I am, perhaps, one, maybe two or three, chapters, from joining the middle of the book with the later third.

It is just a matter of Raven traveling, now, to where he needs to be. He has left the city of the Mammoth Hunters, and, must now, arrive, beneath a different sun, a different, sky, and enter, the Broken City.

The book is nearing its end, and it is half edited.

It still needs an end point, but, that is close as well, for, I know, now, where Raven will go in the second book, and it is something that will set the stage for the second series, and,

to be honest,

to be frank,

I want to begin work on the third series, for that is the one that will satisfy the sci-fi, geek, within me, if anything within me can be called, “Geek”.

This book, this series, satisfies as well, but it is so personal, less, “Fun”, and more a journey that Must be taken.

Though I am enjoying the story, immensely, and I am not anxious for it to end, still, the ending of the first book, will be a milestone in Raven’s journey, a thing I am truly delighting in.

I am writing this as a pause, for, after tonight, if I can bridge this, tonight, tomorrow will be of reading and seeking to reconcile, to fix any broken continuities, to adjust any commentaries, and to see how the styles match.

I am to new a writer to have “Beta”, or, “Alpha” readers, who might point out glaring errors, and, as an unsigned, self published author, with scant resources, and no knowledge of the process to fall back on, there are no editors either.

I read my story to my wife, who, greatly enjoys its descriptive nature (She is blind, and loves a story which can paint a cohesive, picture), but this subject matter is not what she, herself, reads, but she listens, for my sake, and gives me input, for, she is a good reader, and likes good writing, and is not hesitant to give her opinion.

Family is not a good source of criticism, either, and, though I have had my poems read before groups of friends, they all like different things, and don’t seem to understand that the poems paint a picture.

One friend, she cried at the reading of a love poem, something my wife didn’t want anyone else to ever read, for, she saw herself so starkly portrayed within it, that she feared some, embarrassment, but, I told her what I had seen, that, everyone sees some aspect of themselves in it.

And this is why it moved people. They didn’t see HER in it, one saw himself as the man, one cried for she wished to be the object of attention, but, was not, had not been so in such a long time, this is what happens when we read a good story.

I feel,

That fiction can teach more, sometimes, than “Fact”, for, if its a good story, it draws upon what we know to be true, and we cannot help but enter the tale, and, make it, our,

Own.

-Timberbee