I don’t remember much about the wounding . . .

Girl with a broken arm

. . . other than being very young. When mother finally peeled the bandage off, she turned my wrist this way and that, clucking her tongue.

“Now that’s a proper scar,” she’d said, as if the twisted, red knot of flesh were a prize. A badge of honor—even though I was too slow to avoid being wounded.

As if I could find some pride in being weak.

 

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When Irish Ears Are Smiling

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Welcome to my life. I am researching and writing my next book, which is based on the gods of ancient Ireland – the Tuatha Dé Danann, to be specific – and name pronunciation is really making my head swim. Not to mention, many of the names of these gods have gone through several iterations, and can be spelled a half-dozen different ways, depending on when in time they were written about, or where in Ireland you find the narrator of the story. Continue reading