He crouched behind a barricade in a war-torn, pre-dawn courtyard in Hell’s Kitchen while four heavily armed men in black tactical gear patrolled the apartment complex. The wind whistled, blowing a thick snowfall and causing his eyes to water—a near white out reduced his night visibility to a few feet. The brutal cold snuck like a thief into every crack in his clothing, stealing the warmth from beneath his parka. He waited patiently, silently, his pounding heart drowning out the nearing voices. There was going to be a firefight.
As I wait on beta readers to finish with a book I’m hoping to put to print someday—a process which will yield a fifth round of editing—I find myself in search of a creative, if not slightly narcissistic, outlet. So I’m starting the blog back up. I’m told I need a voice, which I apparently lack. Perhaps a biweekly post will present an opportunity to locate said vocal direction. Welcome back.