Ellson barely managed to come to a stop before the doors to the grand hall. Both armoured guards eyed him with obvious distaste, raised visors doing little to hide their disdain.

“I must speak with Valir Vallanor and the rest of the council,” Ellson panted. “Immediately!”

The guard on the right creased his forehead as his eyes narrowed. He looked Ellson up and down, then inhaled as if about to undertake a monumentally undesirable task. “Wait here.” He disappeared into the antechamber.

The apprentice nodded and offered a weak smile to the other soldier. The guard did not acknowledge it, pointedly staring straight ahead.

Without the rush of air that accompanied his lengthy sprint, Ellson began to perspire more freely. He wiped absently at his dripping brow and its screen of thin, lank hair, peering down at the parchment clutched in the other hand.

He started at the beckoning of the guard who’d gone to announce him.

Ellson wished some of the perspiration collecting beneath his robes would instead have gone to wet his suddenly dry tongue. He entered the antechamber.

“Be quick about it,” the guard’s voice grated from behind. “They’ve got more important things to do than listen to a pimpled little sot like you.”

Ellson quickened his step, the cool of the air in the chamber a welcome caress across his reddened features. He scurried to the centre of the rectangular room to stand before the council seat, aware of numerous eyes following his every move.

“I hear you’ve something to tell us, young man.” It was Cabral Vallanor, High Valir, who spoke. He shifted slightly, eyes questioning. His midnight-hued, flowing robes and the golden trinkets adorning the High Valir’s fingers and neck presented a striking contrast to Ellson’s plain apprentice vestments and noticeable lack of jewelry. Cabral’s chiselled features were set and sombre, but at least he didn’t look too impatient. Yet. Ellson knew from others’ accounts that he was not a man to displease.

“Y-yes, High One. I’ve discovered some startling information.”

“I believe we’ve already established that,” Cabral’s face darkened. “Please, enlighten us.”

Ellson twitched. “I c-came across some old d-documents in one of the rooms below the library, High One. Much older than anything I’ve ever read before. Or even heard of.”

Cabral raised an eyebrow and his dark eyes grew more intense, though his voice softened to a near-fatherly tone. “Go on, young man. And, be at ease.” He made a sweeping gesture to emphasize his next words. “You’re among brothers and sisters.” The barest whispers of movement sounded from those gathered about the seat. Ellson shivered, though his body was still heated from its recent activity.

“I…I think I’ve come across something that contradicts points of the official histories—it is a recounting of the story of Ravien Alluminara, but what I’ve read so far… . There are discrepancies.” Ellson’s voice had grown anxious and his words tumbled out.

For the briefest of instances, Cabral’s eyes darted to another’s close by and he leaned forward, nodding. “I see. Continue.”

Somewhat emboldened from kindling the High Valir’s interest, Ellson went on, “If what I have read is true, then we will need to begin researching the rest of the documents, as I have had time to go through only a number of passages. But, I’ve seen enough to know it’s definitely a departure from the known sources.” After another encouraging nod and the faintest of smiles from the High Valir, Ellson added, “We could be on the verge of the most important historical find in over a thousand years, High One! Though, it may mean that we must reconsider the past, especially the official, recorded founding of the order.” He licked his lips. “I believe that this discovery marks a great opportunity for all of us, a time to revisit our oaths and the calling we’ve received. Truth be praised!”

“I must know: have you mentioned your findings to anyone else as yet?” Not taking his eyes from the young man, Cabral raised a finger in a subtle beckoning gesture.

“No, High One. I felt that you should be the first informed. I have not spoken to another of this discovery, though it has truly been a burden!”

“Ah. That is good,” Cabral replied, settling back into his chair. “It would not do for us to act too hastily…without proper and thorough investigation. Ours is a grave responsibility, young man.”

Ellson started as a dark figure materialized beside him. The man was tall and outfitted in layered, black and dark green leather armour, secured atop garments of matching hues. A similarly-coloured veil and hood revealed only his grey, piercing eyes.

“Tell me, young man, have you been to the Hall of Winds before?”

Ellson’s attention snapped back to Cabral as his eyes nearly popped from their sockets. “N-no, High One, I have not.”

“Then I will have Aras, here, escort you. I’d like you to make a report to the council chair in Eidara, personally. Valir Cronvell should be in the tower at the moment. He can guide you through the operating of the Hall and its communication linking. Just be sure to show Aras where you found the documents stored before heading up, will you?”

“At once, High One!” Ellson beamed. He spun and hurried to exit the chamber.

Cabral flashed a slit-eyed, dark look at Aras. The other responded with a slight, terse nod, then turned and shadowed after the young apprentice.

Aras stormed into the narrow room, yanking the veil from his stubbled face and throwing back his hood. “It’s like sending a lion in to snatch a hare.” He slammed the heavy door behind him and paced about.

“Take care, Aras. Such hubris often leads to trouble.” Malhaena smirked, dark eyes flashing as she stood to lean on the desk. Her outfit was similar in colour to Aras’s, but the leathers fit her frame much more snugly and sported fastenings that secured numerous throwing knives. Short black hair, glossy and cut to her jaw line, framed a face that was at once attractive yet devoid of warmth. It could have been sculpted from ice. “Besides, what point is there in grumbling about it? The pay is the same, either way.” She too, had lowered her shroud and hood.

“An executioner is paid nearly as well,” Aras rounded on Malhaena, “but would you wish to wear that hood?” There was little enough room within the small, dimly lit chamber, but Malhaena did not back down.

“Hardly. We aren’t nearly as limited in carrying out our duties, and you know it. We are free to conduct our business, without heed for borders or the status of our prey.”

“If I wanted to slaughter helpless people by the score, I’d have taken up the axe.”

“So what’s this about, then? Pride?”

Aras crossed his arms and scowled at her, though his leather made no sound with the movement. “I make it a point to go after only the hardest of marks. I find out all there is to know about them. Then, I strike when the time is right. And I give them every opportunity to defend themselves.”

“So, it’s a game, then. A stupid one, allowing a mark the chance to fight back.”

“It’s about honour, Malhaena. I had reservations when we accepted this contract from the Valir. I am Jade Talon, not some drunken street thug!”

“All right, calm yourself, Aras! No need to become angry. Besides, what’s done is done. And, more importantly, you have a new assignment.”

“Who am I to target next? A dairy maid?”

“A farmer. Or, the son of a farmer. And his companion.”

A black look clouded the assassin’s features and he opened his mouth to speak, then abruptly closed it. His expression softened. “The boy? The one from Ergothan we’ve heard about?” Aras’s eyes brightened.

“Yes, I think it’s him. Why should this please you? From what I’ve gathered, if he’s seen sixteen summers, I’ll be the next High Valir.”

“You’re not treacherous enough for that,” Aras shot back. “Stick to killing for hire. There’s less politics involved.” Aras couldn’t help thinking about the prospect of bringing in the young man. It was rumoured that he was An’Valir, preposterous as that sounded. Still, if it were true…he would be a worthy opponent. If the boy truly was able to use magic without the aid of metanduil, a feat no other mage could boast, he must be formidable. Aras’s eyes shone with a predatory gleam.

Malhaena appraised him, her brow peaked. “Don’t tarry, Aras; the Talons have a name to uphold.”

“Yes,” Aras sneered. “And you will remain in Neval Ketarra to sit over underlings and attendants like a nursemaid.”

“Until further notice.” Malhaena offered a shrug. “Valir coin will buy as much mainland ale after this contract is finished as it would now. I can be patient.”

“Now, it’s my turn to caution you, Malhaena: don’t become too complacent. It will dull your skills.”

“Not to worry, Aras. I have enough competition from within our ranks to keep me sharp.”

Aras moved to open the door. “Just be careful not to cut yourself.”

Malhaena waited until he was minutes gone. “I don’t intend to, dear Aras.” She smiled wolfishly, absently tracing the dark green, tattooed slash across the bridge of her nose and cheek with a long-nailed finger. “Not in the least.”

We shape our tools, and thereafter they shape us.

—John Culkin



How many printed books have you read over the last year? How about the year before that? If I think about it, I can say with certainty that I read a lot less than I used to in my teens and on into university. It takes me longer to read them now, too. And, when I attempt to sell copies of MetalMagic at conventions or signings, I often hear that people don’t have time to read anymore (side note: that could be a quick brush-off, but let’s pretend for a moment that it’s not). I would bet those people are spending a good deal of time doing what Nicholas Carr describes as non-linear reading, or in layman’s terms, surfing the ‘Net. So, what’s the problem, you might ask. After all, reading is reading isn’t it?



Not according to Carr, author of What the Internet Is Doing to Our Brains: The Shallows—or from the conclusions of a good amount of scholarly and scientific research that has made its way into the pages of his book. The basic premise is that, while computers and related technology have greatly increased the amount of information available to us and the ease with which we have access to it, they are fundamentally changing the way we think. And, according to the sources he cites, the majority of these changes are not positive.



The Shallows opens with a discussion of the plasticity of our brains, or their ability to ‘rewire’ themselves according to the tasks that we undertake. Previously, Carr says, it was thought that adult brains had little or no plasticity, that they lost that characteristic through the transition from childhood to adulthood. He presents recent arguments that refute this earlier belief. It turns out, the research shows, that throughout our lives, our brains are constantly working and reworking themselves to mirror the formats in which we use them. In a nutshell, this means, “Through what we do and how we do it—moment by moment, day by day, consciously or unconsciously—we alter … and change our brains.”



Proponents of technology might say this is inevitable and good, that we’ve been changing our minds since humankind first invented tools to make our lives easier. Carr suggests, while it is true that our brains have adapted themselves to think more in line with our technologies, earlier changes were mostly for the better. Socrates, he states, feared that a society founded on reading and writing would, “[A]lter a person’s mind, and not for the better. By substituting outer symbols for inner memories, writing threatens to make us shallower thinkers ….” Though Socrates was wary of the switch from an oral culture to a literary society and we can state with some certainty that humankind has greatly benefitted from this transition, Carr reasons that the same argument does not hold true for the information technologies we currently depend on. Having access to an unimaginable store of information which we can increasingly skim as we hop from page to page and link to link is effectively making us less able to concentrate for sustained periods of time or contemplate in a deep and reflective manner.



Carr’s book is dedicated to explaining the thinking behind seeing our minds as machines, constructs that benefit from computers and the internet, and how the act of unquestioningly embracing this idea can have—and is already having—long-lasting and adverse effects on us as individuals and a society. Much like the content and nature of this controversial subject, I am of two minds about it. On one hand, I know I have to struggle to read a book as quickly as I used to and avoid distractions while I do it. I will also admit that I don’t read printed books as often as I once did. On the other, I wouldn’t want to give up all of the neat little applications and programs that allow me to be a functioning member of this information age. What I’m convinced of, though, is that it takes a book like this to make me sit down and think about the situation (as I’m tempted to check my email).

I was just checking my messages this morning and got a wonderful surprise. My first genuine piece of fanmail! Woot! Anyway, I thought I’d share it here. I look forward to hearing from anyone else who enjoys the MetalMagic series and wants to let me know!

Anyway, here’s Victoria’s message:

Hi, Mr. Donais!

I don’t send letters to authors often, but I thought I ought to let you know that I am enjoying every word of MetalMagic so far!
I’m only into chapter three, and I’m already in love. You had me at ‘Prologue’, hahaha.

Each page is so vivid with imagery. I was immediately drawn in, and I can’t wait to get back to the book!
If it’s this amazing so far, I cannot wait for book two!

I consider myself lucky to have been in that CrossIron Mills Indigo store when I met you.
You signed the book for my boyfriend, Morgan, but I started reading the book first and I’m not letting him have it until I’m done…

A quick question- Are you planning on making appearances at other Alberta stores when book two hits the shelves? And will this information be available somewhere online?
You don’t seem to update your site all too often…

I look forward to hearing back from you!
Victoria W.

I’m a big fan of the television series, so I thought I’d check out a Walking Dead novel—it is Halloween season, after all.

I enjoyed reading it for the most part. It does contain a good amount of ‘violence and coarse language’ as the broadcasters would say. Still, the language wasn’t so bad that it ruined the read and of course I expected the violence part, in keeping with the whole fighting-for-our-lives-against-the-dead theme.

The story centers on a group of three adults and a child who are making their way through the zombie-infested wasteland that was Georgia. The de facto leader of the party is Philip Blake, a tall, muscular man whose no-nonsense approach to the apocalyptic events occurring around them gives the group a sense of purpose and direction, even if that purpose is merely survival and the direction is simply the city of Atlanta.

Brian Blake, Philip’s brother, is by most measurements the polar opposite of Philip. He’s indecisive, more of a thinker, physically small and often ill. Although Brian is the older brother, he’s used to Philip taking charge and looking out for him.

Nick Parsons, a friend of Philip and by association, of Brian, accompanies the brothers. Though slightly smaller than Philip, Nick is an athletic man and relishes his role as one of the group’s defenders.

The fourth member is Penny, Philip’s seven-year-old daughter. It is her father’s self-sworn duty to see Penny delivered from the feral, once-people that lurk around every corner. While Philip and Nick see to the duties of protecting the group, Brian is often left to watch over his niece. It’s a responsibility he undertakes with enthusiasm, as she’s very dear to him as well.

The small company is heading to Atlanta because of rumours that a secure refugee encampment is located there. Atlanta thus provides a beacon of hope and safety amid the ruins of civilization where none is to be found elsewhere. Everywhere they travel, signs of the calamity are present. Signals from radio and television stations change from chaotic, live broadcasts to pre-recorded messages and finally to static. Water and power utilities shut down as the people who monitored them abandon their work throughout the growing epidemic. Highways become obstacle courses of abandoned vehicles or burned-out wrecks. Neighbourhoods, towns and cities are empty of life. Only the dead remain and the four survivors must keep quiet and out of sight in their travels, lest they attract more of the ‘biters.’

As the group moves from a rural landscape to the outlying regions and suburbs of Atlanta, this plentiful evidence of civilization’s decay only increases.

Much like the T.V. series, I found the character development to be a great strength of the book. I won’t give away the ending, but as the book progresses the behaviours and actions of the characters are realistic and believable. Well, as realistic and believable as can be expected in a story populated by roaming hordes of mindless undead. Philip’s single-minded determination to keep Penny safe, Brian’s self-doubt and Nick’s loyalty to his long-time friend will all be challenged before the end.

I found myself asking the following questions: If you’re forced to live only for survival, does that change what it means to be fully human? And if so, then what would remain to separate us from those we might classify as inhuman, like The Walking Dead?





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Anyway, I believe someone told me–or I read about–the fact that procrastination used to serve a useful purpose. In the spirit of this post, I’m not going to make the effort to research it, but feel free to check it out yourself and let me know. I might get around to thanking you.

So, this useful purpose, as I recall, was a holdover from our more primitive beginnings, when we were hunting and gathering to survive as a species. Things that weren’t immediately important, like planning our next week’s (or month’s, or year’s, depending on your ‘A-Type’ disposition) activities fell by the wayside in order that the group was always supplied with food, water and shelter. Washing dishes, cleaning and a host of other contemporary items probably didn’t figure into the equation until at least the time when people stopped following herds of animals. At least, they wouldn’t have been on the radar of the hunting-gathering males. Not that I’m a supporter of gender-specific labour, mind you. I’m just telling it like it was. Or like I think it was without expending the mental capital to actually look anything up. Again, keeping with the topic, people. At least you can count on me to be thoroughly consistent when it comes to putting things off.

Well, if you don’t buy that explanation, I have another one. Again, don’t look for any links or references because I don’t feel like putting them in. Of course, I’d have to find them first, so that last point is rather moot. The second suggestion is that procrastination is the weapon of choice of perfectionists. Simply put, perfectionists don’t want to do anything but their best, so they often won’t do something because they can’t be assured it will turn out golden. Thus, the cycle is self-perpetuating. A beautiful dynamic of dysfunction, don’t you think? At least I’m pretty sure that’s what I mean to say, but here it is again–I don’t feel compelled enough to check a thesaurus.

Now to the real motive behind this particular piece. I was supposed to be getting into a second bout of novel writing for the day, since I fell a tad short of my 2,000 word quota. Oh well, I’ll try to add a few extra chapters tomorrow. Unless I have to get groceries or something else that my family’s survival may depend on. I wonder if the grass needs mowing …

I just got back from a fabulous weekend of meeting people and networking at the Calgary Expo. I will add more about the event later. For now, here are a few random pictures from the event, as well as a link to an expanded gallery on photobucket:

Yours in Truth,

Derek Donais

Robert Remington and Sherri Zickefoose

McClelland & Stewart; Fourth Impression edition (Aug 4 2009)

ISBN: 978-0771073601

“Welcome To My Tragic End.”

—J.R.

You know that strange urge to slow down and look that grips you when driving past the scene of an accident? That macabre pull to see what’s happened? Well, I had that experience with the latest book up for review: Runaway Devil: How Forbidden Love Drove a 12-Year-Old to Murder Her Family. Seeing the book, it rekindled my curiosity regarding the horrific stories I’d heard after the events of that 2006 spring in Medicine Hat. While I can usually fight off the temptation to slow down and ‘rubberneck’ at an accident site, I was intrigued by the book and thought I might be able to make more sense of the incident than I had from the news and television coverage that immediately followed it.

Robert Remington and Sherri Zickefoose, the authors, have done a great deal of work and diligent research putting together a solid account of this tragic occurrence. They combined previously released information with unpublished details and produced a book that examines the history and circumstances of the major individuals involved. From J.R.—the book’s shorthand for the twelve-year-old subject of the novel—and  Jeremy Steinke, her partner in crime, and their marginalized or cast-off peers, to the family who was brutally and coldly murdered and the central police figures who investigated the case. What’s presented is a detailed and thorough observation of all those who played a part, whatever their role.

To the reader, it appears that a series of unfortunate and seemingly disconnected events conspired and, ultimately, led to this disastrous act. The writers traced the path of J.R.’s parents as they struggled to build successful, middle class careers from very humble and even troubled beginnings, moving from Ontario, to Okotoks and finally settling in Medicine Hat. We are introduced to the personalities of Marc and Debra and their hopes of making a better life for themselves and their children.

Accounts are also provided of the lives of J.R. and her eight-year-old brother, Jacob, which help to round out the beginning, giving us a snapshot of what, by all appearances, should have been two happy children living in a stable and well-adjusted family.

The remainder of the book, in addition to a disturbing version of the events that  transpired on and immediately after the night of April 23, 2006, deals largely with the deteriorating relationship between J.R. and her parents or details about the friends and acquaintances who crossed paths with J.R. and Jeremy at various points and for various periods. These range from transient, mall-going ‘goths’ to estranged school friends. The book ends with a discussion of J.R.’s incarceration and pending release.

Overall, the book is a progression of darkening and often bizarre scenes, each of which lends another piece to the overall puzzle that this deplorable event represents. Slowly and inescapably, the story unfolded, much to my discomfort and unease. Knowing the outcome in advance was no help in this instance.

Through no fault of the writers’, I formed more questions than answers in reading Runaway Devil. It is a well written and solidly documented piece of writing. But, I can’t say I’m pleased to have thumbed through its pages and, needless to say, I’ll think twice before giving in to my morbid curiosity the next time—whether on the highway or the bookstore.

An immediate conflict emerges between Jaren, Morgaine, and another gifted village girl.  It is a conflict that forces the brother and sister to leave everything behind in search of refuge. However, the pair is chased across the land by sinister agents, as they have determined that Morgaine has the potential to become a truly powerful Valir (someone who wields Metanduil and acts as an advisor to the land’s various kings).  The agents are desperate to reach Morgaine and deliver her to a corrupted Valir who has developed a weapon with the potential to destroy kingdoms in a single blow.  The Warwitch has already killed one king and her army threatens to overrun the rest of the world.

What none of them, including Jaren, realize is that the boy is the most powerful of them all.  Jaren can use magic without the use of magic metal, but his first attempt at controlling the power is an utter failure…and without control, Jaren knows that he could destroy everything around him, including those he loves.

Donais’ writing style is fluid, while providing outstanding descriptive narrative; it is the kind of writing style that readers of any age should enjoy because the author understands all of the creative elements of a great story:  plot, tempo, theme, and mood.  Most importantly, MetalMagic has a message for all of us that live in the modern, technically driven world:  science and technology are tools, they are neither good nor evil.  It is how we, as individuals, decide to use these tools that determine if we are good.

The climactic finish kept me on edge for the last hour of reading as I fought beside Donais’ heroes.  I could see the instant flashes of magic in a multitude of colors. I could feel the power of the spells.  I felt the emotions of Jaren and his sister as they struggled to survive against the Warwitch…

This was an outstanding first book for a new voice in Fantasy Fiction. I highly recommend reading this novel and watching Derek Donais over the coming years.  I am hoping for many more novels from this writer.

Tod Langley
Author, Prince Kristian’s Honor

About Tod:

Tod Langley was in the U.S. Army for many years and served on three combat tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. He was awarded two bronze stars for his service in Iraq. His love for Fantasy fiction started when he first read Robert E. Howard’s Conan as a boy. He never lost interest in tales of epic adventure and the authors he admires most include Stephen R. Donaldson, George R. R. Martin, and Terry Brooks. He married after graduating from Purdue University and moved across the country while he was in the Army. They now live in Indiana with their three children.

Tod is the author of Prince Kristian’s Honor, Book One of the Erinia Saga, released in 2009. The next book in the series, Ferral’s Deathmarch Army, is scheduled for release this December. You can follow Tod at www.TodLangley.com or on Facebook.

In summary, Gladwell suggests that a growing number of studies point more to preparation than innate talent when it comes to developing mastery of a skill or aptitude. Though there is apparently a degree of talent required in the first place, once this baseline requisite is reached, the only thing that can be reliably seen to differentiate the merely good from the best is practice. And, the amount of practice has been pegged at around the 10,000 hour mark.

In fact, in one study from the 1990′s—conducted by K. Anders Ericsson—Gladwell points to the finding that the existence of prodigies, or ‘natural’ talents, those who are thought to travel without difficulty through the ranks of their contemporaries to achieve greatness, was unfounded. Ericsson discovered no such individuals who could rise to the top with little effort and, what’s more, neither did they find any individuals with that basic level of talent who, despite toiling away in practice of their craft, weren’t able to rise into that upper level. The common denominator between all of the really successful people—the unknown ‘x- factor’ of talent notwithstanding—was work. Very hard and very sustained work.

Now, all of this doesn’t mean that I would necessarily be able to become, say, a nuclear physicist if I wanted to. This study, and the others he investigated, Gladwell notes, was conducted with people who all had some initial level of ability. I, for one, very much doubt that a career in nuclear physics is within my grasp, no matter how much I enjoy the humor of CBS’s The Big Bang Theory. I have an affinity for geeks, but I’m not apparently gifted to that level of geekdom.

But, aspiring writers, take heart: if you, like me, have heard on many occasions that you’re either born a writer or not, the 10,000-hour rule does give some weight to your counter-arguments. I think that, if a person gravitates to writing and has a degree of talent for it to begin with, then there’s no reason to think that you can’t become a very good, or even great, writer.

This is where it gets difficult. You’ve probably also heard that you MUST make time to write regularly and purposefully to develop the craft. And, not just any writing will do the trick. I’ve probably spent almost half of the 10,000 hours writing essays and other functional pieces (or at least it seemed I spent that much time writing them throughout high school and university), but that doesn’t cleanly translate into creative writing. It doesn’t hurt, I’m sure, other than creating a few—okay, a lot—of bad habits, but I believe, if you want to write creatively, either in fiction or non-fiction, that’s what you must practice.

How long, in common language, is 10,000 hours? Well, if you wrote for five hours a day, five days a week, you’d clock your 10,000 hours in 400 days. And, if you convert that into weeks, since you’re not writing every day, it would amount to eighty weeks. Take off a few weeks here and there for holidays, illness, and what have you, and you’re looking at approximately two full years of full-time writing.

From this perspective, it doesn’t appear to me so much that you need to be born to write, but you need to be born with the desire to write, because that’s an incredible investment of time; especially since most of us have real, paying jobs that frustratingly want to interfere with our creative writing habits. Or, at least they do if you want to eat and have a place to sleep, not to mention to write.

But, as they say, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. And, I suppose then, that a writing foundation of 10,000 hours begins with a single minute. How many have you spent practicing your craft this week?

http://www.gladwell.com/outliers/outliers_excerpt1.html

http://calnewport.com/blog/2010/08/09/beyond-the-10000-hour-rule-richard-hamming-and-the-messy-art-of-becoming-great/

I just wanted to drop a bit of news about the sequel to Talisman, MetalMagic: Revelation (though that’s the working title, and it may change over time). I’ve just reached the 10,000 word mark and the book continues to flow fairly well from my stubby fingers and onto the monitor. Must be something about November and NaNoWriMo or that sort of thing. I’ve also contacted Steve Criado with some initial thoughts on one of the new characters in the book. As soon as I hear back, I’ll let you know.

I hope you’re enjoying November so far!

Yours in Truth,

Derek