Dear faithful readers,
I am in shock and awe over the fanbase my stories have gotten! Especially Bonds of a Forced Marriage! When I started writing this story, so many many years ago, I had no idea how big it would get, how many people would review it, and how many people would find it, spend hours reading it, and even review begging me to continue on with it, to finish it, even after I'd abandoned it!
I want to express how absolutely thankful I am, and touched, by all your dedication and lovely comments. Fanfiction is a part of my life and, more importantly, a part of my authordom I will never forget.
However, and I know this will come as bad news to many, I have to disappoint. I cannot finish BFM. No longer do I find myself in the world of writing Pirates fanfiction, nor would I be any good now if I tried! It has been years, years since I wrote Sparrabeth, years since I thought about it, and now with college and other, actual novels on my plate, I have no time to consider picking up something I put to rest years ago.
Not to mention the R rated content in some of these stories I'd no longer be morally able to write. -slight grin-
So thank you, THANK YOU, for all ya'll have done for me, thank you for being such great readers, and thank you for all the lovely comments and critique that I've been given.
I will always appreciate it more than I can express.
P.S. If anyone is interested in what style of writing I have now . . .
"The afternoon of my untimely end came around like every other, mediocre afternoon I'd ever seen before. Nothing special. The sun peeked through dollops of cream colored clouds, making faces at us from its regal throne, and sent down showers of heated vapors which sizzled upon our skin until it left us as cooked as Professor David's annual, Field Day weenies.
It was nearing the very end of May, which meant only two weeks until graduation. Classes were just wrapping up—so the whole student body, at the dropping of the professors' pins, were now feverishly cramming for their finals—and the festivities were beginning.
Ah, the festivities. Something unique to Cinnabric. Every year, for the very last two weekends of college before Dean Maestro let us out for the summer (or forever, depending on if you were a graduate or not), the professors would throw parties. Nothing grand or obscene—for they did have their dignity to maintain—but it was something to look forward to nonetheless. The two pairs of Saturdays and Sundays when we didn't have to study, the student body would flock back to the college campus and wander the grounds. We had popcorn stands, caramel apple stands, swimming in the nearby lake; a water balloon toss, pie eating contests, and roasted weenies that were sometimes, if not most of the time, overcooked. We even had music and dancing at night, all under a canvas of bright-eyed stars.
It was our annual Field Days, the four most anticipated days of the spring semester for any class, all the way from the Freshman to the Seniors. Everyone could participate, no one was left out . . .
Celebration for all.
That aforementioned afternoon just so happened to land on a Friday, several hours before the Saturday morning festivities would begin. And save for the two students who sat astride riding lawnmowers and banged their heads distractedly to the loud music pumping from massive black headphones, I was alone.
Further away, across the grounds, a group of females sat chattering underneath a large oak tree, their legs tucked underneath their skirts and their fingers rapidly working something against the grass—they were too far away for me to discern just what they were doing, but I guessed it had something to do with grass bracelets.
Still, they were far out of hearing. I was alone as best I could be, which I found myself enjoying quite immensely. There were no finals to worry about (I'd finished my studying earlier), but more importantly, I knew these would be the last of the days I'd ever have to myself.
I sighed and stretched out my legs, content to be parked on a bench close by to the lake. The feeling of solitude laid across my burnt skin like a thin coating of syrup—savory, but sticky. And not enough to hide the weight of the commitment that had been burning a hole in the pocket of my dusty, leather brown jacket for at least a week.
Excitement stirred through my stomach, kicking up the dread and hesitation that had settled at the bottom—much like the course and bitter grounds of the cafeteria's French Roast coffee. I felt the membranes of my lungs snap together underneath my ribcage as I huffed out a breath, then twisted a notch from the back of my spine.
The engagement ring was a hard lump digging into my thigh. Tomorrow, during the festivities, I meant to get down on my knees and beg for the hand of my long-time girlfriend, Julianne. I wanted her as mine and my heart ached at the thought of settling for anyone else—I loved her until I felt dizzy from the speeding pulse of my heartbeat, until my hands grew clammy and I forgot to acknowledge these emotions as just being something Psychological, all hormones and neurons and the fizzing of busy synapses."