Since I was very young, I have been writing horror stories. My first one that I’ve been able to find is:
I was a strange little girl.
This is from when I was around eight years old. So, I’ve been doing this for a while, and it’s part of who I am. But no matter how passionate we are about a career or hobby, sometimes, life happens.
In early October, my grandmother passed away after a long, full, inspiring, and love-filled life. It was not unexpected, but the loss still took a toll. I grew up next door to my grandparents, and she was a constant in my life for the thirty years that I was lucky enough to have her. After her passing, I continued to work, but at a slower pace.
If you’ve been waiting for the release of Walking After Midnight: Tales for Halloween Part II, and were disappointed when it did not come out in October, I apologize. I truly appreciate every one of my readers and friends in the horror industry, and I don’t take any of your support for granted.
The book is now complete, and is undergoing the last round of edits. It will definitely be out sometime in November. I am still hoping to have the first installment of my Slumber Falls series out by the end of the year as well.
Again, thank you so much for your support and patience. I will never stop pursuing this writing thing, and I am a true, life-long horror fan, so I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon.
I’ll close with this poem by Edgar Lee Masters from his book, THE SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY. It’s always been a favorite of mine, but now that my grandmother has passed, it has a whole new, deeper meaning for me. I encourage all of you to keep its message in mind as you navigate life, and don’t forget to enjoy the ride.
BY EDGAR LEE MASTERS
I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed —
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you —
It takes life to love Life.