CaitlinDBurnside

My Dearest Readers, I am writing to you today with a heart full of nervous excitement and a mind buzzing with the whispers of ancient oaks and bygone paths. You see, I’ve made a decision — one that feels both monumental and utterly necessary. I am rewriting The Oakwood Chronicles. It began as a simple reread, a nostalgic journey back to the story I first built from ink and imagination. Yet as I walked those familiar sites alongside Cassandra and Callen once more, I heard it: the quiet, persistent hum of a story not yet fully told. The foundations were strong, the heart was true, but the roots… the roots wanted to dig deeper. The canopy wanted to spread wider. Therefore, I have taken a step back into the grove. The series you know, those four volumes that held our adventures, will be lovingly unbound and rewoven. From four books, the chronicle will expand to eight. This is not merely a splitting of pages, but an expansion of soul. It is a chance to linger in the glens we raced past, to ...

My pen names are "Caitlin D Burnside" and "Aspen Winters". I am a Storyteller. That is the title I claim, the mantle I wear with more pride than any other. “Novelist” feels too formal, too bound by the rules of a craft that, in my view, has forgotten its first and most sacred purpose: to tell a good tale. My process is simple. A subject finds me — a whisper of a theme, a ghost of an idea. It might be the weight of a forgotten oath or the chill of a shadow in a stone corridor. Then, I decide for whom I shall spin this yarn. The audience shapes the voice, you see. A story for the weary soul requires a different cadence than one for the curious mind. My “Creative Writing” education was not found in modern manuals that dissect plot structure like a surgeon. It was learned in the telling itself. It was in the patient drawing of a character, in tracing the intricate web of how they love, betray, and endure one another. The style? It was the rhythm of the paragraph, the de...

JUST ANOTHER DAY ANNE woke up to the soft sound of birds chirping outside her window. The sun peeked through the curtains, casting a warm light across her cluttered room. She blinked lazily, feeling the weight of another day pressing down on her. With a sigh, she swung her legs out of bed and padded to the bathroom.  EVERY morning was the same. She turned on the tap, letting the warm water fill the tub. As she soaked, she thought about all the things she needed to do. Work was waiting for her, piled high with papers and deadlines. Yet today felt different. Today, she felt a flicker of hope.  AFTER her bath, Anne wrapped a towel around herself and walked to her bedroom chair. She slipped into her favourite stockings, the ones that made her feel a little more put together, and stepped into her worn-out shoes. She took a moment to glance at her reflection in the mirror. “You can do this,” she whispered to herself.  AT THE office, the familiar hum of printers and phones gr...

Yes, when you open old boxes or, in this case, check out old USBs that still work surprisingly well after so long... I was living alone with our munchkins, my husband was once again away on a work assignment for another six months. After my day was done — taking care of bills, doing kitchen chores, cleaning the house, and most importantly, homeschooling our children — and finally looking after our pets... It filled up the days with fun and laughter, helping to keep the loneliness at bay. Thank goodness for our children. They were the reason I woke up each day with a happy heart. They were my whole world, my joy, my happiness, and my love during a really tough and lonely time. To make a long story short, I started writing again, just like I did in my early days when I was a loner at school. Creative writing was my extra activity from the very beginning, and I kept doing it all through my whole education. Whenever I wrote, it was a way to get away from real life. I made up worlds far fro...

Once upon a time, I came to know a gorgeous furball. She was a mixed Persian/Short-Haired Blue-Grey female cat. She didn't belong to me. She belonged to a relative who had no ideas as to what a cat required for a long and happy life. No matter how many time this relative had been told what bare minimum was required, it was completely ignored... "Blue Girl" renamed by myself, I brought her the specific foods she required every time I visited and/or babysat. I'd sit crossed legged on the floor after my chores were done and she'd climb in and curled up in my legs. This would be followed by a unending purring session. If I needed to get up for anything, I took her in my arms or if I needed my hands, I would wrap her around my neck, her warm  soft and light body resting on my shoulders. She would gently dig her claws into whatever I wore to hold on. She loved it. She only lived for 8 short years, dying of advanced diabetes due to malnutrition. It was very s...

DECEMBER 1961 “CHOCHONE , you’ve outdone yourself,” my Papa chuckled, peering into the basket. “Look at ‘em, all curled up like little black pearls.” “They’re precious,” I agreed, stroking the soft fur of the cat with a single white paw. She was the runt of the litter, but she had the loudest meow. “I’m thinkin’ we should call this one Spot, for that dash of white,” he suggested with a twinkle in his eye. I nodded. “Spot it is.” The house was filled with the comforting sounds of purring and the occasional squeak as the kittens played. It was a stark contrast to the howling wind outside, which had been a constant companion since the first snowfall. Chochone had picked the perfect time to have her litter. The warmth from their tiny bodies seemed to radiate through the basement, even though the furnace was chugging away just a few feet away. FEBRUARY 1962 “IT’S GONNA be a cold one tonight,” Papa warned, peering through the dusty basement window. The snow had already started t...