The Vaelinel Trilogy by Andi O'Connor Book Tour and Giveaway :)
Silevethiel
The
Vaelinel Trilogy Book 1
by
Andi O'Connor
Genre:
Paranormal Fantasy
Following
her father's murder, Irewen is betrayed and left for dead in the
forests of Mistwood. Rescued by an elf, Irewen awakes an exile with
no home, no country, and no people. But as the horrific memories of
murder and betrayal return, she realizes the nightmare is only
beginning.
The
world of Vaelinel is failing--its fate bound to her in ways no one
fully understands. A mysterious elven prophecy may provide her with
some answers, but continuously hunted and fighting for her life,
Irewen quickly learns that unearthing the truth will be more
difficult than she ever imagined.
Can
she accept the friendship of the Wood Elves, or will she stand alone
against the terrifying evil now threatening to destroy the entire
world?
If
Laegon had been in a foul mood when he entered the meeting with Lord
Brandir and the twelve members of the Elven Council, he was downright
fractious when he left. After his discussion with his father the
previous evening, he’d expected to shoulder a heavy part of the
burden in the coming weeks and months. What the Council demanded,
however, was impossible and, in his opinion, completely outrageous.
Not only was he expected to design and oversee the making of new
armour for Mistwood's entire fighting force, including Guardians, war
horses, and all warrior divisions, but he also needed to recruit
enough elves to double the ranks of the foot soldiers. What
baffled him was that the Elven Council even took the idea seriously.
There were simply not enough elves qualified to fight with any degree
of success. He understood their desire to strengthen Mistwood's
forces, but they were simply asking too much. Realistically, he could
supply them with a few dozen more foot soldiers at most, not
hundreds. Nevertheless, they insisted, and he had no choice but to
agree to the demand. He had no idea where he would find such a large
number of recruits. He would have better luck trying to sprout
hundreds of miniature elven warriors out of his ears. Laegon
sneered. Perhaps
I should recruit those lazy fools in the Council.
That would
give us a dozen swordsmen right there. Taking
a sip of hot mint and lilenberry tea, he scowled while quickly
pushing the idea from his mind. Even if he managed to convince them
to join the ranks, they wouldn’t last five minutes in battle. He
shook his head dismissively and turned his attention back to the
meeting. The Council's first two ideas had been inane; the rest were
utterly absurd. Once
he’d somehow miraculously completed those initial feats, he’d
been ordered to oversee the recruits’ training as well as
continuing to sharpen the skills of those already in service. On top
of that, the Council, in their infinite wisdom, declared that if the
Drulaack posed as great a threat as he seemed to think, all warriors,
Protectors, and Guardians needed to remain in Mistwood. They would
not hear of even a handful escorting Irewen to Lilendvelle. Not even
Silevethiel. He
and his father argued with them for hours, suggesting that once
Irewen was safely in the city, the warriors could return to
Silverden. But none of the council members were even willing to come
to a compromise. All twelve of them emphatically declared that
Mistwood's defense was of the utmost importance. No one could be
spared for any reason. The decision was unanimous. Lord Brandir had
no choice but to agree. In
one cycle of the moon, Irewen would set out for Lilendvelle on her
own. Laegon
cursed. Of course, none of the Councilors were willing to give her
the news. Stating that he knew her the best, they readily assigned
the task to him. He had no idea how the hell he was even going to
broach the subject with her. He’d had a difficult enough time that
morning telling her he needed to remain behind. How could he possibly
tell her the Council expected her to make the journey through
Lündvelle completely alone, without even Silevethiel by her side? His
fury continued to escalate during the rest of the meeting while the
Council assigned him various other tasks, which he did not care to
think of at the moment, and he figured he did a decent job of keeping
himself in check. But once Brandir insisted Irewen needed it, the one
job the Council hadn’t wanted to give to Laegon, because they felt
his emotions would hinder his ability, was Irewen's training. That
was when he completely lost his temper. Jumping
up from his seat, he screamed and spouted more obscenities than he
even realized he knew, watching with satisfaction as all twelve of
the Councilors’ faces turned completely white. They’d never seen
him in such an infuriated state. No one had. Not even him. It
was disrespectful and completely out of line for any elf, especially
one who was both a Protector and a prince, but he simply didn’t
care. He’d had enough of their doubting and idiotic ideas. He was
the most skilled Protector in all of Mistwood as well as the most
accurate bowman. There was no one better qualified to train Irewen.
As far as he was concerned, the only way she would be instructed by
anyone other than himself was if one of them stood up then and there
and killed him on the spot. He’d
looked at each of the Councilors, challenging them with his
penetrating gaze, waiting for them to object, but no one moved. They
were all riveted to their chairs, staring at him in utter shock and
fear. But the real reason they didn’t object was because they knew
he spoke the truth. Not only was he the most skilled in battle, he
was also the only one in Silverden who had ever fought the Drulaack.
Halthed needed to remain at the watchtower, and Perendin was injured.
There simply was
no one else to train her. He wasn’t being arrogant. He was simply
stating a fact. And even the members of the Elven Council, who
apparently lacked an iota of common sense, were able to come to that
realization. Once
he’d been satisfied they were not going to argue with his decision,
he informed them that if anything happened to Irewen while she was on
her own, he would kill all twelve of them himself. He then swiftly
told them where he thought they could shove their idiotic and useless
Council, included a number of choice and extremely creative phrases
provided by Brégen, and stormed out of the hall, completely blocking
his mind from everyone except his loyal Guardian. He’d
returned to his quarters, telling himself he needed a cup of tea to
calm down. But in reality, he was simply using it as an excuse to
delay the dreaded discussion with Irewen. «Those
bastards should know better,»
he fumed. Somehow,
Brégen managed to sound even more enraged than him. «Aye,
they should. But it is obvious they were raised by some unknown
species with lesser intelligence than of a box of hair.» Despite
his ghastly mood, the Guardian’s words brought a smile to Laegon’s
face. «Where
do you come up with these comparisons?» «It's
a gift.» The
prince grunted. «Useful.» «You
found it amusing. Did you not?» «Aye.
I certainly did.» «Then
do not argue with its usefulness. Some day you will find everyone
begging to have such fine and admirable qualities as I display.» «I
very much doubt it.» «What
I want to know is how all twelve of them could be so utterly
senseless,»
Brégen continued, swiftly returning to the task at hand. «In
all my years, the entire Elven Council has never unanimously agreed
on anything.» «Exactly,»
Laegon agreed. «Why
now? There must be a reason.» «It
was almost as if they want to fail.» Laegon
paused, recounting all of the words that’d been exchanged during
the meeting, and realized that Brégen made quite a chilling point.
Yet, something about his statement didn’t seem quite right. Then he
remembered a rather scathing remark Erondelthen, the eldest member of
the Council, had made during one of the arguments. «They
do not want our people to fail. They want us to fail. Me in
particular.» «What
drove you to that conclusion, my dear Protector?» «Erondelthen.» «Care
to elaborate?» «For
reasons I cannot explain, he was extremely disrespectful towards me
weeks before we left on our patrol. I did not think anything of it at
the time, believing it to simply be the ramblings of a grumpy old elf
who had lived for far too many years. But during the meeting, he said
something I do not think he intended anyone to hear. While my father
and I were arguing with a few other members of the Council about
sending an escort with Irewen, Erondelthen muttered, ‘only a fool
cannot control his Guardian. «It
was irrelevant to the discussion. I dismissed it immediately,
focusing on the meeting. But now, I believe whatever he is referring
to is the cause of our problem. He is the eldest and longest running
member on the Elven Council. He is also the most influential and
selfish. If he feels strongly enough to oppose someone or something,
especially if it will benefit him in any way, he would influence the
other members of the Council in a heartbeat. He has never
particularly liked anyone. And come to think of it, he has especially
never liked you. I have always been surprised that he has never been
voted off the Council, and more importantly, that he was even chosen
to be on it in the first place, though I have my suspicions regarding
such a miraculous feat.» «Ah...»
Laegon's silence to the lion's reply was deafening. «I
may have an explanation.» Sighing,
the prince rolled his eyes. «Tell
me.» «A
rather unfortunate incident occurred about three weeks before our
scheduled patrol.» «What
did you do?»
Laegon asked with vexation, wondering if this was what it would feel
like to have a hopelessly unruly child who you knew couldn’t set
foot out of the house without falling into some sort of trouble. «I
take it you are aware of Erondelthen's rather new, but extremely
incessant hobby of playing the five-course lute, though he is a
musical ignoramus.» «Of
course,»
Laegon answered curtly, his patience growing thin. «Get
to the point.» «One
afternoon, accidentally on purpose, I may have put my front paw
through his beloved instrument. Twice.» «You
did what?»
Laegon didn’t know whether to laugh at the image of Erondelthen's
face when he saw the splintered wood and broken strings, relieved
that for at least a time no one had to listen to his horrible music,
or furious at Brégen for destroying the Head Councilor's property. «I
can assure you it was done with the best intentions. I was merely
concerned for the welfare of the community. If left unchallenged, all
of Silverden would have slowly grown insane from prolonged exposure
to such a barbaric form of torture. I would not even subject my worst
enemy to such horrific sounds. Erondelthen could kill a man at thirty
paces with that so called music.» Unable
to help himself, Laegon laughed hysterically. «Perhaps
we should present him with another lute and position him in the front
lines. Even possessed by an evil spirit, the Drulaack would run away
screaming.» «I
would not even subject King Elthad himself to such horrific pain. » «Good
point. No one deserves that form of punishment.» Laegon
paused, attempting to regain his focus. «So,»
he finally continued, «we
know the cause for his animosity towards both of us, namely you. And
we know his reasoning for wanting to get his revenge for your
despicable actions, though they were well justified. But what I do
not understand is why he would choose to do it in this peculiar a
manner and at such a crucial junction in our society's history. His
childish act of retaliation could lead to the downfall of all four
elven races.» «Aye,
it is quite puzzling. He has nothing to gain. If we fail, so does
he.» «Indeed,»
Laegon replied. «Unless...»
The only
reason he could think of why Erondelthen would even consider acting
at such a critical time was if the failure of the elves affected him
in a positive way. And even the thought of what that meant turned
Laegon's heart cold from fear. «Exactly.»
Brégen paused. «So,
oh mighty Protector, what do you propose we do?» «WE
are going to do nothing. YOU are going to see if our suspicions prove
true. And if they do, you are going to find a way to expose him and
prevent him from doing any more damage.» «Is
that so?»
the lion asked. «And
do I have a choice in the matter?» «Indeed
you do. You can either do it willingly or unwillingly.» «I
see. And what will you be doing in the meantime other than dreaming
of Irewen’s kisses?» «While
you are lounging about trying to find others to do your job,»
Laegon retorted,
«I will be doing everything in my power to make the Council's
desires come to life. Because if I don't, no matter Erondelthen's
motives, Mistwood will fall.» «So,
I see you will not be doing anything critically important.» Laegon
smiled. «Not
in the least, my friend. Not in the least.»
The
Speaker
The
Vaelinel Trilogy Book 2
The
Vaelinel Trilogy continues with this absorbing sequel to Silevethiel!
Alone
and hunted by the Drulaack, Irewen takes advantage of her only option
for survival. Pushing her concerns aside, she lets the dead keep
her.
But
her refuge doesn't last long. Driven out of their hosts by Laegon, a
handful Drulaack have returned to the Spirit World. No longer having
the protection of the dead, Irewen is forced to return to
Vaelinel.
Finally
reunited with her companions, the burdens placed on them are taking
their toll. Thoughts of suicide and mistrust plague the company.
Slowly unravelling, they must conquer their personal battles before
standing against the evil threatening the land.
For
the Corrupter thirsts for revenge. And he'll stop at nothing to
satisfy his hunger.
“Irewen.” Irewen
turned, searching the darkness. “Father? Where are you?” Since
first communicating with her father, she’d entered the Spirit World
numerous times. Each encounter went smoother than the one before, but
she still wasn’t comfortable being the only living person in the
land of the dead. Regardless of whatever ability led her to this
place, she didn’t belong. “Irewen.” “I’m
here, Father.” Instinct told her to continue searching through the
penetrating blackness, but experience told her otherwise. This wasn’t
her world. She wouldn’t find him. He had to come to her. A soft
white light appeared before her, barely able to fight against the
dark. “Irewen.” Her father stood only feet away. Shrouded in an
eerie violet mist that seemed to flow through him, the Spirit World
didn’t allow her to forget that he was a ghost. No matter how much
she wanted him to be real - to be alive - he wasn’t. They
were standing so close all she had to do was reach out her arms and
pull him toward her in an embrace. But she couldn’t. She’d tried
touching him during a previous visit by running her fingers down his
cheek, but her hand had passed through him. Touching nothing but air,
the experience left her with a suffocating sense of emptiness and a
lingering icy pain on her fingertips. She’d
never be able to touch her father again. The pressure of his warm
lips against her forehead would never again greet her in the morning
before they sat down to breakfast. His comforting hugs wouldn’t
ever be there to help fight her growing loneliness. She couldn’t go
to him when she needed to ask advice or when she simply wanted to
talk. Not truly. Not while being in a world where they both belonged. “It’s
good to see you, Father.” Irewen said, being sure to keep the
distance between them. “Likewise,
my daughter.” She
smiled, remembering when he’d first tried to speak to her in the
Spirit World. The words wouldn’t come and he’d been forced to
show her images in order to help her understand his message. Now, he
spoke in death as effortlessly as he’d done in life. “What
do you wish to tell me, Father?” She didn’t waste any more time
with niceties. Chatting in the Spirit World, even between father and
daughter, wasn’t welcomed among the dead. He’d come to give her
information. Nothing more. “The
Drulaack. There are six of them. They passed through Mistwood
undetected, avoiding Silverden completely. The elves sent you to your
death. You will not reach the border of Lündvelle.” “No!”
Irewen insisted even though she’d had that very thought only hours
before. “There must be a way I can defeat them! I did before with
the magic of the Sea Elves.” “That
magic is unpredictable and unreliable. Until you are taught how to
use it properly, it is useless. It came to you before out of
desperation. It may come again. It may not. You cannot depend on that
to save you.” “What
can I do, Father? I’m alone. My Guardian was ordered to remain
behind. None of the Elven Knights or Protectors were sent to escort
me. Thanks to Laegon, I’ve had some training with weapons, but my
skills aren’t great enough to defend myself against six Drulaack.
Their speed alone would see me dead in a matter of minutes. I can’t
outrun them—even with the remarkable speed of Lord Brandir’s
horse Melldren who he was gracious enough to lend me for the
journey.” “You
can stand your ground, Irewen, or you can flee. No matter how each
choice is weighed, the outcome will be the same. They will both end
in death.” “I
refuse to believe this is the end!” Irewen balled her hands into
fists, channeling her mounting frustration into the fingernails
digging into the soft flesh of her palms. “I refuse to believe my
fight is meant to end even before it’s truly begun! Elthad cannot
be left unchallenged, Papa! By his hands, the entire world of
Vaelinel will be destroyed! There must be a way for me to finish what
I started!” Her
chest heaved with each quick breath as she tried in vain to control
her frustration. She could hardly believe the words had sprung from
her lips. Hours earlier, she had given up on her convictions,
surrendering to the death she knew awaited her. But hearing her
father speak so candidly of her demise as if her existence had never
mattered sparked an intrinsic determination to prove him wrong—to
prove herself wrong. Her
father’s grey eyes, once vibrant and full of life stared at her
from behind the mist, completely devoid of emotion. “There may be a
way.” She
had to fight to control her excitement. “Tell me.” “It
is dangerous and will most likely still end in death.” “That’s
a risk I must take.” “There
is a place where the enemy cannot sense you. There is a place where
Elthad’s bond cannot reach you. Walk in the shadows.” “What
does that mean?” she asked, irritated at her father’s answer and
subsequent silence. “I don’t understand!” A
faint trace of a smile flitted across her father’s lips and
disappeared before she could be sure it ever existed. “Let the dead
keep you.” She
didn’t have time to react. Her father’s apparition faded into the
darkness, once again assimilating with the one and the many. She
spun around, hoping to catch a glimpse of her father hovering
somewhere else in the abyss. “Papa! Wait! Don’t leave me!” Her
cries were useless. He was gone. No explanation would come. He’d
left her to figure the rest out on her own. She
sank to her knees, going over his words in her head. It seemed like
absolute drivel. There wasn’t anywhere she could go where Elthad
and his army wouldn’t be able to sense her. Walk
in the shadows.
Her father’s thin voice seemed to echo throughout the Spirit World.
Let
the dead keep you. “No,”
she whispered. “He couldn’t mean…” Her voice trailed off. The
penetrating cold lessened, and a friendly warmth filtered into her
body. A faint breeze floated about her, carrying the soft murmurs of
the dead. She couldn’t make out any distinct words or phrases, but
she somehow understood their message. She
studied the blackness, searching for the strange white light and
violet mist. It wasn’t there. No one had come. She remained alone.
But for the first time in all of her visits to the Spirit World, she
didn’t feel like an outsider. The dead reached out to her.
Caressing her, they welcomed her into their community. Tears filled
the corners of her eyes. Let
the dead keep you. The
meaning of her father’s words was suddenly as clear as if he’d
written it out for her and handed it to her in a sealed envelope. The
dead were offering her safe passage through their world. They
were giving her their protection. Yet,
that didn’t feel quite right. Something else her father said tugged
at the back of her mind. Then she felt it—the slight hint of
hostility. It only came from a tiny, distant section of the many, but
it was there all the same. Not everyone in the Spirit World felt she
deserved their safekeeping, and rightly so. She was of the living.
They owed her nothing. If she
accepted her father’s proposal, their hostility would fester and
propagate. Asking for their aid would instigate war among the dead.
And her life would be the price of victory. The
tears finally glided from her eyes, disappearing unnoticed into the
blackness. If she said yes, she would bring war to a world she had no
right to enter. If she said no, the Spirit World would remain
untouched, but her death would allow the Drulaack to roam
unchallenged and destroy the world of the living. Hugging
her arms to herself, she tried to control the growing sense of
defeat. No matter how she analyzed the situation, all she saw was
death. She didn’t want either option. But while one was certain,
the other gave the people of Vaelinel a slight glimmer of hope. “What
choice do I have?” she whispered. None.
A
Prophecy Fulfilled
The
Vaelinel Trilogy Book 3
Regrouping
after their escape from the Light Elves, Irewen and her companions
fear the worst after black smoke plumes on the horizon. Allowing
compassion to rule over reason, they ignore Finnwyn's warning and
return to Lilendvelle, hoping to help some of the survivors stranded
in the city's wake. Instead, they run into a trap.
Completely
surrounded by an endless army of Drulaack, they fight for their
lives, but their efforts aren't enough. Irewen is captured and
dragged into the heart of the Corrupter's lair.
Having
his prize, the others in the company are granted their freedom, but
at a great cost: the one named in the prophecy who is meant to unite
the elf forces and stand against the Corrupter is lost to the world -
trapped beneath the Corrupter's talons.
With
the aid of his mother's spirit, Brendell must now find a way to
gather an alliance strong enough to march against the Corrupter and
his army, but his time is running out. Each day that passes brings
Irewen closer to death.
And
the world closer to destruction.
Unexpected
chills ravaged Greldir’s body. He stiffened, intently searching his
study for the slightest sounds of disturbance. Nothing. Long
minutes passed, his chills refusing to abate. The temperature in his
room shot up. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. After slowly
closing his leather-bound journal, he placed his hands on the
smoothly polished wooden desk and pushed himself up from his chair. The
moment he stood erect, a loud bang resounded through the room,
followed by a cold rush of wind. The candlelight flickered and died,
leaving him in total darkness, save for the sliver of moonlight
filtering through a small gap between the curtains. Greldir
peered into the blackness. Everything fell still once again, causing
his short breaths to echo like thunder in his ears. His heart pounded
in his chest. Something
emerged behind him. He
held his breath, trying to discern who or what it might be, but his
efforts were in vain. He’d never known a silence so intense. It
called out to him, begging to be released from its own prison. A
baritone laughter filled the room. “You were always easy to scare.” Greldir
couldn’t force himself to turn around, even if doing so would have
been beneficial. “Who are you?” he croaked, hardly recognizing
his own voice. “Oh,
come now, you can’t have blocked me completely from your memory,
although I’m impressed with how hard you’ve tried.” “I
don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Do
you not? Brother?” “Kildür.”
The name barely managed to escape Greldir’s lips. “That
was my name once. Now, I am the Corrupter.” Greldir
shuddered, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end when
his brother’s presence leaned closer. “You’re dead.” “I
was. That much is true. But I am dead no longer.” “That
can’t be. I locked your corpse in a tomb thousands of years ago.” “And
now, the body of a Wood Elf rests in my place.” “But...”
Greldir continued to stare straight ahead into the darkness, afraid
to move. Afraid to believe. “I
see you still don’t trust me. That was a problem I always had to
deal with. No one ever trusted me. No one ever accepted me. No one
ever loved me.” The bitterness rising in Kildür’s voice was
startling. “Turn around and look at me, if it will put your mind to
rest. Face your demon from the past.” Slower
than he thought possible, Greldir turned and gazed at the black
figure silhouetted by the thin trickle of moonlight. Small yellow
flames once again graced the candles placed about the room, finally
revealing his brother’s face. Greldir’s breath caught in his
throat. The harsh features of the elf he’d all but wiped from his
memory stared back at him. The
overly pronounced nose, olive skin, full cheeks framed by thick black
hair, and light brown eyes set beneath bushy black eyebrows were
exactly as he remembered. “Your
scar is missing.” The words were out of Greldir’s mouth before he
realized he’d spoken. “Yes,”
Kildür snapped, anger flashing in his eyes. “You gave me that
scar, brother. I wasn’t about to keep a feature with such unhappy
memories attached.” Greldir’s
eyes widened in shock. “I did no such thing!” “Oh,
but you did. You were jealous because our uncle gave me a toy boat
for my birthday that he’d hand-carved himself. Once, I was shown
the tiniest amount of love by someone, and you couldn’t handle it.
You ripped the boat out of my hand, broke it in half, and sliced the
ragged edge down my cheek. All the while, you laughed, mocking my
darker features so unusual among the Light Elves. You proudly stated
that you’d given me something which would match my natural
ugliness.” “You
must be mistaken.” Greldir couldn’t mask his defensiveness as
faint memories of that day began to trickle through his mind. “I
never would have done something like that.” “Of
course you wouldn’t,” Kildür sneered. “You were perfect.
Beyond any wrongdoing or fault. You were everything our parents
wanted in a son. I was a mistake. An unfortunate accident they were
cursed with for the remainder of their long, tedious years. No matter
what I did, it was never good enough. Never right. Never deserving of
their praise. “You,
on the other hand, could do no wrong in their eyes. Our parents gave
you nothing but praise. You had no way of understanding the pain you
caused me. You were told to believe that it was normal. That it was
right.” Kildür’s expression darkened. “But regardless of what
you were taught, you were cruel to me. Crueler than anyone else. And
I never forgave you. And I never forgot.” Greldir’s
palms turned clammy, and he nervously wiped them on his trousers. “We
were children,” he said. “Surely, you can’t still hold a grudge
now, tens of thousands of years later. All siblings tease each other.
Even my own sons continue to tease one another, and they’re both
nearly five thousand years old.” “No,
my brother. The time for excuses is over. What you did to me was far
more than playful teasing. It was abuse. It was torture. And I will
have my revenge.” Greldir
couldn’t speak. The paralyzing fear consuming his body was unlike
anything he’d ever experienced. The room felt like it had expanded
to a hundred times its original size. He stood in the center,
surrounded by a pack of furious Guardians hungry for his blood. They
slowly closed in around him, snarling as they inched nearer. There
was nowhere for him to hide. Nowhere to run. No way he’d succeed in
a fight. All
he could do was cling to a feeble hope that what remained of Kildür
would spare his life. Kildür
slowly leaned forward. His face hovered inches before Greldir’s.
Shadows from the flickering candlelight danced about Kildür’s
already menacing features. His lips curled back, revealing a devilish
grin. “Welcome
to Hell, my brother.”
Andi
O'Connor is a multi-award winning author of epic fantasy novels and
short stories with a healthy dose of paranormal mixed in. She sits in
front of her typewriter (yes, typewriter!) every day and loses
herself in her worlds and characters in hopes that her readers will
fall in love with them as well. When she's not clacking away, you can
find Andi dancing her butt off in the ballet studio. Rest assured,
she's not the next Natalia Osipova, but she has a mean collection of
leotards and always finds an excuse to buy more.
She
loves bats and dreams of turning her yard into a certified bat
habitat. She has three dogs who constantly work hard to drive her
insane, but their fluffy cuteness outweighs any insanity they can
bring. Her husband 'Honeybee' is wonderfully supportive of her author
life, and her son 'P' may or may not have claimed her typewriter as
his own on several occasions. Deadpool is her spirit animal, and her
motto is Embrace Your Crazy. We're all unique and crazy in our own
ways, and Andi hopes others will join her by being proud of their
quirks and embracing their crazy!
Life
As A Pantser
Andi
O’Connor
Writing
confession #321: I’m a Pantser. For those of you who might be
unfamiliar with the term, Pantsers do very little to no planning
before they begin writing, whereas Plotters tend to plan everything. What
it means to be a Pantser can differ for each author. For some
authors, it might mean doing a basic outline to get their idea down,
with the intent of being open to changes later on. For me, being a
Pantser means doing absolutely no planning at all. I
get a basic idea, and I start writing! No outlines. No character
sheets. No world building. No creation of magic systems. I sit down
and write, taking notes as I go along for reference and consistency
later on. You
might say that I’m a reverse outliner. I write, and then I outline.
It’s quirky, but it works for me. Being
a Pantser has its own unique set of challenges, but despite the
frustrations, it’s such a fun and exciting process. My characters
take over the story and lead me through. They evolve themselves, but
they also help to evolve the story. They
give me ideas that I wouldn’t have come up with on my own, and
there are many times when I read the manuscript during the first edit
and think, “Wow, that’s good. How in Gandalf’s green Earth did
I come up with that?” The truth is, my characters did, not me. I
just put their ideas down on paper. The
best part of my process is that I’m as surprised when I write as my
readers are when they pick up one of my books and begin reading. I
have no idea what to expect and no idea where the story and
characters will take me.
Writing
as a Pantser is a wonderous journey that leaves me excited to sit
down with my notebook and pen every morning, and I hope my readers
have as much fun delving into my worlds as I have creating them.
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