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Winter Greys

Seasons shape a story. For a writer, the time to write know's no bounds. We write when the mood hits, or better yet, as a force of habit. And when time comes to do the actual work, no time of day or season holds us back. How common is it to write about the joys of spring while autumn leaves fall right outside our window. But the dead of winter holds an honesty of it's own; even now, as in the real world I anticipate it's end. In fantasy, it lives on

But why did I place book four firmly in the clutches of winter? Time knows no season, and the empty throne of Nordheim calls the dead season it's own. Although the thought of whipping snows and icy winds owns no thrill here, it has a place now as I write. And now I have a working name -- the Lords of Nordheim. We'll see if it sticks; but it is much better than staring at a generic title.

Now I can claim 185 pages, not counting glossary items. So hopefully, better news arrives next spring -- and winter, in actuality as well as book form, will have once again ended. Happy reading!

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