The DRIFT of HANDS

The Drift of Hands is the story of a traveling health researcher who finds her own wounds are deeply connected to the scars of three others. As she works to heal their physical ailments  she learns to release her past trauma and restore love. 

[Thank you for your interest! See samples of chapters either below the FAQ or on my website page: www.nomadaka.com/thedriftofhands ]


WHO + WHAT: A writer, holistic health practitioner, and designer [www.nomadaka.com] I wrote my 200 page novel three years ago when time was affordable and I had not yet killed my third laptop. Then after a move to Montreal, unreasonable heartache, and a degree in visual arts, I let my book languish.

WHEN: My young (1 year and 3 months old) laptop gurgled and popped before it staggered into a frozen blue screen and unceremoniously died. Warranty lapsed, panic ensued. So I am now hoping, my lovely friends and strangers,  that you can help me with some support to get a new machine to edit my novel in its final form --signed, sealed, and delivered to my agent by the new year. 

FOR: I am raising funds for the equivalent of what I would make in two weeks of design work and for a medium-ranked machine. I am joined at the electronic hip with my laptops for my writing and design work so I need something that doesn't gasp at the sight of two programs running simultaneously. I have the time to focus but I'm at the starving artist stage currently and need a little help so thank you in advance for any support!

THANKS! I have been very lucky with wonderful and inspiring friends and strangers who were a great emotional support for my book. I would be eternally grateful to anyone who can help me finish this final stage. Any amount of support is greatly appreciated! I will be giving all donors an ebook copy of my book until I get to the publishing stage when I will happily honor anyone who donated $20 or above with printed copies.

I hope everyone has an amazing and inspiring holiday and has their own wishes come true!

Vanessa


Chapter 1 [sample]

The human hand is precise. Even the clumsy swollen hand of the bacon cook as he stripes a black pan with gristle and meat. Watching her, distracted, with learned empathy. Boredom. Her hands were thin from change, worn. Molding bark into bookcases for leathered books, Tol often understood. But his world stagnated in physical habit and tortured her freedom. The heart is not so precise. He would, when in this deep water, dive.

Chapter 3 [sample]

I was a small child when the glass myth was first told to me. Pale eyes whose dry ducts teared grey, I was prone to illness and to quick recovery when my mother’s honey drops coated my parched throat and her wanderers’ tales filled my impatient ears. But father had wandered too far and the tales ended at eleven. The pot of lozenges long abandoned.

Chapter 5 [sample]

The carpenter smooths the back of the table, dusting off the edges with a thick-veined hand.  He steps back to admire the carved, cream-colored board.  With the scent of wood and the lingering sound of drums from his den he can barely hear her question. 

Chapter 7 [sample]

Choking on the dust, the mare screams over the scorched earth. The writhing wind comes. The nostrils of the beast flare finding the fleeting air. The ground heaves with every beat of the mare’s hooves. Its mane wrestles with the storm. The smell of wild horses tangles with a rain cloud and begins to darken the stampede. The earth is soon shadowed by the sky and the air thickens. The animals align, descend on the camp, then scatter behind the shadows. Paralyzed, I was unprepared for the thunder.

I can still hear the hooves dancing with Enata’s drum. The thunder barely a hum until the mare passes and it can resume its bellowing rage. The mare passing …its legs turning her heavy bronze body in a circle. Flares the four directions. Bates the wind. In the last glare of lightning I see a young woman astride the golden body of wildness. She calls to her horse in the rain. Her voice a high pitch amid the rumblings. I see them rage towards me  in pursuit of the hills behind me, looking for escape. The eyes of the beast reflect the intermittent shards of light. Still unable to move my feet I grab my coat to wave to her, signal the voice. The woman, now closer, signals to stand…to run.


Vanessa King
www.nomadaka.com