All the world is a stage...

Switching gears and writing in a new genre is difficult. I really had the supernatural fiction thing down. Mystery is trickier for me. This is compounded by the fact that I am getting to know a whole new cast of characters. I feel like I write in reverse. I have an idea in my head about how I want these characters or plots to be and I sit down to write. Then a funny thing happens. The characters take on a life of their own growing more complex, springing to life off the page like they're tangible. Plots develop as these characters practically write themselves, demanding I keep up with them. The problem is while I am writing I tend to take on the persona of the strongest personality. When I wrote the Lost Devil's Throne series, my husband could always tell when I was writing an Aakarshan heavy section. I'd be irritable and aggressive in a way I am normally not. I think in some ways that's half the fun (although I am sure loved ones could do without it from time to time). Much like an actor, I get to be something or someone different. Something totally disparate from who I really am. I get to travel without leaving home. Endlessly entertained by the voices in my head.  

Night Falls Fast

I've never been a big one for labels. Unlike so many of my colleagues, I don't use my professional title in personal life. On some level, I am absolutely mortified when people find out what I do since I am convinced (paranoia be damned) they start to treat me differently. Nevertheless, amongst my friends and loved ones I've been labeled as Goth since high school. I am alright with that. Recently I stumbled across a great article on CNN (who apparently gave up reporting news in favor of opinion pieces):Where my Goths at?

As I near thirty, I am reminded the "phase" my mother so fervently hoped I'd grow out of is here to stay. No, I don't wear black at all times. I've given up dying my hair unnatural shades. My tattoos remain well hidden at work. Yet, look closely and I am wearing a subtle spiderweb necklace. The only nail polish colors I own range from dark green to burgundy to onyx. And much to my husband's occasional chagrin, I decorate the house in what can only be described as Addams Family chic. More than anything, Goth is a state of mind. It's an appreciation of the morbid and macabre, finding happiness and joy in the bizarre. It's seeing the world through grey-tinted glasses. Plus, those tinted glasses are a life saver on a sunny day.     

It is my business to know what other people don't.

I've never been able to put my finger on precisely why I am captivated by the character of Sherlock Holmes, but captivated I am. I still have the version of 'The Speckled Band' I first read as a kid (a significantly simplified child's version, but we all have to start somewhere). In those pages the great detective sprang to life, intelligent beyond compare, charismatic, and of single-minded fortitude. Even when I discovered he had serious substance abuse problem and was, in reality, a high functioning sociopath capable of only the most basic human emotions and little empathy, I was undeterred. This was my guy. Not entirely losing touch with reality, I knew a fictional character was not an appropriate prospect for a long term relationship. Nevertheless, the obsession was banked, never abated. Recently, I've again been watching my favorite video incarnations of the amateur detective (who was anything but amateur), immortalized by the incomparable Jeremy Brett. Reading the stories, watching the episodes, are like saying hello to old friends, gone for a time, but never truly forgotten. And so I return to foggy Baker Street, pounding the cobblestones, keeping up with his hurried, determined stride. The game is afoot.

What it means to miss New Orleans...

Gaston sat at one of the back tables in the dingy bar, watching the world pass by as he had day in and day out for centuries. The beer bottle before him dripped condensation onto the scratched wood, the breeze wafting through the massive open French doors and the overhead fans doing little to counteract the crushing humidity. He flicked ash from his cigarette, pretending to take a puff. He was never mad at Remy for turning him into a vampire. How could he hold a grudge against his own flesh and blood? What he missed were the little things. The soothing burn of alcohol sliding down his throat. The harsh warmth of tobacco smoke filling his lungs. His body hadn't been able to digest anything but blood in almost too long to remember and the lack of working lungs made smoking difficult. But he could pretend, just enough, to sit undisturbed for hours enjoying the sights, the sounds, the smells. Thinking. Calculating. Waiting.

Oubiliette

As a distraction from the prowling beast's mounting agitation, he studied the raw reminder where his hand had been. Given the extent of his injuries, his body couldn't start the healing process. So he watched the crimson trickle down his skin, fading into the darkness. All he could see was stark white bones and ruddy muscle, but somehow he felt his palm, his fingers. A phantom sensation for an appendage forever lost to the stagnant liquid beneath. How many times over the years had he been the one to uncover flesh and bone? To violently expose that which should never have seen the light of day? Despite his waning strength, a cynical chuckle escaped his chest. Underneath it all, monsters and humans were all the same: vile, evil, corrupt. A mess of blood and organs. Nothing more.

Stranglehold

Summer does nothing for me. Most people I know can't wait for summer. The long days, warm nights. Beach weather, shorts and flip-flops. Driving around with the convertible top down. I prefer not to leave the house from July 1 through Labor Day. Maybe it's the heat, the days where the atmosphere is so poisonous you can barely breathe. Maybe it's the fact I hate wearing shorts and would rather live year-round in my favorite pair of jeans. Maybe it's because I grew up in a house with no AC and vividly remember being so hot I thought my face was going to melt off like the guy at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Whatever it is, I stagnate in summer. It's like all my creative energy is inversely proportionate to the temperature. This has left me sitting on several story lines which is irritating at best. I have ideas, I go to write, and nothing comes out. While this allowed me to catch up on more TV than I should be watching in any given day, it's not what a want to be doing. So I wait and ponder the practicality of a move to Antarctica. October can't come soon enough. 

The Shadow Princess- Part 16

The night of the thunderous blizzard would forever be remembered not just for the odd weather pattern, but for the night Miss Matilda's house in the woods mysteriously burnt to the ground. Sparked by an errant lightning strike, the mansion was a smoldering pile of rubble by the time the townsfolk were able to plow a path down the forest road. Huddled in the remains of the Westerfell cemetery the rescuers found their frost bitten librarian, covered in soot and snow. While Miss Genevieve was taken to the doctor's and nursed back to heath, a search party looked for the enigmatic stranger who'd taken up residence among them. Despite their valiant efforts, the young man was never seen again. Miss Genevieve, the only witness to his whereabouts, remained silent regarding what happened, knowing the town's wild speculation would pale in comparison to the truth. Their librarian made a full physical recovery but her spirit seemed altered, a malignant shadow ever present where she walked. The rumors quieted to a dull hum until an astute older woman noticed Miss Genevieve's weekly pilgrimage down the dirt lane to the remnants of the Westerfell estate as well as their librarian's blossoming shape. 

The snows melted, summer came and went, and as the first leaves turned burnt orange, Miss Genevieve gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Speculation was rampant as to the father. Most assumed it was the Westerfell heir who'd since run off back to Europe, abandoning the young woman. Eventually, even the nosiest of the town's inhabitant ceased their questions, accepting her refusal to answer just as they accepted her withdrawal from much of town life. Their once stoic and gregarious young librarian now as strange as the peculiar young man she'd befriended. It was the old timers who recalled faint memories of Miss Matilda and her kin who noticed one abnormal habit although they could never put their finger on what had them so unnerved about it. Those who frequented the library and the scant visitors to Miss Genevieve's home to congratulate mother and baby saw the same oddity. Not a reflective surface was there to be seen. Purposefully, carefully, she had covered every last mirror.