Natasha McNeely's Author Blog

Never stop dreaming, 'cause the day you stop dreaming, is the day you stop living.


Fatigue: A Writer’s Eternal Enemy

Fatigue. A writer’s eternal enemy. That pretty much sums up the reason this post is so late. This first week back at college has been rough and wore me out. Now, starting tomorrow, I’ll be working for four days straight, meaning Monday and Tuesday I have class, then work. It will be a rough weekend and begin of the week.

I originally intended to not post because of this. It feels like I’m seeing things through a haze and I can’t get around it. Luckily, I’ll be able to sleep in before my eight-hour work day.

The surprise I meant to post today will have to wait, but I’ll unveil what it. The newly edited prologue of my novel, Tales of The Forbidden.

The problem is that I wanted to edit it earlier this week, but couldn’t get around to it due to college and all. So, I now offer you a new date; either next Friday or Sunday. After my four-day stretch, I’ll have time to edit and present to you the shiny new version, seen for the first time. To hold you over, I’ll give you a look into part of the prologue. The first couple paragraphs.

I felt bad not having this done by the time I wanted, so I figured the least I could at least give you this. Before I pass out.

This is about as much as I can write without losing coherency, so happy reading!


Bitter winds ripped across the gritty plain, casting grains of sand into the air. A man clad in tattered white robes stood in the desert. The sand beneath his bare feet caressed his skin, though colored crimson as blood trailed from many wounds and soaked into it. The upper part of his robes had been shredded and hung past his waist – a large gash tore across his chest and bled profusely.

The lacking garments on his upper body freed his wings; two wings larger than himself, once a stunning white were now tainted by dirt and blood, the remnants of his battle. His left-wing twitched and hung limp, and he cringed in pain, knowing full well that multiple bones were broken. The battle he ignited had stolen one of the few things that defined whom he was.

Despite his wounds, the man, no more than twenty-five summers, kept his composure. His sharp features, though twisted in slight detest, did not show the pain he felt. Pressing a hand against his abdomen to slow the blood flow of one of his wounds, he cast a glance around.

The battleground had fallen into silence, though once raged with the fight between both sides – the rebels and the holy. Now bodies littered the ground, wounded and fallen from both parties. Even though the war was fair at the beginning with no end in sight, the holy had soon received back-up and upon cornering the leader of their opponents, sealed their success.

Let me know what you think! I’m eager to hear your opinions on this first part of the prologue. The entire, edited, prologue will be available for reading soon!