Done

Accessible Excerpts: A Risky Kind of Fun

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. On their way to the Refuge of Ammon, Merry and her companions stop to help out some villagers.


“Why are there wheels on your chair?”

I jerked in surprise. It was the bold little girl from before, standing beside me and frowning at my chair. “Excuse me?”

“Your chair has wheels on it. It looks funny.”

My spine stiffened and my face went blank. What an impertinent child. My first reaction was to say something sharp that would tell the girl I wasn't interested in answering rude questions. Then I saw Whyn watching me, waiting for my response.

I took a couple deep breaths and tried to look at it from her perspective. My chair really was strange. And most invalids were confined to their homes, so she wouldn’t be able to guess what was wrong with me. Her question wasn't rude; it was the result of someone who wanted to know the answer and wasn't afraid to ask. Huh, kind of like me.

“It's because my legs don't work like yours do,” I said. “This helps me get around.”

“Oh,” she said. “Is it fun?”

“What?” Was it fun to be bound forever to a chair? My tone of surprised incredulity would have scared off a lesser child. But not her.

“Is it fun?” She pointed at my wheels. “I bet they go fast. Like the rich people's carriages. We had a goat cart once and we got it to go really fast down hills.”

“I-I don't know. I’ve never really thought of it as fun before.”

Whyn had a really strange look on his face. If he laughed, I was going to punch him.

“Well, come on, you should try it.” She dragged at one of my arms until I followed her. At the end of the village, the road sloped down a gentle hill, and the girl stopped at the top.

“We sled down this one in the winter. It's not as good as Deadman's Hill, but that's half a day's walk.”

I was thinking this was plenty steep enough, and we didn't have to try anything called “Deadman”.

I cleared my throat. “What if it's too fast?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“You steer with the wheels, right?” she said, grasping the mechanics of my chair. “You can just grab them to slow down.” She climbed up on my lap, apparently coming along for the ride.

“But once I'm down there how will I get back up the hill?”

“Easy, I'll push you.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “Are you always this good at solving problems?”

She grinned over her shoulder. “Da says I'm either a blessing or a menace. He hasn't decided which.”

I stared down the hill, slightly daunted by my precocious passenger. I could just imagine Whyn standing behind me with raised eyebrows. I couldn't back down now, not with him watching. I had the fleeting hope if something went wrong, he knew a spell that would keep me from plummeting to my death. An image flashed across my mind: this stretch of road, except now it was called “Deadgirl's Lane”.

I took what was surely my last breath and pushed myself over the crest of the hill. We picked up speed, and the wind of our passing blew my hair out behind me like a war banner. My wheels clattered, and the chair shuddered as it shot down the packed dirt of the road. My passenger flung her arms out to the sides and shrieked with laughter. I closed my eyes and hung on for dear life, longing to grab the wheels to slow down but not daring to. My gloves protected my hands, but even they wouldn’t be able to withstand this kind of friction.

We hit the bottom of the slope and rolled to a stop.

“You can open your eyes now.”

I did and was a little surprised to find myself still among the living.

“See, wasn't that fun?”

I had to wait until I no longer felt like I was going to have a heart attack before I could answer. But then a grin plucked at my lips, and I found myself saying, “Actually, yes.” And, in a sort of death-defying way, it was. She hopped off and started pushing me back up the hill.

We were greeted by a chorus of voices. “Was it fast, Sara?”

“Faster than sledding, but bumpier,” she answered.

“All life and limbs still attached?” Whyn asked.


“Why do you sound so wary?”

“Because I think I want to go again.”


I like to find the joy and the fun in life’s little setbacks. Every now and then there are some advantages to disability and wheelchairs are one of them. It is a risky kind of fun – I’ve learned through personal experience there’s a reason for the seatbelts on wheelchairs – but what’s the point in having wheels if you can’t fly down a few hills?

This is a big step for Merry in her emotional journey. Just being able to stand back from her pain and see how she might look to others is a huge difference. And being able to see something other than anger and bitterness in her situation shows how far she’s come.


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

AE: A Choice                                                                          AE: Worst Case Scenario


Accessible Excerpts: A Choice

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. Afer finding her home in shambles and her father almost dead, Merry travels with Lans, Vira-we and Whyn to the Refuge of Ammon. Whyn is making a concerted effort to understand Merry and help her through pain.


“You've never had a hug from a friend?”

I looked away. “I've never had a friend.”

“Maybe because you're always making that face.”

I turned to glare at him. “What?”

“You go all cold and angry. Your eyes are saying 'stay away from me'. You don't do it to Lans or Vira, but almost every time you talk to me you look like that.”

I blinked. No one had ever said anything about my mask before. No one had ever realized that it was a mask, that there was a real person underneath.

“Look, you don't have to tell me anything. I know I haven't been all that nice to you so far, but I’m trying to do better. I thought maybe you were sad, so I tried to make you feel better, but now you look like you want to bite my head off. What did I do?”

“You didn't do anything,” I said. I wouldn't have responded at all, but I was worried about the fragility of our new relationship. We'd been getting along, and it looked like I would be the one to ruin it if I didn't at least try to explain. “The face... it's a defense.”

“Against what?”

“Against pity.”

“You don't want pity?”

“No,” I said, wishing I was in my chair so I could run him over with it. “Would you?”

“I guess not.”

“Just because I can't walk anymore doesn't mean I'm useless.”

“I don't think you're useless.”

“Well, a lot of people do. I can't go anywhere without someone staring, or telling their children to feel sorry for me, or something. I want to keep people from coming up and saying stupid things, like asking if I need help.”

“Wait,” he said and shook his head a little. “You're angry because people want to help you?”

“No, that's not-” I took a deep breath and thought about how to explain the rage. “I'm angry I need help. I shouldn't need it. I should be able to do everything by myself, like everyone else in the world.”

He cocked his head to one side, and the corner of his mouth turned up. “You know that's kind of silly,” he said.

My jaw dropped, and I stared at him. I'd never told anyone about the anger before, and when I finally did, he laughed at me?

He looked over and saw my face. “No, wait, hear me out. I'm saying it's silly to be ashamed to ask for help. No one can do everything. I'm shorter than most men.” His ears turned pink. Funny, I’d never thought of that shade of red as endearing before. “I can't always reach the books on the top shelf of the library, so I have to ask Lans to get them for me. I don't particularly like it, but it's who I am; I'm not ashamed of it.”

“I bet Lans has never had to ask for help in his life,” I said, crossing my arms, but I was surprised when Whyn actually laughed.

“You wouldn't win any money with that gamble. Lans can't read Valerian.”

I raised an eyebrow. “But he speaks it so well.”

“Speaks it yes, but he’s been too busy to learn to read and write it. He's not ashamed of it, but if we get a missive or have to send one, he gets Vira-we or me to do it.”

“Oh.” Big strong Lans had to ask for help? It made my concerns seem a little ridiculous.

“So, let me see if I have this straight,” Whyn continued. “You don't want to have to ask for help, and you don’t like change.”

I pursed my lips. I should have known Lans would blab to his partners.

“Basically, you hate feeling out of control. But it sounds to me like your problem-” He made a vague gesture at my legs. “Is controlling you.”


“Well, you're letting it get the better of you. If it’s always making you worried or angry, then it's the one in control of the situation... hypothetically speaking. If you let it go, accept there are some things you'll always need help with, then you can concentrate on the things you can do, the things that make you happy and feel in control.”

I let out the breath I'd been holding. Through most of the conversation I'd wanted to hit him with something, but now I took a moment to think about what he was saying. Maybe the reason I was so miserable all the time was because I was only thinking about the things I couldn't do. His reasoning made sense and struck a chord within me.

There was still a piece of me that was resentful. I didn't want him thinking he knew everything and could fix the problem just like that, but maybe his idea was valid.

“Perhaps...perhaps you're right. But you do realize that's not something that's going to happen overnight.”

“Of course not. It's a decision you're going to have to make, probably every day for the rest of your life. I imagine it'll be really hard, but it might be worth it.”

Could it be? By doing it my way, I spent most of the time angry and miserable. So much so I didn't want to be called Merry anymore. Did I want to be miserable for the rest of my life? Well, the answer to that was easy. No, I didn't.


I had this conversation with my husband maybe two years after my injury. His words seemed harsh at the time. I was letting my injury control me? I finally realized he was telling me I had a choice. I could choose to focus on the things that made me miserable. Or I could move on and find joy in the things I can do, the things I'm good at. It's a thought that changed the way I look at my injury, the way I look at life.

The choice may be easy but the practical application is a lot more difficult. Like Whyn says, it's a choice that has to be made every day. I was ready to accept the difficulty. But is Merry?


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

AE: Familiar Struggles                                                      AE: A Risky Kind of Fun

Accessible Excerpts: Familiar Struggles

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. Merry and her rescuers are a day away from her home.


Lans came and sat on his heels beside me while I finished tying back my hair.

“Merry,” he said, his eyes serious. “I have to ask you a question you're not going to like.”

I wrinkled my nose. “That's not a very nice way to say good morning.”

“No, but it's necessary. Merry, is everything all right at home?”

I raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, does your father…does he hurt you?”

My jaw dropped, and I snapped it shut as soon as I realized I must look like the catfish Papa brought home on summer days. I started to answer, but Lans went on.

“Because if he does, you don't have to go back to him. You could come to the Refuge, and the abbot would protect you.”

I shook my head. “That’s not- Why would you think that?”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, and I was struck with the thought that I’d never seen him uncomfortable before. He was uncomfortable now. “We were worried you didn't want to go home. You've cried yourself to sleep every night you've been with us.”

Heat flooded my cheeks and my teeth clenched. Damn. I hadn't been expecting that. What was wrong with him? Why would he even bring something like that up? I gathered my anger around me like armor.

“I don't see how that's any of your business,” I said.

Lans shrugged. “Maybe it's not, but I wanted to make sure I wasn't bringing you back to someone who might have hurt you.”

My shoulders relaxed, and I let the defensiveness slip from my face. “Papa would never hurt me,” I said. “We're all each other has. I've missed him this past year.”

Lans finally smiled. “Sounds like I was dead wrong then. I'm all right with that. So you’re looking forward to returning home?”

“Of course. I worry about him when I'm gone. He's a bit of a genius, and sometimes he gets so carried away he forgets to take care of himself.”

“You said he studies the Vachryn. Is he a mage then?”

“Mage, engineer. He even dabbles in invention. He built my chair.”


“After my accident, the doctors said I would never be able to leave my bed again. Papa didn't think that was acceptable so he came up with ways to help me move around by myself. He put wheels on Mama's favorite chair and took all the rugs out of the house. He built ramps over short flights of stairs and a magical box that carries me up to the second floor. He was my only reason to keep living, and he made living possible.”

“Obviously he loves you very much. So why do you cry?”

My eyes narrowed, but he didn’t look away, seeing through every wall and barrier I tried to put up. I’d hoped I had distracted him, but he wasn't going to let this go. And I'd thought Whyn was insufferable.

I crossed my arms over my chest and looked away. “I don't like change,” I said. “I don't like not knowing what the day is going to bring, how I'm going to get around.”

“What's changed?”

“Look around. Does this look like Benevere? Or like a baronet's manor? Those are the only two places I've ever been. I know how life works there. Not here. This,” I gestured to the trees and the wilderness surrounding us. “This is scary.”

It was really only one of the reasons I cried myself to sleep every night, but I didn’t have to tell him everything.

“So you like to know what's coming,” Lans said. “That's easy enough to understand, and it's easy enough to work with. Here’s what's going to happen over the next two days. Today we'll ride. If we're attacked again, we'll protect you. If you need help, we'll provide it, no questions asked. Tomorrow, we'll reach your home, and you'll be back where you feel comfortable. How's that sound?”

I blinked. “That sounds...uh...fine.”

He patted my hand and left just as Vira-we came back into camp.

Was it really that easy? No, but it certainly made it easier to think of things that way. I had an escort. I had help if I needed it. And I'd be home tomorrow.


I believe I've mentioned I'm a worrier. I could be out on a nice date with my husband, and instead of thinking about the food or the company, I'm worrying about how I'll stand up or how I'll navigate the crowded room to get to the bathroom. New places and experiences are stressful until I've worked through every possible difficulty or outcome in my head. Having someone there who knows how I operate and who knows exactly how to offer the help I'm so loath to accept makes the anxiety more manageable. Josh (and select friends and family) provide this function for me. Lans provides it for Merry.

Merry has a hard time putting it into words since this is the first time she's had to admit it to anyone, but she isn't just afraid of change. She's afraid of the unknown, she's afraid of losing her hard won control. Merry's reasons are unique, but who hasn't been afraid of these things at one point or another. At every turn I'm surprised by just how familiar her struggles are despite her differences.


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

AE: A Gentleman's View                                                            AE: A Choice

Accessible Excerpts: A Gentleman's View

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. Whyn takes a moment to assess Merry and her place with him and his partners.


A stab of impatience shot through Whyn. He glared at the dark shape of the chair which was causing him so much misery. The thing was such a strange shape. The seat itself and the cushion looked like an arm chair that wouldn't be out of place in his mother's parlor or beside the fire in his father's study. But instead of legs, there was a pair of large wheels attached to an axle and a smaller pair of wheels in the front to keep the chair balanced. Merry’s feet would rest on a plate that stretched between the front wheels.

He heard blankets stirring and looked over to see Merry had finally woken up. After everyone else had already started the day. Patience, he told himself. It was only just now dawn, and she couldn't possibly be used to the hours he and his partners kept.

She pushed herself up to a sitting position and rearranged her legs so she could be comfortable. He studied her movements. It wasn’t just that she couldn’t walk. Even sitting on the ground looked hard, since she couldn't use her legs for balance, and she had to move them with her hands to get situated.

When she had propped herself up, she ran her fingers through her hair and uttered a cry of dismay. She pulled out the ribbon that held it and fumbled her brush out of her belongings. A smile tugged at Whyn’s lips. The curls tumbled around her face in complete disarray. His sisters had looked much the same after waking up in the morning. Toryn had never let anyone see her before she had fixed her hair.

The sudden memory caught him off guard, and he grimaced at the pain it caused.

Of course, that was when Merry turned around and realized he'd been watching her. She gasped in indignation and whirled away from him again.

He swallowed hard and had to look away. Her dark hair was shiny from her furious brushing, and the early morning sun picked out streaks of auburn in it. If she was just a little shorter, he could have been looking at Gisa and not Merry.

When he gathered his courage to face her again, she had tied her loose curls back in a braid and was pulling her chair closer. His brow furrowed and he wondered what she was doing as she grabbed the seat in one hand and the armrest with the other. With a tremendous heave, she pulled her torso up and across the seat, but he could see it was going to be hard to complete the maneuver.

“May I help you, Miss Janson?” The thought hadn’t even formed before the words left his mouth.

“No,” she said, gasping for breath. “I can do it myself.” She glared at him over her shoulder.

Humph, he thought. I was just trying to be nice. He scowled as he watched her. He didn't think it was possible, but after a lot of work, she did manage to pull herself all the way up until she could plop back into the seat. She was sweaty and panting, but when she looked at him, he saw her nose go higher in the air as if saying 'see, I told you I could do it'. He tipped his hat to her, giving her a sour grin, and left to find Vira-we and Lans.


This is the first time we've had the chance to see Merry from another character's point of view. I really like first person. I like the fact that the reader sits in Merry's head, hearing her thoughts, seeing what she's feeling, but I also wanted to compare how she sees herself with how her companions see her.

So Whyn takes a minute to watch her, study her movements, and I'm hoping that we get a better sense of him through his observations. His impatience comes from his own hurt, not revulsion or prejudice, and even in the midst of his pain, he is still a gentleman.

Unfortunately, the only thing Merry hates worse than having to ask for help, is having it offered when she really doesn't need it. Maybe something she needs to work on.


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

AE: Blinders                                                                             AE: Familiar Struggles

Accessible Excerpts: Blinders

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. This passage comes directly after last week's excerpt. Merry is still getting used to traveling with Lans, Vira-we, and Whyn.


I tried to ignore Whyn and wheeled myself closer to Vira-we's pile of blankets. From there I could lean down and tumble off the chair and onto the ground. Down was easy. Getting back up, however, was going to be the problem.

I suppressed a grimace when I realized I’d have to sleep in my damp clothes. Ick.

Before I rolled over, I caught Whyn's pained expression out of the corner of my eye. I turned my back on him and curled up as small as I could. What was with him, anyway? When I tried to talk to him, he was downright mean, and he kept giving me these funny looks, like the mere sight of me gave him indigestion. I couldn’t help it if I made people uncomfortable, but I wished they would keep their awkwardness to themselves. It wasn't my job to always smooth things over.

His contempt was excruciating. Whyn was the mage. His good opinion meant so much to me, even though I'd just met him. I'd spent most of my life learning every spell anyone could teach me. But if Whyn was so disgusted by me, what would the mages at the University think?

What did it matter? I hated him. I hated them all.

I waited until the others had settled for the night and Vira-we's breathing was slow and steady behind me, before I let the tears trickle down my face. It was easy to sob without noise. I'd had a lot of practice, after all.


Ooo, lots of goodies in this passage. Something I've noticed about Merry this early in the story is how self-absorbed she is in her misery. She's frustrated and she's bitter, and right now, it's easier for her to continue on that way, so she does. Whyn has his own issues and reasons for those “funny looks”, but to Merry, they are clearly about her. She and Whyn clash so spectacularly and misunderstand so much about each other. Neither of them is blameless, but they're each going to have to move past their own problems in order to see the rest of the world.

Pain can give us blinders so all we see is our own suffering. It can also give us an insight into the suffering of others. I know that when I'm hurting I tend to only see myself, and I have to make a conscious effort to move away from that self-absorption and see that my pain is not only not the most important thing going on, it's not even a drop in the bucket compared to the pain of those around me. I hope that in the future I can remember that.


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

AE: Some Essentials                                                          AE: A Gentleman's View

Accessible Excerpts: Some Essentials

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. There are two scenes here. The first takes place after Merry has decided to travel with her rescuers and the second is that same day just a few hours down the road.


With surprising gentleness, Lans slipped his hands under my legs and behind my back and lifted me into the air. I stifled a gasp. I'd been lifted by many men: the servants at my father's house, the servants at the school. They had all grunted and hoisted me like a sack of flour. None had lifted me with the ease of immense strength, nor to the height of a tree branch. Lans's arms closed around me, and I felt like a knight as he sat atop his warhorse. Safe, untouchable.


I looked around at the clearing with trepidation. I don't know why I expected a hotel. These didn't seem like the kind of people who would bother with a hotel. But I'd never spent the night outdoors. It hadn't even occurred to me that we might.

I could do this. Everyone else in the world did, why couldn’t I?

The three of them set about making camp with an ease that made me realize they'd been together a long time. Lans erected a canvas tarp so we wouldn’t have to sleep in the rain, while Vira-we laid out their bedrolls, and Whyn built the fire

After dinner, I decided I'd put some things off for long enough, and no matter how embarrassing it was, I needed to take care of them. I inched my chair a little closer to the other woman in our party.

“Vira-we,” I whispered. “Could you help- I mean, I have to go- I mean, I know there's no water closet, but…” My face burned as I stuttered to a stop.

I didn't have to say any more. Vira-we smiled and stood up. “Of course. We'll be back in a minute, boys.”

She helped me push my chair through the underbrush until we were out of sight of the camp. It wasn't at all what I was used to, but Vira-we and I seemed to manage all right.


I've included the first excerpt because I feel I should explain something. Eventually Merry is carried by all three of her companions. However, I want to point out that this only works because all three are warriors. They have the strength to pull this off. Even Whyn, the scholar, has spent the last two years running around the woods doing his share of the manual labor. Just wanted to say that I recognize carrying around over a hundred pounds of dead weight is a little implausible for most people. You'll notice even Lans, Vira, and Whyn can only carry Merry short distances. Not really an important point, I know, but one that comes from personal experience.

As for the second excerpt... I'm a worrier. I obsess over little things sometimes. And I'll admit that every time we're in the mountains I've worried about the bathroom situation. I don't believe every author who writes about characters with disabilities needs to tell us exactly how they go to the bathroom (seriously, it's not that complicated, use your imagination), but I did want to show that I had given thought to the fact that victorian-ish era + wilderness + wheelchair = headscratch. Details aren't required but I'm thinking Merry and Vira found a log that would work nicely. Also I think this shows some growth for Merry who has a very hard time asking for help even with essentials.


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

AE: Emotional Baggage                                                                         AE: Blinders

Accessible Excerpts: Emotional Baggage

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. After a run-in with some monsters, Merry has accepted help from Lans, Vira-we and Whyn. But she and Whyn have already gotten off on the wrong foot.

“Here, mushka, I'll lift you.”

I looked up at Lans. He was holding out his arms. “Lift me where?”

“Onto a horse. The chair has to stay here.”

I felt my stomach crawl into a knot, and I swallowed. “What? No, I need it.”

“No wagon,” Whyn reminded me from the other side of his horse.

Panic crept up my numb legs and settled below my heart. I lost control over my face, and my icy protection fell away. I shook my head. “Then I'm not coming.”

“I don't believe this,” Whyn said.

“You can't take my chair away.” The words were torn out of me. “I can't move without it. I can't even crawl.”

I'd never admitted to anyone how I felt without the bulky contrivance my father had invented for me, and I realized how close the tears were to the surface. If I didn't calm down and get the mask in place, I'd never be able to cover up the confession I'd just made. I took a shuddering breath.

“Here, lass.” Lans handed me a clean handkerchief. He didn't tell me not to cry, or to calm down. He didn't utter false reassurances. He just solved the most immediate problem. I used the square of linen to dab at my damp eyes and nose. Maybe it would look like I was wiping away the rain.

“We can bring it,” Vira-we said.

I looked at the quiet tribeswoman and hoped the gratitude leaking out from under the cold defensiveness wasn't apparent in my expression.

“Nara can drag it behind her. We Adhahi do it with our tents, and she's trained for it.”

“We'll go slower,” Whyn said.

“We'd already be going slower,” Lans reminded him. “Will Nara be able to carry both of you and the chair?”

Vira-we was already pulling rope from her packs. “At the pace we'll be going? Of course. And Ax has all he can handle with you and that greatsword, so don't even volunteer.”

I noticed how they didn't suggest putting me with Whyn.

Vira-we started tying ropes to the strange straps on her saddle, and Lans held out his arms again. He didn't ask if I needed help; he was just there waiting to provide what I needed. For a moment, I didn't know how to handle that. I hated having to ask for help, and I hated when people offered it to me when I didn’t need it. But to have my needs anticipated, without drawing attention to my handicap... somehow that was better. I let a smile peek through before I covered it with my usual hostility.


As I go through this series, I've noticed it's harder and harder to separate scenes that deal with Merry's disability and scenes that deal with the emotional baggage that comes with her disability. To me, they're the same. You can't have one without the other so they're kind of a package deal. There are plenty of places like this one where I'm not trying to get across how Merry walks (or doesn't walk) or the specific physical problems and limitations that she encounters. I'm trying to give you a glimpse inside her thoughts, showing how her limitations have affected and even warped her thinking.

Here, Merry is confronted with the possibility of losing her chair, and the thought terrifies her. So much so that she looses control of her carefully cultivated mask. I think her reaction is perfectly natural at this point. The chair is her anchor and her freedom all in one. It's loss would be devastating. Hmm, perhaps this is something to explore a little more later. This is also the first glimpse we have of people who can help her without making her feel inferior. I'll just go ahead and come out with it. Lans is one of my favorite characters.


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

AE: Common Experiences                                                       AE: Some Essentials

Accessible Excerpts: Common Experiences

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. Merry is on her way home after events in Benevere have forced her departure.


The train platform cleared as people ran from the weather. It was just rain. Did they think they were going to melt? I looked around our stop. The town was no more than a way-point on the train line. A few houses and a hotel were clustered around the tiny station. As if mimicking the buildings, a couple young men waiting for the train had sought shelter under the eaves of the ticket office.

One of them looked at me. He had a mop of bright gold hair and an infectious smile. I found my own lips curving upward in response. He was kind of cute. He said something to his friend before he stepped toward us. My breath caught, and I forced myself not to reach up and make sure my bonnet was straight. My heart pounded as he drew nearer…

And then stepped around me to talk to Cecily.

If my legs worked, I would have kicked myself. Why would he be looking at you, stupid? Even if I hadn’t been forced to live my life in a chair, he still would have picked her over me. She looked like a porcelain doll, one that had never been played with, with her straight blond hair and clear skin and big, limpid brown eyes. Like a cow’s.

Sitting next to her, no one would think to look at me with my messy brown hair, muddy green eyes and skin that was prone to spots.

Finally the boy’s friend dragged him away so they could dash through the torrent to board the train. I glared at him as he went by, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“He was cute,” Cecily said. “And charming, wasn’t he?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said, lifting my chin. “I don’t pay attention to boys.”

“You will one day.” She gave me a condescending smile. “You’ll meet a boy who’s cute and charming and doesn’t care about your legs.”

My fingers clenched on the wheels of my chair. My mask would protect me. It would hide me from the good intentions of stupid people.

“Oh, do you really think so?” I said, hoping she would catch the mocking in my tone.

But Cecily was about as bright as the cow I’d compared her to. “Of course I do. There’s someone out there for everyone.”

So much for mockery. “That’s complete muck,” I said.


First off, who hasn't had this happen to them? Anyone? I feel like humanity is bound by common experiences and this is one of them. You're standing there and someone waves at you. You look around thinking, he can't be looking at me, can he? But he is. Oh my gosh, he really is. And then you realize his friend is right behind you and now you look like a dork.

Merry's experience has a few other implications. He couldn't possibly be interested in her not only because she's not as pretty as Cecily, but who would want to make eyes at a pair of wheels. And this scene proves that she'll never receive that kind of attention from the opposite sex. Which is okay because she totally doesn't want that kind of drama in her life. Right?

Poor Merry. I spend the rest of the book showing her she's wrong.


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

AE: Personal Space                                                                            AE: Emotional Baggage

Accessible Excerpts: Personal Space

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. This excerpt comes immediately after Masks from last week. Madam Francine has just threatened to kick Merry out of school and now Merry is on her way to the museum.


My wheels sank into the thick grass as I pushed myself toward the street, and I struggled to keep my drawing supplies balanced on my lap. It felt like I was wading through the underbrush of a jungle, but I pressed on like a fearless explorer. I liked the image of being a fearless explorer, even if my jungle was just a manicured lawn.

Heels clicked on the cobblestones, and I looked up to see Cecily, one of my classmates, coming back up the street.

“Oh, Merry,” she said. “Here, let me help you.” Her voice was too soft, too sweet, like an overripe apple. Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed the back of my chair and started pushing me down the long cobblestoned street. I bit my tongue before I could snap at her. I wanted to tell her I could push my chair by myself, that’s why it had wheels after all, but I didn’t want to give Madam Francine any more reasons to get rid of me. I needed that recommendation. So I ground my teeth and accepted the humiliation.


It's amazing how people can be so desperate to seem helpful that they ignore things like common courtesy. This scene actually came from personal experience. I use my wheelchair at the airport, and the flight crews are usually really helpful and accommodating, giving me as much time as I need and being patient with all the weird quirks that come with using both crutches and a wheelchair. But they always offer to push me to the plane. I understand why they do, jetways can be really steep, but I'm a healthy 27 year old in a sleek manual chair, and I travel with my own 6'6” mobility assistant. I'm good, thanks.

One trip, one of the flight crew approached as we were getting ready to board. They were running late and he was obviously in a hurry to get me on the plane and settled, but he decided the best way to do this would be to grab the back of my chair – without asking, without even saying “hey, we need to get you on the plane” – and start pushing me.

This is a huge violation of personal space and just plain courtesy. When I'm using the chair, if you touch it, it's like you're touching me. That man figuratively put his hands all over me without asking and then took away my freedom of movement. It's making me clench my teeth just thinking about it. Don't do this. Ever. All right, if the person is careening down a hill into a pit of lava and stopping to ask for permission is going to result in their fiery death, then yeah sure, grab them. But a delayed flight does not equal fiery lava death. If they look like they could use some help up a hill or through a door, go ahead and offer it. They could have been waiting for a big brawny guy to come along and do just that. But don't be insulted if they refuse. Being able to do something for oneself is really important, no matter how hard it is. If they're the ones that ask you for help, even better. They're in a much better place than I am.

As for the flight crew guy, both Josh and I tried to get him to take his hands off me, at first politely, and then not so politely. He insisted that it was company policy to push wheelchairs down the jetway. BS. I've flown a lot, on a lot of different airways, and I've never heard that before. But in this case, all I could do was grit my teeth and bear it.

Argh. Ok, I'm putting the soap box away now.


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

AE: Masks                                                                                        AE: Common Experiences

Accessible Excerpts: Masks

This is an excerpt from my novel, By Wingéd Chair, one in a series of posts in which I try to show how I use disabilities in my writing. Click here for my intro to the series. This is the first scene of the novel where we are introduced to the main character, Miss Merry Janson.


Madam Francine turned to me. She was too well-bred to tap her foot, but she did put her hands on her hips. “Merry,” she said. “I think it's time we reevaluated your place at our school.”

I crossed my arms and cocked an eyebrow at her, wondering if I was about to be sent home in disgrace. Again.

"Has my performance been unsatisfactory?” I asked. We both knew she couldn’t find anything wrong with my consistent top marks, but I wanted her to say it out loud.

“No,” she said, her eyes sliding away from mine. “Your class work is exemplary, as usual. But your...situation is unique. I'm not sure what your father was thinking when he sent you here. What is it you hope to accomplish by studying with us?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Madam Francine liked to answer her own questions.

She continued as if I weren't there. “Most of our girls leave here with the training to become exceptional wives and mothers. Or, if they haven't received a proposal, they become governesses for influential families. However, I don't see you fitting into either of those roles. You are obviously not suited for marriage, and no respectable family would hire you to teach their children.”

My face burned, and I snapped my mouth shut before I blurted out my dream. Why was I surprised? Most people thought I was useless, and I had trained myself not to let them get to me. I set my face in the cold, hostile mask I’d perfected just for stupid, cowards like Madame Francine.

“My father is paying for my education,” I said. “Not for your opinion.”

I yanked on the wheels of my chair and pushed myself out of the park, not looking to see if she followed. Saints help me, I only had to deal with Madam Francine for another month. Then I could ask her for my recommendation, and I’d be on my way to the University.


These few paragraphs are supposed to accomplish a lot right off the bat. I'm establishing Merry's disability and how the people around her react to it. I'm also introducing Merry as a character and letting you see how she handles the reactions. Which is not particularly well here at the beginning.

Merry's struggles are deeply personal for me (as if you couldn't guess that already) but this is one I was really anxious to get on paper from the start. After my injury, the only way I knew to deal with people, to cope with the constant sympathy and encouragement (encouragement can be strangely discouraging), was to put up a mask. An expression or a personality I could wear that would hide what I was really feeling from the world. My mask was a smile and an eternal optimism I didn't necessarily feel all the time. Merry's is cold hostility. In some ways I think hers is a lot more honest than mine was.


As always, comments and criticisms are appreciated. What did you think? What did you like, what did you dislike? Did I accomplish what I set out to do?

Post it Proudly                                                                                           AE: Personal Space

Clumsy Clichés

It was a dark and stormy night.

“There she blows!”

Captain Amab clicked his spy glass shut and spun on the tip of his wooden leg.

“After that whale, you scurvy sea dogs. That's the beast that ate me leg.”

The sailors shuffled their feet while the first mate and the bosun looked at each other.

“Is he always like this?” the bosun asked.

“Oh, this is just the calm before the storm,” the first mate said.

“Captain,” the bosun said. “We haven't seen shore in months.”

“Avast that talk. You'll not rob me of my revenge.”

The first mate and the bosun exchanged another look that said, “we're all in the same boat”. Or maybe it was “sink or swim”. They nodded to each other.

They grabbed Captain Amab by the arms and chucked him over the pin rail.

His peg leg disappeared with an unassuming bloop.

“Not so hard after all,” the bosun said. “Turns out he was just a drop in the bucket.”


That was written during a writer's group meeting where we talked about clichés. The general consensus was that they're bad and no self-respecting writer would ever stoop to using them. However, I disagree. I think there's a time and a place where clichés can be used effectively. For example, spotlighting the ridiculous, as seen above. Disclaimer: I'm a sailor and I'd have thrown him overboard too. What is a scurvy sea dog anyway?

The thing is, clichés are cliché for a reason, usually because there's some truth in them. I'm not giving you free rein to go out and use all the same tired phrases and cheesy situations you can think of. I know it's really easy to fall into the cliché trap when creating your characters. Half the work is already done for you when readers can easily imagine the crusty sailor with a peg leg, or the PI with a smart mouth and a drinking problem, or the romance heroine with a sordid past. But readers can also easily get bored with such tropes. Maybe stop and think about what you want to get across to your readers and figure out how you can use clichés without making them cringe and throw your book at the wall.

I write fairy-tales and what's more cliché than happily ever after? One of the reasons I love fairy-tales is because they're so familiar. Everyone knows that Cinderella loses her shoe at a ball. I use the familiar to bring out and highlight the differences in my characters and my stories. My Cinderella doesn't lose a glass slipper, she loses an ankle-foot orthotic. Still just as unique to her (I mean, Prince Charming still has to be able to pinpoint her, right?), but not nearly as uncomfortable as glass footwear. Or what about a character that twists clichéd metaphors or uses them wrong. A guy says, "I beat that dead fish to death". Tells you something about the character, doesn't it?

I also write about disabilities. Just like everything else there are clichés associated with the handicapped, and like I said, they're clichés because they're at least a little bit true. My characters have the expected feelings of anger, bitterness, and uselessness because I had to go through those myself. But I try to write beyond them as well. There are deeper reasons behind the emotions that are far more interesting to read about than just “she's angry because she can't walk”. We're capable of feeling so much; can you really justify assigning just one emotion to a character? My Maid Marion is angry, yes, but it's a mask to hide her self-loathing and protect her from pity. She hates the people around her for not understanding her and then hates herself for hating them. So I've explained the cliché and moved past it, creating a deeper character we can understand and relate to.

So before you ax everything that sounds even remotely familiar, consider how clichés could actually help your writing.