I don't like things that feel like work. I've avoided them all of my life, always choosing jobs/professions that were more play, things that I would have done for free, but was grateful paid my bills. Some would call this underachievement - and perhaps it is, but life's too short, in my opinion, to be wasted scurrying after success at the expense of one's spirit.

Writing is not usually work for me. Once the storyline is in place and the outline is completed, writing is simply a joy. The settings are vibrant colors within my mind and the characters are strong and fierce, or soft and gentle. Each of them has his/her distinct voice and ****of speech, gestures and expressions, and they are just there inside my head, rather like a movie playing. My job is to put them into MS Word as quickly as possible, the scenes, actions, enotions and conversations.

However, today I have been working. The international rights team requires a synopsis, and chapter summaries for each book - and this writing feels like work. It has the tone of a high school literature **** "Now that you have read the story...write a summary." I do not like this side of writing, but I also do not like it hanging over me...knowing that I MUST do it for contract compliance, so rather than let it lie there festering I decided to get it done...at least for book one of the new series. Surprisingly it is an easy task, I know the story inside and out, have battled the characters, plot and setting for so long that the chapter by chapter summaries have been flying from my fingertips.

The sun is shining on the sea; I have promised myself a walk in the forest at my halfway mark, so all in all even the 'work' side of writing isn't too bad for today.

This morning's sword play took an interesting turn. I begin each day with a bit of sword play, either on the back deck (seen by only one neighbor), or in the front of the house (seen by six neighbors). Assuming that most would be sleeping so early in the morning, I opted for the more spacious and challengingly uneven front yard.

I had finished warming up, and begun to battle my imaginary - though I see him very clearly - troll opponent. Today he was armed with a short sword, while I was armed with the sword of the joined houses (known to real life folks as Marto of Spain's Dragon Ninja). Sparring was going well, blood seeped from a wound on the troll's thigh, and I was as yet unscathed.

As I swung the sword around for a vicious back-hand slice at the troll's wide open chest, a deep voice called out, "How do you do that?"

Lowering my blade and bowing to my invisible opponent, I turned to address my laughing neighbor. "Do what, Ken?"

"Well, you really look like you are fighting with someone else, but there's no one there." Ken stated, with a chuckle. "And I just wondered what you were seeing when you were practicing."

"Ahhhh," I responded, noticing the children on the porch behind him, "this morning 'tis a troll. Terribly ugly brute, but a great sparring partner because he has such a long reach. Keeps me on my toes." I winked.

Down the steps from my neighbor's house came the grandchildren. Gullible ten and eleven year olds, with sleepy eyes.

"Can I hold your dagger?" asked the taller, pointing to the sheath at my waist.

"Indeed you may." I answered. (not bothering to say - not bothering to remark on the grammar rule of CAN vs MAY, like my mother always did). "As long as it is okay with your granddad."

My neighbor grinned widely and nodded that it was okay. The light on the dagger blade sparkled, gaining immediate approval from the granddaughter. "I like the handle." (Said 'handle' is a dragon embraced by a serpent.)

"With swords and daggers, we call that end the hilt."

She nodded. An early lesson on weaponry learned. "Do your really see trolls?" she asked, looking up at me with wide brown eyes.

"Aye, I do," I admitted. "They are large and quite frightening, which is why I keep them in my stories. That way they cannot get loose to terrorize the neighborhood."

"I have an imaginary friend." Her younger brother said, looking at me, waiting for my disbelief.

"Human or not?" I asked, and received a wide grin for my unwavering belief.

"Nope, he is a badger."

"They make great friends, badgers do. They are tough in a fight and very loyal." I replied, reclaiming my dagger from Granddaughter. "Now you must excuse me, for my opponent grows impatient."

My neighbor gathered his grandchildren, waved and returned to his porch. They watched until the final disembowelment...the troll's, not mine.

I forget how much I love a storm, until one swings around unannounced by The Weather Channel. Sometimes, Mother Nature can keep a secret from Man's finest technology.

The skies are deep with shadows, the type that bring dark dragons and deathshades. The heavy clouds roil as they are whipped on high by the maelstrom's breath; the sea heaves with the pull of the moon and crashes on the sea stacks, sending foam and glistening droplets high into the air to be stolen away by the fierce wind.

Sleet pelted us off and on yesterday and the temperature plummeted to the high-thirties (quite cold for June). It looked like snow along the shore and upon the dark basalt of the largest sea stacks. The winds swept in from the southwest and whipped the firs and pines into a frenzy, even the ancient spruce danced a bit.

The light of the fire danced in the fireplace, sending embers racing upward to seek the storm, while I drew my feet up beneath my woolen throw and wrote the brutal scenes for the final battle at Cordelain's castle out in long hand. Tomorrow, perhaps I shall get them into the manuscript.

I do love a storm, and this one has been a beauty, dark and devilish.

But when, Calliope, thy loud harp rang--
In Epic grandeur rose the lofty strain;
The clash of arms, the trumpet's awful clang
Mixed with the roar of conflict on the plain;
The ardent warrior bade his coursers wheel,
Trampling in dust the feeble and the brave,
Destruction flashed upon his glittering steel,
While round his brow encrimsoned laurels waved,
And o'er him shrilly shrieked the demon of the grave.

-from An Ode To Music, by James G. Percival

Many writers tend to ignore the muse until she no longer assists them. Then they scream of writer's block or simply stare blindly while they grope inside their heads for a new idea.

I believe it is far wiser to greet her everyday with gratitude, humble yourself before her and follow her lead. I have discovered that my muse seems to be leading me into a deeper more dangerous cavern; she has of late encouraged a far bolder pen (okay - so it's a keyboard), adding touches of human evil and debauchery to my characters' actions that have not always been there.

It was my intent to challenge her today, following a read through of my most recent muse-guided writing of course. After reading the 150 pages we have concocted since the third of May, I bow before her - in awe of her wisdom.

*laughing* I see that silly smirk upon her face, and wonder - will she change my pace?

Ooooooh, I also received the latest Ever'neath character sketches from my artist. Meet (left to right) Bronte Greywood, Cordelain Dunegal and Uallas the Wizard. I'm just so delighted with this group. They've been such fun to write, so it's wonderful to know they will soon be hanging on my walls while I finish up their tale.

Ever'neath Character Portraits

Los Angeles is sprawling, noisy, eye irritatingly smoggy, and so energy charged it actually sets one's aura humming. I can honestly say that I didn't connect with many of the people I intended, but the thrill of chatting with Faerieworlds and FaerieCon co-producer Emilio Miller-Lopez, authors Ray Bradbury and R.A. Salvatore, and a host of Star Wars enthusiasts pretty much made up for it. Having Damselflies and Quondam represented in the New Title Showcase and International Rights Center, as well as at Synergy Books in the Midpoint Trade Pavilion for my signings, kept me smiling all weekend.

Even with the smaller crowd, there were plenty of booksellers, librarians, educators, and media folks wandering the aisles, all on the lookout for new and upcoming releases.

There was a much greater 'Hollywood' influence than at the New York and Washington, D.C. expos, with Alec Baldwin and Brooke Shields putting in appearances, and a number of film studios, conspicuously tagged, browsing the booths for movie rights.

I can't stress the advantages of BookExpo America's networking possibilites for authors. There is no other event in the U.S. that puts so many book industry people in the one place at one time. Hope to see you next year at BookExpo 2009 in NYC.

Now, rather than load my blogs with photos, I've added them to the photo galleries at the Tales Touched by Magick websites at ancientmirrors.com and jayelgibson.com . Drop by at your leisure and browse, if you're so inclined.

After a sleepless night spent grinding my teeth, and a morning of sore jaws and a cross nature, I have decided to spit this out and then let it go. Humans - you are on your own, I have decided to add the topic of copyright to my 'taboo subjects' for polite company (I shall continue to snarl and rage about it in 'impolite' company).

The issue of copyright should not be a difficult. If you did not create it - it is not yours. If you find it so attractive you cannot control your keystrokes and keep from 'borrowing it' - at least have the decency to add the creator's name to it, even if it was created by Anonymous.

If you are a creator and want to protect your work, whether you are a writer, an artist, a composer, an architect or a photographer, you will take steps to do so. The wonderful information highway we all know and depend on is not a secure place for publication. For authors in the U.S., something as simple as signing and sealing your manuscript in an envelope and mailing it to yourself (do not open it when you receive it with the postmark on it - just file it away) can serve to establish a copyright date. If you want something more secure and official, that will stand up in court - invest in yourself and establish a registered copyright through the U. S. Copyright Office. Forms and all instructions are available through their website. The cost works out to less than three thousandths of a cent a day.

If your fondest desire is to publicly display your work on a website, watermark it. Those waiting to prey on the talents of others will take and re-distribute your work if it is posted. There is little hope of avoiding it, but you can make it a wee bit more difficult for them to claim it as their own by securing a solid copyright date using one of the above methods, and watermarking the work to make it a bit less attractive. If you are lucky, the thief will wander on to a work that has not been protected. Now, I am going to take two aspirins and file the topic of 'copyright' in the dark recesses of my mind - where it will not again see the light of day.

I am a great fan of Joseph Campbell, perhaps because I am such a great fan of myth and legend. I thought of him often today as the keys flew and a new hero's journey began. I thought of Campbell first when I realized that never do my characters begin with ordinary lives. They are always extraordinary, larger than life, rarely conflicted with doubt and fearfulness, at least until the deepest shadows fall. I thought of him again as a new character took her first unsteady steps toward a tantalizing trickster, and wondered if Campbell would be correct in assuming this trickster would bring change. As this hero continues along her crooked and uneven path, I will hold firm the light of the collective consciousness and once again follow my muse as she leads a woman upon a hero's journey.

As I watched the emerging character fill the cup that would pour her words into my mind, I discovered that she has the greatest heart of any I have written. I do hope she will manage to pull herself up through the depths of darkness and despair to arrive in the stunning circle of brilliance that should await every struggling hero. Will she? As yet I do not know, she still has very far to travel.

Occasionally my husband insists that I go outdoors, leave Jayel's Alien keyboard behind and think about something beyond the realms of fantasy that own my soul. Yesterday was such a day. We headed in the general direction of an 'oil change' - which when you live at the end of Earth in Oregon (and drive a German auto) is a day trip (sometimes two, if we dawdle) in itself.

I drove the glowing silver 'sorceress' and Ken rode shotgun, shuffling the papers of his most current real estate speculation. At the first rest area I stopped to put the top down, ending Ken's annoying paper shuffling, and was distracted by pied woodpeckers, stellar jays, several deer and dozens of chipmunks and red squirrels (just the first wee bit of dawdling). With the light of the day star warming our faces we continued east, away from the beauty of the sea and into the silent shadows of the redwoods, tracking back and forth over the narrow bridges that cross the many serpentine curves of the Smith River. By this time I was enjoying the rhythm of the road, once again amazed at the German engineering and the pulsing power of the little German's engine. She is a marvel, my little sorceress, able to sweep around curves (clearly posted 25 mph) at well over 50 mph without even a hint of the squealing rubber on asphalt one would get in an 'American' made sports car. Her wide racing tires grab the road and her little butt tucks as she springs forward around even the tightest of switchbacks. I was invisible, hidden in the silver mist, laughing out loud as I passed the great hulking Corvette (painted screaming yellow) receiving the state trooper's undivided attention. *grins wickedly* California plates draw that sort of attention in Oregon; we need the revenue.

At the three hour mark we swung around (oil change forgotten) and headed home to catch the sunset, stopping at Cave Junction (someday I will actually find the caves) for a leisurely lunch and an ice cream cone for the road. We broke the rise above Sea just as Sun kissed her good-bye, making the last leg of our journey very precious, for Sun eased beneath the Pacific Ocean's far horizon in a brilliant flash of green light, a special gift that I have only received five or six times out of all the sunsets I have watched. As the light faded, the luminescence of microscopic organisms flowed, trapped in salty rivulets, down the sea stacks, offering a gentle night-light to guide us home.

This morning I awoke to an editor's request for the rewrite on a manuscript, but not even Andrew's demands can spoil the still warm memories of well engineered performance, wind in my hair, and Sun kissing Sea with such tenderness.

Or, Another Day in the Life of a Graceless Woman.

Okay, it was actually corn and peas.

Last evening Ken and I went out to dinner with the neighbors. We got home a bit late and I hurried to feed the critters. The sugar gliders were barking their demands and I rushed about counting out worms for their supper, serving them up as quickly as possible in order to pacify the little begging beasties. While they squabbled over the juicy bee moth larva I measured out the corn and peas, a tablespoon of the combined veggies for each of my grey-coated lovies.

I feed these tender morsels of vegetarian goodness in tiny muffin tins, and so with two trays precariously balanced in one hand and a third in the other I scurried down the stairs. Or rather, stumbled head first. The rubber sole of my generally secure Nike grabbed the carpet and sent me in a disturbing rush down the stairs. I threw the tins into the air, sending corn and peas raining down two flights of stairs, across the foyer, over the balcony and into the hallway as far as the closet of the master bedroom (which is actually around a corner). I reached out and caught the bannister, breaking two nails as well as my fall. My momentum sent me crashing, chest first, into the newel post, knocking the breath from my already challenged lungs before depositing me flat on my back on the midway landing.

By then my husband had been alarmed by the commotion, apparently my clumsiness was quite noisy with all the thudding, thumping, squeals of surprise and gulping for breath. He had been on the phone to his mother and had simply thrown down the phone to rush to my aid. By the time he arrived I was able to squeak out, "I'm fine, don't step on the corn," though from his expression he seemed very doubtful about my well-being. Once he realized I truly was not dead and no bones were broken, he dragged out the vacuum and began sucking up all the bits and pieces of sugar glider nourishment, encouraging me to stand and begin the veggie feeding enterprise again.

While there were no aches or pains, no bruises and only one carpet-burned knee last night, this morning I awoke to colorful bruises in a number of places one would not show in polite company and a stiffness of back and legs that brought to mind the days of old age still to come.

What became of the mother on the phone, you ask? Ken called her back a bit later only to be told that her phone must have 'cut out' as she had been disconnected from his earlier call. Gratefully, her misconception exempted us from explaning my graceless mishap.

Needless to say, I will be walking down the stairs with much greater caution from this day forword.