It's been quite a feeling to look through a print interior again and know that soon the edits done on the new version of Rafen will no longer reside primarily in a word document: I will hold the book in my hands. In the meantime, Rafen - the slave boy who got out and saved a kingdom - has returned again, with the book now being available in e-format once more. If you're ready for a journey from a slave's cell to a palace in the land of the free (which is filled with mysterious traitors and often surrounded by the worst villains), feel free to click on this link to begin your adventure.
The print edition should be available soon.

Your name will change your life forever.

When Rafen was four, the Tarhians branded him with three little numbers: 237. King Talmon of Tarhia forced Rafen to work in the coal mine with his other slaves. Yet at twelve, Rafen is desperate to escape and find the phoenix feather he has dreamed about for so long. However, even if he does leave Tarhia, will he ever know true freedom? For Rafen’s name links him to a legendary figure in ancient prophecies, and the sorcerer the Lashki Mirah means to kill him for it.

We're a week out from the release of Rafen, so I thought I would share a fight scene. Who doesn't like a fight scene?
Not long until the Rafen, the ex-slave risen to become Fledgling of the Phoenix, returns to the fantasy market.

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​“But you’re dead.” Roger’s voice was tight.
“I don’t think so,” Rafen replied.
“How did you survive?” Roger whispered.
Rafen held his peace, Roger’s nervous twitching gratifying him.
“Answer me, two-three-seven!” Roger shouted.
“I’m not two-three-seven,” Rafen said.
“Then-then who are you?” Roger stammered, horrified.
A smile spread over Rafen’s face. “I am the Fledgling of the Phoenix,” he said, his phoenix feather comfortingly warm against his beating heart. “And I’m going to fight you.”
Roger twisted his face into a Tarhian leer. “Are you?”
The blood in Rafen’s veins felt like fire. Raising his sword, he directed it at Roger, who was rearranging himself into guarde, the sweat on his face glistening.
Now, something in Rafen hissed. He lunged toward Roger, thrusting at his abdomen. Roger leapt backward in alarm but recovered himself beautifully, swiping at Rafen’s shoulder with his glittering sword. Rafen jumped backward, parrying and aiming for Roger’s sternum. Finding his rhythm, Roger delivered a series of thrusts. Rafen backed into the right wall. He knew Roger’s sword was sharp, and his own was blunt. However, he had been thrown out a very high window and survived. Zion wasn’t about to kill him now.
He made a savage lunge and hit Roger’s thighs with the flat of his sword. With a cry, Roger stumbled back into the table against the left wall. His lips curled into a nasty smile when he glanced down and realized he was not bleeding. His attack was blinding now: a thrust for the head, heart, lungs, abdomen, head – Rafen had backed into the right wall again, and now Roger’s sword went for his eyes, and Rafen was not going to be fast enough to block it. He rushed sideways, his sword arm aching. Seizing the table Roger had stumbled against, he shoved it between himself and his attacker. Simultaneously, Roger darted toward him with a thrust aimed at Rafen’s abdomen. Roger’s sword tip hit the edge of the table; the sword bowed spectacularly and then sprang back, sending Roger staggering away briefly. Rafen made to edge along the wall past the table to attack Roger again. His opponent shot forward to meet him. The painting on the wall was above Rafen, and Roger flicked his rapier behind it and cut the cord holding it there.
The painting slid down, its frame hitting Rafen’s head with the impact of a hammer. Rafen found himself on his knees, still clutching his sword, the painting leaning against his right shoulder. Little white lights popped before his eyes. Groaning, he shuffled backward on the floor, allowing the painting to fall flat as Roger’s rapier flashed beneath it toward his heart. The painting swung onto the sword, and Roger cursed when his blade was knocked from his hand and obscured beneath the frame.
With a tremendous effort, Rafen rose. He had had enough of this. Roger hurled himself over the frame and landed bodily on him. Rafen crashed down, striking his throbbing head against the wall. His sight darkened, and a pair of long-fingered hands found his neck and started to squeeze. Rafen kicked wildly. Roger lay fully on top of him, pinning his legs and right arm, his demented face snarling in Rafen’s. Rafen could feel his eyes popping; he choked. Something like burning liquid rushed down his left arm, and with the last of his strength, Rafen lifted his sword and swung it into Roger’s back. Flames burst into visibility – Roger’s coat was on fire. Screeching, Roger turned to see the mini inferno that had exploded from Rafen’s sword, his grip slackening.
Footsteps pounded toward them.
“Rafen!” someone shouted.

I have spent ten minutes just now rewarding myself for writing 2000 words on my latest novel by visiting an old website of mine which bore the heading "yvilorsfantasyfiction: where terrible poetry and outrageously busy fantasy fiction wallops you in the eye". Visiting this website had made me eternally grateful that the book the releases on August 24th does not happen to contain any of my poetry. However, for old time's sake, I'll share some of my findings here:

Disturber of the Peace

Beneath emerald leaves
In grassy parks
In quiet places
A dog endlessly barks.
It barks and it barks until it becomes the whole world.
The sound grows and grows till colours are swirled.
Muddied, the sky turns a dismal grey.
I wish that dog would shut up today.

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I find this amusing actually, because I am now a dog owner. Fortunately for me and for the dog, it does not bark (or hasn't begun yet). So far, so good. 

Inspiration, Buses, and Majorca



Waiting for inspiration
Is rather like waiting for a bus.
You stand under the shelter
(Which has a big crack in the glass
And almost no roof)
And it starts to pour.
The wind is howling at you.
Millions of cars flash by.
You wait for forty minutes.
Five buses show up.
You wave your hands frantically for them to slow down.
You think quickly:
“Which one will take me to Cambridge?”
The buses start to leave.
You jump on one in a hurry
And settle down.
The air pump is broken.
There are loads of loud, rude people
Who leave their gum on the sides of seats.
The bus takes you to Majorca.
Thanks so much.
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I actually sort of like this poem, because it rather like the inspiration process. It certainly sheds light on why my poetry is so truly awful. 

I Don't Want to Be



I don’t want to be alone forever.
I don’t want to have fifteen cats.
I don’t want to spend all my time writing
And buying fancy hats.
I don’t want to be alone forever.
I don’t want to sing myself to death.
I don’t want to teach until I’m
Over-caffeinated and completely out of breath.
I don’t want to be alone forever.
I don’t want to be rolling in cash.
I don’t want play piano till I lose fingers.
I won’t study literary trash.
I won’t give up praying for one second.
I’ll wait and I’ll work and I’ll write.
Maybe one day I’ll have someone to share it with
If that’s God’s will for my life.

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Clearly, I wasn't happy being single. Anyhow, I'm married now. Interesting how much of this old website was constituted of morose, single thoughts. And now to finish with something truly awful.

The Pros and Cons of Deadlines


Deadlines are sort of like giant hammers.
They’re very unpleasant to be on the other end of.
Deadlines are like asteroids.
They can kill you at a blow.
Deadlines are like vampires.
They drain you of life and health
(And make you pale, skinny, and lethargic).
On the other hand,
Deadlines are a fantastic excuse to have coffee.
They make Facebook look one hundred percent more interesting.
YouTube turns into a magnet.
Chocolate becomes the staple of your diet.
When people start to write to you and ask you
“How far away are you from meeting this deadline?”
You turn into an ogre and want to yell at everything.
But you reply all nice and politely and try to act sane
Even though your brain is putrefying
And spilling out of your ears.
Once you have met your deadline,
You transform magically into a really nice person.
You feel all accomplished.
You go around drinking wine and spending time with people –
Until the next deadline comes around
And turns you into a raging hermit
Who eats unhealthy food and never exercises.

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I hope all this inspires you to greater heights than I can ever achieve!
​

I used to always say to my siblings and parents that half the joy of something is looking forward to it. I now have a date to look forward to. Rafen is being released once again on August 24th. That makes it almost two years since it was first published on August 18th, 2015. Having had the book back in my hands for an interim of a few months has meant that I could edit it and fix up many of the mistakes that had remained after its initial publication. After all, the version that is still circulating in New Zealand libraries was, for the greater part, a book written by a seventeen year old. A few years on, hopefully it now reads better!

Following this, the next few books in the series will be released again about six weeks apart. The New Zealand release of the print version of this book is scheduled for February 2018. So we are all go! 


Your name will change your life forever.

When Rafen was four, the Tarhians branded him with three little numbers: 237. King Talmon of Tarhia forced Rafen to work in the coal mine with his other slaves. Yet at twelve, Rafen is desperate to escape and find the phoenix feather he has dreamed about for so long. However, even if he does leave Tarhia, will he ever know true freedom? For Rafen’s name links him to a legendary figure in ancient prophecies, and the sorcerer the Lashki Mirah means to kill him for it.

Returning August 24th, 2017.