On Being a Writer

I write to clear my mind of all the clutter that accumulates from observing the work around me.

I write because I feel I have something to say.

I write because I have to.

I write because I feel guilty when I do not.

I write because I understand that neither fame nor fortune will come my way if I do not write.

This stimuli has begun to digest. The clutter is beginning to disappear into loosely sorted boxes. Looking at the growing stack I begin to see that if my original statement was correct then most of these boxes would be accompanied by some kind of story.

Instead, they wait forlornly as I move to another place, one that has been dedicated to a single line of thought: two, maybe three novels that create a unified whole. One novel stands halfway through its third draft as the rest await their turn. It could be only one book, but only those who make it to the big times are allowed that many words all at once.

Still, the clutter comes, bad books, boring movies, disturbing plots and ideas. I need to do something with them. I think, I plot, I digest. Then, at the end of the day, I recognize that I am ripping apart someone else's dream. It comes back to me that I have the ability to create my own, so I write.

Then there are the GOOD stories. The ones that inspire you and give you a benchmark to aim for. Never under estimate their value when you find them.

Book One: Bound

Ensign Nivpul Exavent had grown up immersed in his Grandfather's life's work, the development of the most advanced star ship in history. Who knew he'd be chosen to be the first pilot to take _Konhor_ into space.

Location Unknown. Error: unable to resolve Star Fix.

Snatched from friendly space and dropped in the middle of nowhere by an anomaly he'd no chance to escape, Nivpul's only comfort was the knowledge both he and _Konhor_ had survived the journey intact.

The Lieutenant's ship was dead, her oxygen supply all but exhausted when _Konhor's_ sensors confirmed the contact. How could he ignore the possibility of survivors? Then _Konhor's_ star drive failed...

The river had him, forced him to fight for every breath. The arm became his only hope, but he couldn't hold on. A third hand encircled their combined grips and held so tight they could not let go. The arm gave a mighty heave...

When the lights came back on Nivpul faced three truths: His shoulder was useless, his ship was crippled, and there was a single survivor on board the other ship.

Between the rescue, the discovery that her arm was the one from his vision, and the choices he is forced to make in the name of survival, one fact remained hidden: that third hand had yet to let go.

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