Before that, I want to express what a fabulous journey this writing venture has become. It's awakened parts of me that I thought had died long ago. I've met new friends and learned how small the world can be. There are so many talented people out there, all working hard to share their stories with others. Discovering those voices has been exhilarating. I'm proud to associate and interact with everyone. I know that I'm hit and miss in my social networking, and that I rarely comment on other blogs, but it's not for any reason other than I've been working hard on this series and spending as much time as possible with my family. I promise, if I'm following your blog, I'm reading your posts.
Writing has made me a better person, I believe, and it's brought out all the emotions that normal people try to keep hidden. I've cherished the emotional roller coaster, using the moments to capture feelings in my words. Many people who have given feedback on my writing have called it "lyrical." I like to think that my heart is singing onto the pages I write. I get into the characters, I dive into the story. When you read my words and feel something stir inside of you, know that I felt that same emotion a hundred times while creating the scene. Life is about creating memories that last. I hope my stories will last. ~ Jamie
FROM RISING FLAMES, Page One:
The Man in the Meadow
Maeia sensed trouble was coming. Restless during the past few weeks, she kept staring east, toward Taylor’s Ridge, as if tragedy loomed on the mountain. She was wrong; she had to be. Storms came from the west, and the worst season of my life had already passed. Summer life in Aisling had become ordinary and pleasant; filled with so much work that no discontent could find space between the sun and the moon.
“It’s all right, Maeia,” I said, patting the nose of my gentle mare. “There’s nothing out there.”
Maeia insisted on her mischief, pawing at the dirt, revealing the same hole I had covered over many times, and snorting at the mountain. Her white coat was frazzled and mangy, caked in dried mud and thorns that hurt when I removed them with my fingers. I wished I knew what bothered her, but there were some things even I didn’t understand about horses.
Offering the only support I could, I chose a small violet flower from the grass and weaved its stem into Maeia’s mane. “If you promise to behave,” I whispered. “I’ll let you keep this.”
She didn’t answer, and chose to snort at me before galloping away, leaving me in a cloud of dust.
Muttering a frustrated curse, I wiped the dirt from my face with the bottom of my dress and returned to the stable. There, an unfamiliar scent in the warm breeze caught my attention. Something was wrong. I turned around, unsure of what to expect, and searched the meadow. Far in the distance, a man ran toward me. I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t need to; his blue shirt gave him away. Darian.