Blackfeather – Chapter 1

Kate threw the pipe under the scaffolding and hurried down the path to her car. Her hands trembled, her knees were weak. Had anyone seen her, running through the graveyard, flustered and grubby, with a suspicious bundle? She had just stolen something from a church and she didn’t even know what it was.

As she fastened the seatbelt and started the car, she remembered her promise to Reverend Pilling. She swore and raced back to the rear of the church, locked the vestry door and hid the key beneath one of the three plant pots arranged in a triangle near the wall. If anyone had seen her, they hadn’t bothered to investigate what she was up to. Back in the driving seat, she took a deep breath.

Just an hour ago she’d been standing at the lych-gate, looking fondly up at the church where she’d been christened, preparing herself for an afternoon away from the office, researching the family tree of a new client. Scaffolding covered the walls instead of ivy, and mesh screens had been fitted over the stained glass windows to protect them from falling masonry and vandals. By the look of things, repairs to the roof had begun just in time.

She blew away the flurry of snowflakes that danced round her head with a puff of hot breath and pushed a wind-whipped strand of hair back under her woollen hat with a gloved hand, then shouldered her bag, unlatched the gate and made her way up the path to the porch. The iron hinges squeaked as she pushed open the heavy wooden door. It was the perfect accompaniment to the whistle of December wind that played through the bare branches of the trees and it sent goose bumps up Kate’s arms in spite of the layers of warm clothing she’d piled on.

Inside the entrance stood a Christmas tree, its branches as yet untrimmed and at intervals down the nave were leafy green wreaths and swags of ivy, laid out ready for someone to fasten them in place. The decorations brought back happy memories of candlelit Christmas Eve carol services, and being carried back to the car in her father’s arms afterwards, too sleepy to walk.

The rainbow of light from the tall medieval stained glass windows was reflected on the arched stone wall opposite and Jacobean box pews, lined up in rows down the nave, mirrored the dark oak beams in the ceiling. At the entrance to each pew was a small posy of flowers, placed in a conical holder. A couple of sparrows and a plump wood pigeon had found their way in through a hole in the roof and while the pigeon perched on the curve of a wall monument, trying to sleep, his feathers puffed up for warmth, the sparrows chirruped and chased each other from beam to beam.

Kate watched them for a few minutes until an elderly man wearing the ubiquitous grey suit, black shirt and dog collar of an Anglican vicar, emerged through a door in the north wall, half hidden by a second row of arches. When he saw Kate, a wide smile formed on his face. She grinned back as he strode towards her, carrying his cane rather than admit his need for its support by leaning on it, and vigorously shook her hand.

“Goodness me, Kathryn, you have grown up,” he said with a chuckle. “You were just this high the last time I saw you.”

He held up his hand to chest level, then tapped the cane on the stone floor three times, a habit he’d developed soon after acquiring it.

“It’s been ten years,” she said.

“It can’t be!”

Kate nodded.

“Well, tempus fugit, as they say. You must be surprised that I’m still here. Though I think it won’t be long before I’m replaced by a woman. The Bishop is keen to increase the congregation and move with the times. There’s a vicar in the city centre you know who gives sermons dressed as a clown”.

He turned away, then muttered, “Idiot!” under his breath. She heard him, nonetheless and pressed her lips together to stifle a giggle. The Reverend tapped his cane again.

“Well, I expect you want to get on with your research?” he said, adjusting his glasses and turning to look over his shoulder at her with eyebrows raised.

She nodded once more and he led the way down the narrow aisle, between the pews and through the wooden door into the vestry. To their left was Reverend Pilling’s office, but they entered the room opposite, a room filled with shelves of leather bound books, where the church archives were kept.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay, Kathryn. One of my parishioners has suffered a bereavement and I need to get the funeral arrangements underway. I’ll go out the front and lock the main door, but I’d be grateful if you’d lock up round the back and leave the key under the pot when you’ve finished.” He handed her a large, old-fashioned brass key. “I must be off.”

He punctuated his words by tapping the cane a further three times and disappeared back the way they’d come.

Kate sighed with contentment. She loved the solitude of working alone in old buildings and began making herself comfortable, placing her notebook on the table in the centre of the room and laying her outdoor clothes over the back of a wooden chair. She took her time, walking a circuit of the room and running her fingers over the red, leather spines of the books. The dates were stamped on each one in gold lettering and when she found the one she needed, she pulled it from its place and laid it on the lectern on the table. Then she sat down and opened the notebook at a fresh page, wrote the surname of the family she was researching in capitals at the top and opened the register.

Her client had appointed Sharpe’s, Genealogists and Probate Researchers to finish his family tree when he could get no further on his own and had got himself in a muddle with the various records he had so far accumulated. Peter Sharpe had assigned the project to her.

She lost track of time as she worked, poring over the names and dates in the archives until the real world faded away. Anything beyond the book in front of her and the room in which she sat ceased to exist. She was copying the details with meticulous care and double checking the records already provided by the client when she was startled by a loud, reverberating crack and thundering echo from inside the church. She paused, listening for any other sounds before calling out.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

There was no answer, but it was unlikely that anyone would have heard her from the thick walled room. It couldn’t have been a door banging shut. Reverend Pilling had locked the main door and this had sounded like a large, heavy object falling on stone. Something from the roof, maybe.

It was quiet now, too quiet, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate properly until she’d investigated the cause of the noise. Kate put down her pencil and left the sanctuary of the archives, passed through the vestry and emerged into the hushed church. The sound of her boots scuffing on the paved floor echoed round the building. There was no one there and nothing out of place that could offer an explanation for what she’d heard, but as she skirted the Norman font and turned toward the chancel, she found the culprit.

A huge piece of masonry, probably loosened by the roofing contractors, had fallen from high up in the east wall. It had crashed to the floor, miraculously missing the choir stalls and altar table, and landed smack in the centre of the chancel. The only damage was a broken flagstone.

Kate edged towards the slab, glancing nervously upwards with each step. A triangular piece of paving stuck up from the floor at an angle and she nudged it with the toe of her boot. It twisted and fell inwards, revealing a cavity below.

People were often buried beneath church floors, in fact there were other grave slabs nearby, but Kate couldn’t see any carvings on this one, not even worn ones. She crouched down and swept the palm of her hand across the stone’s smooth surface, confirming the absence of an inscription.

She felt along the jagged, broken edge of the flagstone with her fingertips then gave an experimental tug. It didn’t budge, so she pushed her hand into the hole, up to her wrist. Something tickled her and she pulled it out again. The tickle continued, travelling up her arm along with the spider, and she jumped to her feet, shrieking and shaking her arm, brushing furiously at it to dislodge the tiny creature. She hated spiders. When she was sure it had been flung far away from her, she took a deep breath. Her heart pounded and she looked back at the hole with trepidation.

Leave it, she thought. Whatever’s in there isn’t worth it.

She walked away, got as far as the font, stopped and blew out her breath in a long, slow sigh. She was far too curious to let it go.

I don’t believe I’m doing this, she thought, pushing the sleeves of her jumper up to her elbows, and steeling herself to try again.

It took several deep breaths and a number of false starts before she plucked up enough courage to thrust her hand all the way into the hole. It was deeper than she’d expected, but about a foot below the surface she felt something cold and solid and flinched away from it. When it didn’t move she touched it again. Beneath a thick layer of dust she could make out a surface covered with small bumps. Her trembling fingertips traced along the edge of the object, found a corner and continued on until she’d returned to her starting point. The object had depth to it too and with her arm as far into the hole as it would go, she felt all over it, building up a mental image, like a blind person touching the face of someone they’d never met before. It felt like a box.

She brushed the dirt off her hand and pushed herself up, sitting back on her heels to survey the floor around her. The piece of mortar she squeezed between thumb and forefinger crumbled to dust. All the other stones were cemented in place, but this one had been packed round the edges with dirt. It had compacted over the centuries, giving the illusion it was fixed in place like all the others, but if this had been a burial, why had it been left loose?

Go on, dig it out.

The thought was in her head so it must have been her own, but it didn’t feel like something she would say.

She looked around, chewing at a fingernail on the hand that hadn’t been in the hole, while she weighed up her options and wondered how long Reverend Pilling would be gone. She dreaded to think what he was going to say when he saw the damage to his church. Was she really going to do this?

With the decision made, she retreated to the archive room and rummaged through her bag for something to help remove the dirt from around the stone. The old nail file she found would have to do. The box was too big to come out through the hole, but if she could loosen the flagstone she might be able to lift it.

What if I get caught? she asked herself.

 We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Her inner monologue was really playing devil’s advocate today.  It didn’t even sound like her any more.

Go on then, it prompted

It took her fifteen minutes to scrape the dirt away. She stood at the unbroken end; bent over with both hands in the hole and pulled it towards her with all her strength. She managed to raise it an inch or two before the weight of the stone pulled it down again.

Unwilling to admit defeat, Kate scanned the church for something to use as a lever and was surprised by how dark it had become. The late afternoon light had faded to dusk, the church had turned gloomy and the silence settled like a heavy, wool blanket. Even the birds had gone.

The air felt electric, like the moments before a storm when you were just waiting for it to break, and the prickling sensation at the base of her neck made her feel as though she was being watched from the shadows. She shook her shoulders, trying to dispel the idea.

There was nothing she could use inside the church, and she knew better than to even think of using the medieval silver candlesticks adorning the altar, so she slipped outside to search beneath the scaffolding among the discarded rubble. The snow had started to stick and was already filling up the gaps between the stacks of roof slates leant against the wall. She turned up a length of steel pipe and after testing its weight decided it would do the job.

With one end in the hole and using the fallen stone as a fulcrum, she pushed down on the pipe. The flagstone raised enough for Kate to thrust in her spare hand and pull out the large casket that had been hidden there. She released the pressure and the flagstone thudded back into its original resting place. She held the box up to what remained of the light and examined it. Something shifted inside and she screwed up her eyes in an effort to peer through the keyhole on the front.

A rustling from the choir stalls made her jump again. With heart in throat she wasted no time in sweeping the dirt into the hole, back filling the crevices and tidying up as best she could before someone came in and discovered her. When she was satisfied the scene looked as undisturbed as she could make it, she rubbed the loose soil from her hands and wiped them down the front of her jeans, leaving dirty, grey streaks.

What now? she thought as she sat on a nearby pew with the box on her knee. She pulled at the lid, but it wouldn’t open.

Take it home.

Oh no, that was a step too far. She was no thief and whatever was inside was probably an old church relic or a saint’s bones, placed there when the church was built. It was one thing to remove it from the crypt so it didn’t suffer further damage but to steal it..? She shook her head. She would leave the box on Reverend Pilling’s desk with a note explaining everything and phone tomorrow to ask him about it.

With the note written and the box placed squarely on the Reverend’s desk, she took one last look at it and stepped away.

Don’t you want to know what’s inside?

She straightened, tossed her hair back over her shoulder, and firmly pulled the door of the office shut.

Satisfied she had done the right thing, she went back to work. She sat down at the desk in the archives room and picked up her pencil.

What if someone comes in and takes it before the vicar gets back?

       Why would anyone do that?  she thought in reply.

It would be much safer in here with you.

That was true, she could watch over it until she had to leave, at least. Reverend Pilling might be back by then and she could give it to him personally.

That’s right, it will only take a minute to get it.

She got up and moved towards the door and suddenly found herself rooted to the spot.

You don’t have to do this, Kate.

“What?” she said aloud.

Where had that come from? Was someone else here with her? She was sure she had heard someone speak.

“Who’s there?” she called. “Reverend Pilling, is that you?”

There was no reply. She turned the brass knob of the door, but it wouldn’t open. It couldn’t be locked. Unless someone was on the other side.

She heard whispering and stiffened as she tried to hear what was being said, but all she caught were snatches of a few words and phrases between what sounded like two people arguing.

shouldn’t be doing this… can’t interfere…

       …she should know… what if she wants to…

There was a pause and the door was released and Kate stumbled back a step.

Take the box before someone who shouldn’t does.

The thought was so forceful and induced such an overwhelming sense of fear for the safety of the box that Kate hastily packed up her work and a few minutes later was back in the vicar’s office.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the air. “I don’t know why, but I need to know what’s inside. I’ll bring it back. Promise.”

 

And that’s how she found herself fleeing the scene of a crime.

In the time it had taken her to free the box, the road had been obliterated by a layer of snow. Kate restarted the engine of her cherry red VW Beetle and with a quick look over her shoulder pulled away from the church. The back end of the car swung out into the road, but she managed to regain control and accelerated out of the village onto a narrow, unlit country lane.

The branches of the trees on either side of the road reached so far over they met in the middle and interlaced like an arch of swords formed by a military honour guard. The tunnel they formed made it so dark Kate could hardly see where she was going. She hunched over the wheel, her eyes squinting through the blizzard of snowflakes that battered against the windscreen, obscuring her view even further.

She had thrown everything into the back except the box, which lay on the front passenger seat. She tried to focus her attention on driving, rubbing her hand over the inside of the windscreen to clear the mist her breath made on the glass, but the box, thrown about by the movement of the car, jerked forward and teetered on the edge of the seat. She pushed it back, looked up and gasped in shock, jamming her foot onto the brakes.

The man had appeared out of nowhere, and as Kate’s car sped towards him, he looked straight at her and smiled.

 

Buy Blackfeather & Immortal

Advertisements

Ignoring Advice from Stephen King

File:Onwriting.jpgOn Writing by Stephen King isn’t really a book of advice for writers, its about one man’s journey to becoming a writer. The advice is there between the anecdotes and the difficulties he’s encountered along the way. If there is one thing he believes is the best way to write a book it’s to get the story out from beginning to end without plotting in advance because you just don’t know where the story is going to take you.

That’s true, I have written scenes where my characters have taken over, said or done something I wasn’t expecting and taken the story in an unexpected direction which meant having to change the plan, often substantially. In the story I’m currently writing Cora’s tutor tells her something I expected to keep secret from her for a few more chapters. I couldn’t believe he’d done that. It changed everything and the twenty thousand word synopsis I’d written suddenly became obsolete.

I had two choices. I could rewrite the scene the way I’d originally planned or I could stick with the new version and see what happened, adapting the plan I thought I would be following as I went along. Since I liked the new version, and I think these spontaneous changes happen for a reason, I decided to stick with it.

Like Mr King, a lot of my ideas begin with a ‘what if’ moment, but I have to transfer that initial flash of light bulb inspiration into an outline and from there I compile a chapter list, breaking the story up into pieces, scene by scene, so I have something to follow. Then I can write the scenes that have already formed in my head. I rarely write the story in order and only work from chapter to chapter if no other scenes present themselves.

I often edit as I go too. A big no no if you’re trying to get the story out from start to finish. But when I step away from the keyboard at the end of a writing session the scene bubbles away in my subconscious, throwing up words, descriptions and dialogue that weren’t there during a first frantic typing. Better to go back and put them in now before they fade from memory as quickly as they emerged.

If I had the luxury of being able to sit and write and write for hours on end, instead of grabbing the odd fifteen minutes or so before having to leave the house or fit it in to the breaks between lectures, would I follow Stephen King’s advice? Probably not.

I like having my map, but even the map gets redrawn when the story starts to write itself and escapes the boundaries into new territory. It’s a guide not a rule book. If I’d written Blackfeather from start to finish when I first had the idea it would have been a stand-alone story with a soppy happy ending and, thankfully, that didn’t happen. Of course, editing might have changed that. In the end it’s not how you get the story down that’s important, only that you do.

Nel Ashley is the author of Blackfeather – a Fallen Angel Paranormal Romance  and Immortal, the second book in the Blackfeather Series. She is currently working on her third novel, Persephone Reborn, a vampire romance influenced by Greek mythology.

You can also connect with Nel on Facebook and Twitter

 

Another Year Over

 Last Thursday was the last exam of the year and now that I’m just about over the trauma it’s time to start planning for the summer. I started looking over what I’ve already written for ‘Persephone Reborn’ last night and although I have a synopsis, some rough chapters and a lot of notes totaling nearly twenty thousand words there is still a long way to go.

Frankly, it is a bit of a mess and the summer seems no where near long enough. But, I am determined to crack on with it and start kicking it in to shape. Will power is key. Sitting down everyday just to keep working through the plot and getting the story down is the plan, except I’ve lost track of the number of times I go back to chapter one and change the opening paragraphs because it’s too cliche, or gives the game away, or because the characters keep changing how they look in my head.

I think it was Stephen King who said you can’t write a scene until you’ve lived it. That might not be an exact quote, but it’s close enough and so I spend a huge amount of my time staring into space whilst I visualise the story, over and over and over again. It was a great piece of advice, because you realise there are things going on around your characters and they’re not just standing doing nothing while they talk to each other. When you get really good at it you can disappear into your imaginary world and become your characters or an invisible observer. If you can get that experience down on paper your readers will feel the same. That’s the hope anyway.

I also plan to get Blackfeather and Immortal out in paperback and maybe submit a couple of short stories to competitions or magazines. So it looks like it’s going to be a busy summer ahead. I’ll do my best to keep you posted.

Nel Ashley is the author of Blackfeather – a Fallen Angel Paranormal Romance  and Immortal, the second book in the Blackfeather Series. She is currently working on her third novel, Persephone Reborn, a vampire romance influenced by Greek mythology.

You can also connect with Nel on Facebook and Twitter

 

 

 

Trust The Universe

Creative Commons (Attribution 3.0 Unported)

The natural and preferred habitat of a writer is solitude, ideally a country cottage in the middle of nowhere or deep in a dark wood off the beaten track surrounded by a magic mist that keeps the world at bay. My family are always joking that if I became a famous author I’d hate it because that would mean TV appearances, book signings and the possibility of having to interact with other people. The idea gives me goosebumps and I’ve had to think about what I want and expect from being an independent author. Having a bestseller would be nice, the money would be welcome too, I can’t deny that, but I write because I love it and when I get an idea for a story in my head I HAVE to write it. The characters, the plot, the locations don’t leave me alone until I get it onto the screen or on to paper. Often I wake up in the middle of the night to scribble down a scene or conversation before my scatterbrain memory forgets a really good piece of description or dialogue. So the whole idea of social media is anathema to me.

As independent authors we are told that the only way to build a platform, get our name out there and sell our books is to maintain a presence on social media akin to an omnipresent god. It’s exhausting and I hate it. We are supposed to endlessly tweet, post on Facebook, blog, spend time leaving comments on forum after forum interacting with others, but at the same time are warned not to oversell our wares or it will turn people off. Getting the balance right is not easy. A couple of weeks ago I came across a post by another writer who had decided that she wasn’t going to play the game anymore and was winding down her commitment to socialising both on and off the internet so she could do more of the things she wanted to do and reduce the stress in her life. She wasn’t worried about sales. Then I came across this post by Derek Haines, another self published author, that made a lot of sense.

Having struggled with social media it seems to me that the best thing to do is sit back, relax and let the universe take care of it. Those who find, buy and read my books were meant to find them without any hard sell from me. Of course, some kind of presence is still required, but why fret about followers? The answer is to keep writing, doing what you love to do and don’t force the rest.

Nel Ashley is the author of Blackfeather – a Fallen Angel Paranormal Romance  and Immortal, the second book in the Blackfeather Series. She is currently working on her third novel, Persephone Reborn, a vampire romance influenced by Greek mythology.

You can also connect with Nel on Facebook and Twitter

 

 

 

 

Your Guardian Angel and You – A Guide

The Blackfeather universe contains several mythological and religious themes including angels, demons and The Watchers. The abilities and appearance of these supernatural beings in the Blackfeather Series of books may not have any bearing on similar themes in the real world. To that end, I felt I should explain a few of the concepts as they appear in the books.

We’ll take a look at several attributes of angelic beings over the next few posts. Let’s start with the connection between guardian angel and ward. 

The Bond Between Guardian Angel And Ward 

797b9-angelstatueWhat Is A Guardian Angel? 
A guardian angel is an invisible companion, appointed by Heaven, to watch over a human. They are assigned to a soul at the birth of their first human incarnation and stay with them through all lifetimes lived by that one particular soul.

What Do They Do? 
Their duties include gentle encouragement and nudges in the right direction along a soul’s chosen life path. They can whisper suggestions into the mind of their charge, making them believe they are their own thoughts, but they must not make decisions for them or interfere in a human being’s free will. Ultimately, the choice to take one path over another belongs to the human whose decision it is to make.
They may keep their charges safe from harm in small ways, by making them change direction or delaying them in some way in order to avoid a dangerous situation. In the same vein they can manipulate events to bring about fortuitous occurrences, e.g. being in the right place at the right time. Most people put this kind of thing down to coincidence, but in reality there are no coincidences.
This is not the same as the miraculous escapes from death that some people experience, walking away from major accidents and crashes without a scratch on them for example, or like those tales that we’ve all heard of, where a mysterious stranger has appeared to warn against certain dangerous, life threatening courses of action. These are the domain of The Watchers and will be explained in another post.
In most cases, humans are never aware of their guardian angels and blunder through life after life oblivious of the divine help they receive. Guardian angels are careful not to reveal their presence and believe falling in love with their human charges is forbidden because of the enormous risks involved, but as Ashrafel says to Kate:

“I didn’t fall because I loved you. I fell because of the consequences that came about through that love.”

The connection between Ashrafel and Kate in the Blackfeather books is far deeper than that of any other guardian and ward. They are soul-mates, in every sense of the word. Ashrafel has and would continue to spend lifetimes searching for Kate’s reincarnated soul, and without him by her side, Kate feels lost and alone.
Whether they can overcome those consequences, battle the evil that has stalked them through five centuries and find a happy ever after remains to be seen…

Nel Ashley is the author of Blackfeather – a Fallen Angel Paranormal Romance  and Immortal, the second book in the Blackfeather Series. She is currently working on her third novel, Persephone Reborn, a vampire romance influenced by Greek mythology.

You can also connect with Nel on Facebook and Twitter

Why Are All The Angels Naked?

I’ve spent the last two hours trawling through book cover design websites that offer both pre-made and custom book cover designs and have noticed a few things.

1. That prices for book covers have soared in the last two years.

2. That covers are often quite similar,this is most evident in the romance category and therefore this crosses over into paranormal romance too with some designers using the same elements on several covers. Ive also spotted different designers using the same elements as each other on covers in the same categories. Oh and I’m pretty sure that you’re not supposed to use images of well known actors or characters from T.V. Series (Angelus from Buffy – yes really!) I don’t want to find myself in a copyright lawsuit.

3. That buying a design only covers you for a certain number of sales, then you need to purchase an extended license to keep using that cover. (Some sites, not all)

And

4. That all the angels are naked.

Why?

Do they have nothing better to do than come down to Earth to seduce their charges? Are they kicked out of Heaven with nothing but the wings on their backs?

I’m beginning to wonder if my idea of romance is completely at odds with everyone else. Paranormal romance books often feature sexual content (mine is no exception, though it’s left up to the readers imagination to fill in the details), but  if that sexual content is foremost in the writing, if the plot revolves around the protagonists “getting it on” or taking it off, doesn’t that make it erotica? And that, for me, is a different genre altogether. A cover image of a man and woman with their mouths glued to each other doesn’t tell me anything about your book. Does it actually have a plot, a quest, an adventure, a mystery? Or is it just about the sex?

Perhaps we should take pity on these angels if the only item of clothing they own is a well placed feather; start a charity for example, donate 10% of all our book sales to “Jumpers for the Fallen” or “Armani for Angels”. I happen to know that Lucifer loves an Armani suit, though I doubt he needs my help to buy him one.

I came away from my cover search disappointed and frustrated. I’m a writer not a cover designer, but it seems the only way to get what you want, at a price you can afford, is to become a Jack of All Publishing Trades.

Nel Ashley is the author of Blackfeather – a Fallen Angel Paranormal Romance  and Immortal, the second book in the Blackfeather Series. She is currently working on her third novel, Persephone Reborn, a vampire romance influenced by Greek mythology.

You can also connect with Nel on Facebook and Twitter

 

 

 

 

Why Writer’s Block is a Myth

Everybody’s heard of “writer’s block” even if you’re not a writer yourself. It’s been used by writers for years to explain why their last book took x amount of years to write instead of several months and it’s the usual reason behind every late manuscript, article, blog post etc etc. But, some writers will also tell you that it’s a myth. That writer’s block doesn’t really exist and that: “There are no blocked writers only lazy writers.”

They’ll tell you that -“writers write” and that even if you’re only getting down nonsense on a page, or writing about your day and how awful it’s been, that’s the only way you can keep calling yourself a writer.

Well, I’d have to disagree.

I spend probably 65 – 70% of my time staring off into the middle distance visualising scenes I’m going to write, might write or may never bother to write, in an attempt to really see my story as it happens. I believe Stephen King advises writers to do this so that they can write a scene with credibility. You have to see it first before you write it. But whilst I’m doing that I’m not actually writing. Only when I can see that scene as plain as if it happened right in front of my eyes do I put pen to paper or fingers on keys.

I know at least one other person who writes like this (a certain comic book writer) who said that most of his life has been spent staring at walls.

I see absolutely no point in churning out garbage for the sake of calling it writing when you could be dreaming up the plot of your next bestseller or setting the scene for the meeting of your star-crossed protagonists. And sometimes, in between all this there will be days when you can’t think of the words your hero wants to say, or see how the light falls on the brutally murdered corpse of your latest victim. That doesn’t mean you’ve failed as a writer.

Writer’s block isn’t a myth it’s your brain screaming “Hey I need a rest, OK?” So give yourself a break. You’re still a writer, not a lazy writer. Ideas and inspiration can’t be forced they come when they’re ready.

Writers write, but in between they think and they dream.

Nel Ashley is the author of Blackfeather – a Fallen Angel Paranormal Romance  and Immortal, the second book in the Blackfeather Series. She is currently working on her third novel, Persephone Reborn, a vampire romance influenced by Greek mythology.

You can also connect with Nel on Facebook and Twitter