Ward – Stacey Trampler Series: Book One

It’s finally finished, folks. My novel, Ward — formerly Ward of the South — book one in the Stacey Trampler series, is done!

It’s taken me just over three years to get here. Not because it’s a doorstop of a novel, not because it took me a long time to write, not even because I’m a lazy bastard. No, it was because — and get this — I was not happy with the way it was and not happy with my skill level, or lack thereof.

I taught myself as I went, writing and re-writing, both the novel, other novels and short stories. That’s not as impressive as it sounds. English is my first language and I am not without education. OK, I don’t have a university degree or anything, but I finished high school (barely). I have even undertaken some further education, having tried to go to university three times and not finished for various reasons or another, mostly being money and having family commitments and being a “mature age” student.

So, no, not like I taught myself to read and write. Unless you ask my mum, then I’m a fuckin’ genius, but that’s a whoooole other story.

No, basically what I did was the equivalent of going to <INSERT BIG BRAND HARDWARE CHAIN NAME HERE> bought a few tools and watched a shit-tonne of YouTube on how to build a… THING.

Over time, I built some other THINGS and refined my skillset. Then, rinse and repeat. And every time I added a new tool to my Bat-Writer-Belt, I went back and reworked my original THING. Sure, in real life this would cause no end of issues and/or deaths. Or at the least serious injury and litigation.

All I can say is, it’s a good thing you don’t need to take out public liability cover on books!

Or do you?

How should I know, I’m not a lawyer.

Anyway, six drafts later, here we are. Finally, finally, FINAL-FUCKING-LY!

It was a blast, it was hell, it was bliss, and it was peeled ginger in my anus… Yeah, that last one, too. But the work doesn’t stop there. After three years I feel I am at a level where I can confidently continue to do this to an acceptable level. Acceptable to everyone? Hells no.

But fuck everyone.

Nothing can be for everyone. Not even the food of the gods, peanut butter, is for everyone, as unimaginable as that is. I can hold my head high and walk naked into the world with my junk and gut swinging freely and proclaim:

This is my THING! I made it. Behold it and weep, mortals!

That’s a powerful feeling. Warts and all, I am baring it to all that can see without shame.

The book, not my junk. I still have to get THAT looked at.

Because it’s not just about this one novel. It’s not just about Ward. It’s not even just about the four to follow Ward in the series.

It’s about all the others. It’s about finishing my draft steampunk novel, my 3/4 finished paranormal thriller, my YA dark-ish fantasy, my mystery novel. Hell, my fucking dinosaur zombies on the fucking Love Boat horror-erotica novel if I so fucking wish. Because right this fucking moment…





At least until the next road bump/block/kill sets the festering boils of doubt and imposterism a poppin’.



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