Happy Accidents and The Gift of Writer’s Block

“If you love something, let it go…”

 

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In all my years of writing, I never experienced writer’s block. In fact, I used to poo-poo the very idea of writer’s block. But, as with any force of nature that is refused, like the Evil Fairy in Sleeping Beauty, it comes after you.

As far as the writing goes, I had big plans for 2015. But the projects I was striving wrap up in 2014, kept falling into chaos. I simply wanted to write something short, and the stories found more twists and turns, the characters  more to say,  and they would not be contained. On April Fools Day, my computer crashed, and in May, I had to get a real job — the first full-time job I’d had in years. This job had the added benefit of a 90 minute commute in both directions. On the weekends I had to catch up on chores. I had to give writing a rest.

 

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Visited by the Dreaded Blockage

In late October 2014, I published The Shadows. I was very excited about this book. It has great series potential.  I really planned to have the second Poppy Farrell Mystery out in Spring of 2015, and was working very hard on it, when I hit a plot sng. I still have not resolved this.

The problem seems to be that, in The Shadows, Poppy was the driving force, backed up by her roommate, Clair. In Taller Than Our Souls, the sequel, she and Clair are joined by Tom and Rupert who they met at the Halloween Party in The Shadows. Poppy needs to carry the weight of the story because it is her series, but now the others need POV’s as well. The story also has more layers. I am sure this tangle will be straightened out, but for now the book simmers on the back burner being stirred by the Muses, or maybe the Furies…

Happy Accidents

 Taller Than Our Souls boils down, as does the Prequel to The Lady in Yellow that I promised readers last winter. I planned for this book,  Sovay, to be a shorter work, a novella, for fans of The Lady in Yellow, but it got long. While working on this book, I was also dealing with recovery from an accident, and getting to know the most wonderful man on the planet who cheered me up so much that I was whisked away from the dark mood of the book into Munchkinland, or something. Since Sovay is a horror story, the climactic scene must be horrific. I was unable to go there.  Nor did I want to    :)

I had the same problem with Dark Reliquary. I am sure I will able to get back into the rightful morbid state soon enough, but in a different way….in a better way too, I think.

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The other happy accident Has to do with Morna.

I had a book cover designed for Morna, but the story I was writing was about Lady Rowan. Morna, her daughter,  did not appear until the second half of this book, and I had planned a sequel about her. This Celtic Tale of the Selkies, is quite literary, (which I have learned means that it probably won’t sell very well, even if it a a bit Game of Thrones in tone and the tragic trajectory of the plot) so I wondered if a sequel was even a good idea. I tried to get a good cover made for this book with the Selkie on the cover and was not happy with any of the results. People loved the Morna cover, however, so I thought I’d just use it anyway, even if Morna came in during the second act.

Then it struck me! Change Lady Rowan’s name to Morna and Morna’s to something else. The effect on the story was amazing! The early pages of the book began shimmer darkly, various elements of description and character grew moody and poetic,  the clash between reality and fantasy, good and evil, were heightened. Changing the protagonist’s name vastly improved the book! This is not the first time I have experienced the power of naming. In fact the entire story of The Shadows came to after I found all the names!

If I hadn’t had writer’s block, and cover-art block, I would never have had this lightning bolt of inspiration.

This book is in the polishing stage, by the way. So it won’t be long!

The Long Tale

So much in Indie writing and publishing is about speed of production because,  more stock on the virtual shelf, means more visibility, which means more sales, which means more money. I can’t do it. I tried, but I am not a workaholic. I love to write, but there is nothing I love so much that I want to be chained to it 24-7.

When my computer crashed, I was able to stop listening to all the mega successful who only intimidated me, and the Indie Author gurus whose sole definition of success is how much money you make. I was able to get off the bandwagon and get back to writing the way I want to write: focusing on depth, layering of story, strongly motivated characters, imagination and language. My stuff is too literary to be mega-popular anyway, so what the Hey? I cannot write at the level I desire at top speed, or by taking speed to stay up all nigh while burning my brain out.

Do I want a career?

Yes!

But I also want a life. :)

 

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Where Have I Been?

My dear friends, sometimes life happens. Despite my best efforts, writing has been slowed down and was downright stalled for a while because of various adventures in my life. But! I do have something coming out soon!

A Tale of the Selkies called The Twilight Sea is almost ready to go. I have been unhappy with the male models I tried on the cover—they were just too modern looking— and finally figured out what to do about it. I will share that as soon as I get it.

 

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Here is the cover for the sequel. I thought I would use it, but that was a response to frustration with my progress. Morna is not the main character in The Twilight Sea–her mother, Lady Rowan is. Lady Rowan is a Scottish aristocrat whose husband, Lord Hugh, sends her and his two little daughters out of Scotland to remove them from the violence of the War for Scottish Independence in 1296.  Lady Rowan and her daughters take a ship to far off Norway, but after a shipwreck, they are accused of witchcraft and thrown overboard. They find land on Fair Isle, the furthest north of the Orkney Islands.

Having lost everything and  Lady Rowan and her tiny band of children and servants move into an ancient ruined castle at the edge of the sea, Dun Usgar. While, there Lady Rowan spies a strange ship coming into the harbor, piloted by a spirit, a mysterious lover, the Selkie…

Please enjoy the magic!

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A Work in Progress: The Twilight Sea

SCENE:

As she stepped down the path to the shore, Lady Rowan knew she was risking her very soul, for spilling over with infernal desires, her gown and her hands and her feet, the path running down before her, shimmered with radiance of pure gold.

She’d always had a weakness for gold.

But this realization did not stop her. Surely one night of adventure in all her long months of privation, could not be held against her. She would repent. God was meant to forgive, after all, her sins.

And if the Selkie were real, perhaps, once he knew that she and her little band of Scots meant no harm, he would help them.

A small currach bobbed in the surf as if it were waiting for her. She’d never seen it there before. The two troughs from the Merrow had drifted further down the shore, their long ropes keeping them just within sight. She glanced up at the ship glimmering far out on the low tide, and wondered if the currach had been dropped from that otherworldly vessel to fetch her. But who could have piloted it over the waves and anchored it here? One swift look around told her she was alone on the shore.

It was obvious the currach had been sent for her. What would it mean if she stepped into it? She knew it would take her to the ship. Would she be able to come back? She had her daughters to consider.

But this is not really happening, is it? It is naught but a night vision sent by spirits of the sea. One that will dissolve at daybreak and leave me waking in my bed… .as it has before.

Careful of her shoes, she stepped into the currach. There was no need to row; there were no oars. Before she could sit down, an otherworldly wind blew up. Filling her golden mantel like a sail, it carried her over the water to the gangplank. She saw waves washing through the hull of the ship as if it were nothing more than a mirage, or a phantom, or a dream. The plank, upon which she was to ascend to the deck, was barely visible: a mere line of light.

How could it bear her weight? It was not possible!

Let it be a dream, she thought. She rose up the gangplank to the deck of the ship as if she, too, were a spirit. A wispy bit of nothing….

Was it possible for the soul to leave the living body and wander away on its own?

This notion set her heart pulsing.

Arriving at the top of the plank, she was instantly transfixed by the shadowy figure that awaited her.

Powerful yet insubstantial, like a pillar of smoke or cloud, the young man stood at the prow of the ship. The bright color of his scarlet robes bled through the dark like his own heart’s blood. His face was pensive, his eyes haunted. He took Lady Rowan’s hand in a clasp like ice, and spoke with the low, whispering voice of the sea.

Well met, my love.

“Well met,” said she.

He bowed almost to the ground before her.

“How did we meet?” Lady Rowan asked. “I have no memory of it.”

I saw you at the prow of a ship, a vision of beauty coming through the mist.

So this was indeed the man whose face had appeared before her when she’d bared her breasts on the Merrow, gazing at her through the mist with the black, glistening eyes of a seal.

And as one recalls a fleeting vision, she remembered the first time she’d seen the ship drifting slowly out of the fog appearing among the dolmens of the sea, and unfurling its bright red sail. She remembered her vigil at the narrow window, sensing the presence of a tall, dark figure in the prow, how he’d come to her that night and declared his love.

It seemed the ship, and its enigmatic helmsman, had never been, had always been, just at the edge of her consciousness, for as long as she could remember.

His soft, dark eyes spoke to the ache in her heart. She allowed him to lead her to a pavilion of violet hangings lined with scarlet.

Inside, was a table set with tall, flaring candles, goblets of gold, a cask of wine, and fine platters of oysters and fishes fresh plucked from the sea. There was also a bed hung with red silken veils spattered over with pearls. And folded over the end of the bed was a sealskin as brown and soft as the finest cloak, or the furred raiment of a king.

Taking in the sumptuous surroundings, Lady Rowan sat in the high-backed chair and spread her skirts out around her. The stranger was pouring wine into two golden goblets. His long fingers, flickering with costly rings, were thin and pointed at the tips. What this magical creature wanted of her was clear, but the voices of her children echoed in her mind, warning her to wake and flee this marvelous encounter.

Not yet. Not yet… She would never abandon her girls, but she had a right to a bit of indulgence having been so long deprived.

The man’s face, in the candlelight, was finely composed of high cheekbones, a straight nose and pale, curving lips above a strong chin. The green lights in his deep-set eyes scintillated like embers sinking back into darkness.

He held one of the goblets up for her to take.

Please.

She took it. The wine was richly red and charged with lights. She held her goblet up and joined its edge to his, pledging her love for just this night.

She drank. The taste was unpleasant, salty, like the sea, slightly metallic, heady. She wouldn’t need much to dull the inner voices urging her to run.

“What is your name?” she asked him.

I have no name…

“Where do you come from?”

Sule Skerry…

Sule Skerry was in the far north, a sea within the sea, and no place on earth. The island that, for wickedness, had sunk below the waves. So Fia had told her.

“Who are your people?”

He looked at her with hunger.

My people are dying, vanishing from the world…

Before she could protest, he took her in his arms, and to the strains of distant echoing drones, whirled her round and round. Every beating measure filled her heart with ecstasy; every glance of the stranger’s eyes unlocked desires long denied…

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Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow by Thomas de Quincy

On of my readers, Alessandra from Italy, writes to me all the time about Gothic books she is interetsed in or discoveries she has made. I have found some amazing things through her. She knows more than i do, that’s for sure!

One of the stories she found was this short piece by Thomas de Quincy (1785-1859) The themes in his short story Levana and Our Ladie sof Sorrow, was a surprise and a revelation to me. In developing the plot for the second Poppy Farrell Mystery, Taller Thna Our Souls, I was inspired by Dario Argento’s film Inferno, the second of his Dark Mothers Trilogy. The first of these Suspiria, influenced The Shadows quite a bit, so there’s some underlying continuity of theme. Though I can’t stand Argento’s graphic, almost cartoonish violence fests, I find the premis of these stories fascinating. I also found Argento’s inspiration In Levana.

So here it is:

Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow

 

INFERNO

 

OFTENTIMES at Oxford I saw Levana in my dreams. I knew her by her Roman symbols. Who is Levana? Reader, that do not pretend to have much leisure for very much scholarship, you will not be angry with me for telling you. Levana was the Roman goddess that performed for the new-born infant the earliest office of ennobling kindness,—typical, by its mode, of that grandeur which belongs to man everywhere, and of that benignity in powers invisible which even in pagan worlds sometimes descends to sustain it. At the very moment of birth, just as the infant tasted for the first time the atmosphere of our troubled planet, it was laid on the ground. But immediately, lest so grand a creature should grovel there for more than one instant, either the paternal hand, as proxy for the goddess Levana, or some near kinsman, as proxy for the father, raised it upright, bade it look erect as the king of all this world, and presented its åforehead to the stars, saying, perhaps, in his heart, “Behold what is greater than yourselves!” This symbolic act represented the function of Levana. And that mysterious lady, who never revealed her face (except to me in dreams), but always acted by delegation, had her name from the Latin verb (as still it is the Italian verb) levare, to raise aloft.
  This is the explanation of Levana, and hence it has arisen that some people have understood by Levana the tutelary power that controls the education of the nursery. She, that would not suffer at his birth even a prefigurative or mimic degradation for her awful ward, far less could be supposed to suffer the real degradation attaching to the non-development of his powers. She therefore watches over human education. Now the word educo, with the penultimate short, was derived (by a process often exemplified in the crystallisation of languages) from the word educo, with the penultimate long. Whatever educes, or develops, educates. By the education of Levana, therefore, is meant,—not the poor machinery that moves by spelling-books and grammars, but by that mighty system of central forces hidden in the deep bosom of human life, which by passion, by strife, by temptation, by the energies of resistance, works for ever upon children,—resting not night or day, any more than the mighty wheel of day and night themselves, whose moments, like restless spokes, are glimmering for ever as they revolve.
  If, then, these are the ministries by which Levana works, how profoundly must she reverence the agencies of grief. But you, reader! think,—that children are not liable to such grief as mine. There are two senses in the word generally—the sense of Euclid, where it means universally (or in the whole extent of the genus), and in a foolish sense of this word, where it means usually. Now, I am far from saying that children universally are capable of grief like mine. But there are more than you ever heard of who die of grief in this island of ours. I will tell you a common case. The rules of Eton require that a boy on the foundation should be there twelve years: he is superannuated at eighteen, consequently he must come at six. Children torn away from mothers and sisters at that age not unfrequently die. I speak of what I know. The complaint is not entered by the registrar as grief; but that it is. Grief of that sort, and at that age, has killed more than have ever been counted amongst its martyrs. tmc08
  Therefore it is that Levana often communes with the powers that shake a man’s heart: therefore it is that she dotes on grief. “These ladies,” said I softly to myself, on seeing the ministers with whom Levana was conversing, “these are the Sorrows; and they are three in number, as the Graces are three, who dress man’s life with beauty; the Parcoeœ are three, who weave the dark arras of man’s life in their mysterious loom, always with colours sad in part, sometimes angry with tragic crimson and black; the Furies are three, who visit with retribution called from the other side of the grave offences that walk upon this; and once even the Muses were but three, who fit the harp, the trumpet, or the lute, to the great burdens of man’s impassioned creations. These are the Sorrows, all three of whom I know.”
  The last words I say now; but in Oxford I said, “One of whom I know, and the others too surely I shall know.” For already, in my fervent youth, I saw (dimly relieved upon the dark background of my dreams) the imperfect lineaments of the awful sisters. These sisters—by what name shall we call them? If I say simply, “The Sorrows,” there will be a chance of mistaking the term; it might be understood of individual sorrow,—separate cases of sorrow,—whereas I want a term expressing the mighty abstractions that incarnate themselves in all individual sufferings of man’s heart; and I wish to have these abstractions presented as impersonations, that is, as clothed with human attributes of life, and with functions pointing to flesh. Let us call them, therefore, Our Ladies of Sorrow. I know them thoroughly, and have walked in all their kingdoms. Three sisters they are, of one mysterious household; and their paths are wide apart; but of their dominion there is no end. Them I saw often conversing with Levana, and sometimes about myself. Do they talk, then? O, no! mighty phantoms like these disdain the infirmities of language. They may utter voices through the organs of man when they dwell in human hearts, but amongst themselves there is no voice nor sound; eternal silence reigns in their kingdoms. They spoke not, as they talked with Levana; they whispered not; they sang not; though oftentimes methought they might have sung, for I upon earth had heard their mysteries oftentimes deciphered by harp and timbrel, by dulcimer and organ. Like God, whose servants they are, they utter their pleasure, not by sounds that perish, or by words that go astray, but by signs in heaven, by changes on earth, by pulses in secret rivers, heraldries painted on darkness, and hieroglyphics written on the tablets of the brain. They wheeled in mazes; I spelled the steps. They telegraphed from afar; I read the signals. They conspired together; and on the mirrors of darkness my eye traced the plots. Theirs were the symbols; mine are the words.

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  What is it the sisters are? What is it that they do? Let me describe their form, and their presence: if form it were that still fluctuated in its outline, or presence it were that for ever advanced to the front, or for ever receded amongst shades.
  The eldest of the three is named Mater Lachrymarum, Our Lady of Tears. She it is that night and day raves and moans, calling for vanished faces. She stood in Rama, where a voice was heard of lamentation,—Rachel weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted. She it was that stood in Bethlehem on the night when Herod’s sword swept its nurseries of Innocents, and the little feet were stiffened for ever, which, heard at times as they tottered along floors overhead, woke pulses of love in household hearts that were not unmarked in heaven.
  Her eyes are sweet and subtle, wild and sleepy, by turns; oftentimes rising to the clouds, oftentimes challenging the heavens. She wears a diadem round her head. And I knew by childish memories that she could go abroad upon the winds, when she heard the sobbing of litanies or the thundering of organs, and when she beheld the mustering of summer clouds. This sister, the eldest, it is that carries keys more than papal at her girdle, which open every cottage and every palace. She, to my knowledge, sat all last summer by the bedside of the blind beggar, him that so often and so gladly I talked with, whose pious daughter, eight years old, with the sunny countenance, resisted the temptations of play and village mirth to travel all day long on dusty roads with her afflicted father. For this did God send her a great reward. In the spring-time of the year, and whilst yet her own Spring was budding, he recalled her to himself. But her blind father mourns for ever over her; still he dreams at midnight that the little guiding hand is locked within his own; and still he wakens to a darkness that is now within a second and a deeper darkness. This Mater Lachrymarum has also been sitting all this winter of 1844–5 within the bed-chamber of the Czar, bringing before his eyes a daughter (not less pious) that vanished to God not less suddenly, and left behind her a darkness not less profound. By the power of the keys it is that Our Lady of tears glides a ghostly intruder into the chambers of sleepless men, sleepless women, sleepless children, from Ganges to Nile, from Nile to Mississippi. And her, because she is the first-born of her house, and has the widest empire, let us honour with the title of “Madonna!”

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  The second sister is called Mater Suspiriorum—Our Lady of Sighs. She never scales the clouds, nor walks abroad upon the winds. She wears no diadem. And her eyes, if they were ever seen, would be neither sweet nor subtle; no man could read their story; they would be found filled with perishing dreams, and with wrecks of forgotten delirium. But she raises not her eyes; her head, on which sits a dilapidated turban, droops for ever, for ever fastens on the dust. She weeps not. She groans not. But she sighs inaudibly at intervals. Her sister, Madonna, is oftentimes stormy and frantic, raging in the highest against heaven, and demanding back her darlings. But Our Lady of Sighs never clamours, never defies, dreams not of rebellious aspirations. She is humble to abjectness. Hers is the meekness that belongs to the hopeless. Murmur she may, but it is in her sleep. Whisper she may, but it is to herself in the twilight; Mutter she does at times, but it is in solitary places that are desolate as she is desolate, in ruined cities, and when the sun has gone down to his rest. This sister is the visitor of the Pariah, of the Jew, of the bondsman to the oar in the Mediterranean galleys; and of the English criminal in Norfolk Island, blotted out from the books of remembrance in sweet far-off England; of the baffled penitent reverting his eyes for ever upon a solitary grave, which to him seems the altar overthrown of some past and bloody sacrifice, on which altar no oblations can now be availing, whether towards pardon that he might implore, or towards reparation that he might attempt. Every slave that at noonday looks up to the tropical sun with timid reproach, as he points with one hand to the earth, our general mother, but for him a stepmother,—as he points with the other hand to the Bible, our general teacher, but against him sealed and sequestered;—every woman sitting in darkness, without love to shelter her head, or hope to illumine her solitude, because the heaven-born instincts kindling in her nature germs of holy affections which God implanted in her womanly bosom, having been stifled by social necessities, now burn sullenly to waste, like sepulchral lamps amongst the ancients; every nun defrauded of her unreturning May-time by wicked kinsman, whom God will judge; every captive in every dungeon; all that are betrayed and all that are rejected outcasts by traditionary law, and children of hereditary disgrace,—all these walk with Our Lady of Sighs. She also carries a key; but she needs it little. For her kingdom is chiefly amongst the tents of Shem, and the houseless vagrant of every clime. Yet in the very highest walks of man she finds chapels of her own; and even in glorious England there are some that, to the world, carry their heads as proudly as the reindeer, who yet secretly have received her mark upon their foreheads. But the third sister, who is also the youngest——! Hush, whisper whilst we talk of her! Her kingdom is not large, or else no flesh should live; but within that kingdom all power is hers. Her head, turreted like that of Cybele, rises almost beyond the reach of sight. She droops not; and her eyes rising so high might be hidden by distance; but, being what they are, they cannot be hidden; through the treble veil of crape which she wears, the fierce light of a blazing misery, that rests not for matins or for vespers, for noon of day or noon of night, for ebbing or for flowing tide, may be read from the very ground. She is the defier of God. She is also the mother of lunacies, and the suggestress of suicides. Deep lie the roots of her power; but narrow is the nation that she rules. For she can approach only those in whom a profound nature has been upheaved by central convulsions; in whom the heart trembles, and the brain rocks under conspiracies of tempest from without and tempest from within. Madonna moves with uncertain steps, fast or slow, but still with tragic grace. Our Lady of Sighs creeps timidly and stealthily. But this youngest sister moves with incalculable motions, bounding, and with tiger’s leaps. She carries no key; for, though coming rarely amongst men, she storms all doors at which she is permitted to enter at all. And her name is Mater Tenebrarum—Our Lady of Darkness.

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  These were the Semnai Theai, or Sublime Goddesses, these were the Eumenides, or Gracious Ladies (so called by antiquity in shuddering propitiation), of my Oxford dreams. Madonna spoke. She spoke by her mysterious hand. Touching my head, she said to Our Lady of Sighs; and what she spoke, translated out of the signs which (except in dreams) no man reads, was this:—
  “Lo! here is he, whom in childhood I dedicated to my altars. This is he that once I made my darling. Him I led astray, him I beguiled, and from heaven I stole away his young heart to mine. Through me did he become idolatrous; and through me it was, by languishing desires, that he worshipped the worm, and prayed to the wormy grave. Holy was the grave to him; lovely was its darkness; saintly its corruption. Him, this young idolater, I have seasoned for thee, dear gentle Sister of Sighs! Do thou take him now to thy heart, and season him for our dreadful sister. And thou,”—turning to the Mater Tenebrarum, she said,—“wicked sister, that temptest and hatest, do thou take him from her. See that thy sceptre lie heavy on his head. Suffer not woman and her tenderness to sit near him in his darkness. Banish the frailties of hope, wither the relenting of love, scorch the fountain of tears, curse him as only thou canst curse. So shall he be accomplished in the furnace, so shall he see the things that ought not to be seen, sights that are abominable, and secrets that are unutterable. So shall he read elder truths, sad truths, grand truths, fearful truths. So shall he rise again before he dies, and so shall our commission be accomplished which from God we had,—to plague his heart until we had unfolded the capacities of his spirit.”
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Winner of Signed Paperback of The Lady on Yellow and More…

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At last! The luck of the draw gets a book to Nancy Hammons! I hope she enjoys it and is not too shocked to see what a doorstopper it is. Kindles and other e-readers are so decieving. You can hide thousands of pages inside these tiny gadgets and have no idea how much you’ve read.  But just think—-with a Kindle, you can prop up the short leg the table with War and Peace!

 

NEWS

I went into 2015 thinking of all the books I would finish, and how quickly, since I have 5 first drafts to work on. But things have slowed down this year. Life has interverned—not least, the need to take care of a health issue that requires several chiropractic ajustments per week and lots of exercise. The good news is that I am recovering very well and hope to get my time and energy back soon, and get these books done for you.

All is not lost, though. Having these first drafts means that when the new books do come out, they will come out fairly shortly behind each other. The first will probably be the Selkie story as it closest to being done. I was thinking of writing 2 of these books, but plan to just write the one now so I can focus on potentially popular series, like the Poppy Farrell Mysteries.

The second Poppy Farrell Mystery, Taller Than Our Souls, will probably be next because of high reader interest. It’s a weird one with Elizabethan magic, a haunted lake, and a black house on the grounds of the boy’s boarding school, Bogg’s House. It may be a bit erudite for YA, but who says teenagers can’t enjoy a bit of history? Think of some of the material Deborah Harkness uses in A Discovery of Witches. 

 

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The Sovay book will vie for completion with The Vampire’s Bride whch is meant to be a novella and may still succeed in staying short. If it does it will win the race to publication. I want to see if this series of erotic vampire novellas will take off. I may hold it back until I have a few written, then set them loose in 2016. We shall see how the cookie crumbles.

Dark Reliquary will be last. It will have to double in size, making it another 100,000 word book.  The story is extremely powerful and dark. Think Game of Thrones with vampires. I really want to develop this book. It has tons of potential.

A side effect of recovering from my injuries is that my mood has lightened up and I am finding it difficult to go to the very dark  emotional space that Dark Reliquary requires. I used to be a actress, and I write like a Method actor in that I must really sink into the scenes and experience the deep emotions they call for in order for the characters to come alive on the page. I just can’t go there at the moment.

I’m sure this newfound happiness is only temporary—so do not despair! I will not change to writing Romantic comedies—-yet.

We can inhabit all realms….good and bad. lol!

Romance pays well.

But, hey! Who needs money?

I’ll be working toward getting The Shadows into print and onto other platforms as well, this year. I can’t believe we’re pushing the end of March already! Look for the a book this spring and the rest in the last 2 quarters of 2015.

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