I have always enjoyed studying history, to try and learn from the past. One of my degrees is in history.
The problem is that every single time something happens that makes me think, I am living through history right now, it always seems like all I can do is witness. That little me in my little way has nothing to DO.
Well. This time, I can do this.
You all know that the people who designed the covers with the woman on them for the Cinders in Midnight Glass series are Ukrainians in Ukraine.
I donated to the causes they suggested right away, but ever since all I have been able to do, the only action I have been able to take, has been to check on them and their president every morning and worry.
Now, though, I have something real and concrete to do.
Just yesterday I started participating in Writers for Ukraine. This goes on for a week, it started yesterday and goes until Tuesday of next week.
What we are doing is gathering writers from all over the world, donating, spreading the word, and we are WRITING. We have committed to collectively write one million words in a week- the same number of people who had fled their country at the time this was set up.
In addition to what I have already donated, I am also pledging to donate all proceeds from the sale of the Cinders in Midnight Glass books while I am an author for Ukraine.
When I’m in, I’m in.
And these books wouldn’t have the great covers they do without my friends in Ukraine.
Not only is this an action I can take, this is one thousand percent something I can DO.
So, what can you do?
Follow along with me as we track our progress, spread the word, think about donating if you’re able.
There are three different things to donate to, two are for the military in Ukraine that are accounts shared with me from our friends the cover designers in Ukraine. The other is the writers for Ukraine fundraiser going to the refugees displaced.
And, I can’t even believe it, but I have a huge update already for you all.
In one day, just one!Total money raised (so far): £6,057Total words written (so far): 285,644The pen is mighty.
|I also have a bonus for you this week.|
A bunch of writers who… like the stabby girls like me, have banded together to share free books with each others lists.
So if you want more dangerous women, as a celebration for International Women’s Day, check out some of these free stories.https://books.bookfunnel.com/d…
|This is a big one.|
As most of you have probably noticed, the next book in the series goes up for preorder about the time the book before it goes live.
Well, I have a special good thing to add to the release of book 4, After Midnight Strikes.
For all of you, because you are the most likely to take advantage of it, and because you all deserve some bonuses for putting up with my rambling, the preorder for book 4 will go live at only 99 cents!
That means that while the book is on preorder, it will be less than a dollar, and after it goes live it will be regular price of $3.99.
I’m excited that I knew ahead of time enough to let you all know, and I’m excited to continue this series. I hope you’re all looking forward to reading it.
Plus, this news comes just in time for book 3, Heart of Midnight, to go live on March 15th.
Now, I have another chapter for you of our little unedited, hot mess rough draft of a story – The Voice In The Forest.
The Voice In The Forest
My world came to me in flashes. Some of which didn’t make any sense.
First, the front stairs whirled and spun past my eyes.
Next, Montgomery was there, running his hands over me and saying… something.
But after that, there were voices, so many voices.
High pitched and wailing, frantic and concerned, snide and bitter.
I couldn’t place them.
Didn’t know who they belonged to.
And no matter how hard I tried to focus, to keep my eyes open and take in the faces that passed in front of my blinking and inconsistent vision, it was as if they were all strangers to me.
One of them must have been my mother, but I couldn’t tell which one.
And when someone lifted me from the floor, making my head ache worse and an odd groan come out of my mouth that I had no control over, I didn’t know who carried me.
The only person I was sure I knew, the only face that was clear, and the only one whose words I understood with no issue, was Montgomery.
He kept one of his hands in mine, walking along half sideways as the other person, who may as well have been a stranger to me, carried me down the hall.
Watching as so much of the large house passed by made my head swim worse and I gave up trying to see at all, choosing to squeeze my eyes shut instead.
Another groan came out of me, without meaning to make any sound at all, as the person carrying me laid me down on a leather sofa.
“They’re getting the doctor,” Montgomery said, his voice shaking. “It will be fine, Arabella. They’ll get you help and everything will be fine.”
He repeated his assurances that fine was coming, over and over. Until the word fine ceased to mean anything. As if he was trying to convince himself.
But, it did manage to help me. Not because I believed him. Not because I even cared that much one way or the other. It helped to keep me awake.
For some reason, some tiny sliver of memory from some moment in the past I couldn’t place, I was sure I needed to stay awake. Sleep was the enemy now.
Part of me wondered if I was in a comfortable position, but the rest of my body didn’t tell me anything. I wasn’t even sure I could move.
By the time the doctor came, all I could focus on at all was Montgomery.
Occasionally, someone would yell. But the understanding of what they said passed right past my ears even as I was capable of hearing just fine.
The doctor’s voice, steady and calm, spoke and the chorus of other voices answered. I remained in a fuzzy place where none of the edges of the world were distinct.
Montgomery kneeled on the floor by my head, hovering over me like he was protecting me from the flashing and blurring world around him.
With both my hands wrapped around one of his, the other he ran in touches lighter than wind across the skin of my arm.
He was the center of the room. The center of the world I was in.
Whatever happened, and I thought I knew—beyond any doubt—that it was done to me, it caused an odd form of clarity.
At one point, the doctor pulled one of my hands from Montgomery’s and I made that strange groaning sound again.
But Montgomery leaned his face closer to mine, his eyes squeezed shut like he felt my pain for me.
He looked similarly upset when something the doctor did something lower that sent a stabbing, shooting hurt slamming through me in a way that outlined my body for me for a moment.
This accident, assault, whatever it was, was worse than I thought at first.
No accident was required for me to understand that none of the other people in the house were here for me because they were actually concerned. I already knew that.
But it did solidify Montgomery’s place in my life. No matter how wrong our circumstances, he was the only person here who cared what happened to me.
And I wasn’t just the only person who could see him. I wasn’t the only person in the house, and in the last ninety years, who even knew he existed in this world in any form other than a corpse.
“The doctor says you have a severe concussion, a broken foot, and your wrist is sprained,” Montgomery said, moving to come closer to me and use a tender hand to brush the hair away from my face in more light touches. To anyone watching, it would have looked like a breeze was being kind to me. “After he puts the braces on you’ll need, they’ll be making noise in here and checking on you and doing all the other things he suggests.”
Another groan when I tried to speak. Nothing I attempted to tell my body to do made it listen. No matter how badly I wanted to talk to Montgomery, I still couldn’t.
How the doctor thought his short examination in the face of my inability to do, say, or think much of anything, was simply a severe concussion, I had no idea.
But I tried to tell Montgomery that I didn’t care what everyone else did. As long as he was here with me, at least I was with someone I loved.
Follow along on Facebook or Instagram as I keep everyone updated on Writers for Ukraine, and don’t forget that all proceeds from the Cinders in Midnight Glass series while I’m an author for Ukraine will be going to help our friends at MiblArt by helping Ukraine.
As always, happy reading!