Oct 16, 2013
Terri started writing stories in the 8th grade, when a little gnome whispered in her brain. Gundi’s Great Adventure never hit the best seller list, but it started a long love affair with the fantasy genre.
Today she enjoys an escape to Middle Earth during the rare ‘me’ moments her two young daughters allow. When not potty training or kissing boo-boos, she can be found on her back patio in the boondocks of New Hampshire, book or pencil in hand.
I sat and thought a long time over this topic but couldn’t come up with that one inspiring moment—that one heartbeat in time where my muse lit up, determined to share the stories in my head.
The possibility of my early love of reading crossed my mind but I never attempted writing FOR REAL until the 8th grade when a little gnome named Gundi decided I needed to tell the story of how he saved his people from a slave owner. Was it him and his friends that started it for me?
I don’t think so. For me, this was just the beginning of my journey. Unfortunately, I didn’t attempt writing again for years. Over ten to be exact.
That’s when I became friends with Anne Tyler, and she encouraged me to write when I finally told her I had always wanted to. The fact that she mentored me through two novels, did some light editing, AND wrote letters of introduction to a handful of agents boosted my confidence and instilled the dream of publication.
After numerous rejections I left Baltimore for New England in a major life upheaval due to other personal issues. My desire died and I gave up writing again for a few years.
Then a story inspired by my own experiences prompting the move came to mind, and Pool of Souls was born.
A few scribbled chapters, posting them on writer forums, and gaining confidence once more inspired me to continue on with that old dream.
Having four flash fiction pieces published, then two short stories accepted into anthologies gave me another major boost and I finally submitted the first book in the Pool of Souls Series, Eye of the Soul, to J. Taylor Publishing. Pretty sure every single nail got chewed to nothing while waiting to hear back! Seeing as how this is my blog tour, I obviously received that ‘We would like to offer you a contract’ email we all dream of finding in our inboxes.
For me, inspiration has come in many ways and forms, not just one ‘Ah ha!’ moment of clarity where I realized writing was for me. It’s been a long, bumpy journey, one fraught with pot holes, heartache, and moments of depression, but having my dream realized made every step worth it.
How about you? Where has your inspiration come from?
Title: Eye of the Soul
Author: Terri Rochenski
Publication Date: October 7, 2013
Publisher: J. Taylor Publishing
That should be Hyla’s first thought as her people are chained and imprisoned for no imaginable reason.
Instead, Hyla finds herself traveling through a land void of Natives, with human soldiers pillaging in desperate pursuit of her, and in search of the mystical Pool of Souls—home to the one man who can save her people.
Or so she believes.
Led by her faith in the deity Fadir, Hyla is met along her journey by Jadon—a human male and fierce King’s warrior, and his childhood best friend Conlin—one of the few Natives aware of his Fadir-given Talents.
Protected by Jadon, guided by Conlin, and with an unfailing belief in the purpose of her pilgrimage, Hyla carries on.
Like her, though, another searches for the Pool, and should he gain access first, everyone she loves, and everything she knows, could be lost.
Find it Online:
Cursing her arthritic fingers, Miri squeezed out a rag and draped it over the human man’s hot forehead.
“I’ve seen a lot more harvests than you, old goat,” she muttered, lifting his eyelids. “I’m thinking you’ll never catch up either. Doubt you last another half-moon’s phase.”
Miri pushed to her feet and stretched her hunched back. A heavy sigh slipped past her wrinkled lips as she glanced around the sick house. Keeping the night watch wasn’t too bad—she’d volunteered often since her old bones wouldn’t allow much sleep.
“Joints wasted, hearing all but gone …” Miri yanked on the long white braid lying over her shoulder. “I’m the old goat.”
She shuffled down the aisle, woolen kirtle swishing in the silence. A cool, autumn breeze rustled the crimson leaves of the magnolia and palm fronds overhead, drawing her gaze upward. Violet streaks lit the pre-dawn sky.A dog barked, yipped, and fell silent.
Miri peered across the village green to the thatched buildings beyond. A shadow passed between two cottages. Another three hurried toward the neighboring dwelling.
“Sight fading or my mind, too?” Miri rubbed her watery eyes, blinked, and leaned forward. Light flickered through the palm trees behind the outlying homes.
The flames drew closer, weaving between the trunks.
Humans from the mainland? Miri’s hand clutched at her throat. Soldiers. Fadir have mercy.
The men crept through the village, taking up positions at every doorway. Two brutes, more horse-like in size than human, approached the sick house.
Sputtering torch held high, the first strode forward, dark eyes intent upon Miri. A green surcoat covered broad shoulders and fell to his thighs. The golden wheat sheaf of the city of Varosh adorned his chest.
Cold sweat beaded upon Miri’s brow. Breath burst from her lungs, and she moved back, clutching the door jam.
The second soldier stepped closer, chains and shackles clanking in his hand. He stopped two paces away from Miri, and a smile stretched his stubbled cheeks, revealing rotted teeth. “Good morning pointy-ears.”
Miri stared, heartbeat thundering in her ears. She’d been called worse in her eighty-three birth passings but never with such malice.
A single cry rang out across the village, and doors crashed inward. Screams rent the air.
“Don’t fight Native woman,” rotten-teeth sneered, shackles outstretched.
“W-why?” Miri whispered, taking a step backward.
A scowl narrowed his gaze, and his fist shot forward.
Bursts of light and pain exploded through Miri as she crumpled to the floor.
Miri’s people huddled on the village green as fall’s pale sun crested the trees. Cold metal had been clasped around their necks and ankles. Many trembled in the cool air, little more than night clothes covering their nakedness. Miri held to her braid with a white-knuckled grip, her head and its egg-sized bump throbbing in time with her pulse.
A handful of other battered Natives who had attempted flight were the last to join them, the soldiers tossing them forward like sacks of potatoes.
Happy reading until next time!