New Title

She knew something was wrong, and strange, and unnatural, and she couldn’t figure out how she was doing it all. The strange monster kept following her, and saying things she couldn’t understand, and wanting things she didn’t know. And this entire time, she held her breath in the consuming water, and beat against the doors.

Then she stopped, and thought, and the doors slid open with a single touch, door after door slipping open without a sound, and whispering shut behind her, each time a little of her breath slipping away until she reached the final room, the monster on her heels, and while turning to face it, found herself breathing easily.

On waking, she knew the secrets of dreaming. It is unnatural, unreal, and yet everything flowed beautifully together. To breathe underwater, you must not think of it, cannot subject it to reality and logic. It simply is, and you must trust that while it works, you do not know why.

To dream and to live the dream is to breathe underwater, and fly without wings, and sing without a voice.

Finally.

A Red Sun Rises needs one final edit, and a truly smashing edit of the epilogue, and then it’s off to agents and publishers. At 137,000 words, it will probably expand a little more with editing, as I have a tendency to skip words at times. But we’ll see.

Thank you everyone. I can’t express what this means to me.

Rounding the Bend

When you’ve been dreaming about something for years, you never really expect to find the finish line. Dreaming about it, yes, but somehow it’s always this misty “maybe”, and never reality. And then, when it is a reality, suddenly everything comes crashing down, and the realization of “damn, so that’s what I’ve done” sets in, and everything seems a little different.

I have a little over 10,000 words left. And while that is a lot, it’s also only two or three chapters. And with the pace I’ve been moving, that’s not very much. The end is near, and I’m alternately anticipating and dreading it. This has been my life for the last year and a half. It’s why I’ve set aside personal relationships, time with friends, hobbies, and been a hermit. Now, it’s almost gone, and I have to start on the next thing.

I’ll miss this story, even though I hate it a bit. The next one will be similar, but I’m growing to love Michael Donovan a little bit, even if he is an ineffectual and worried man. He’s a hero, whether he likes it or not, and we need more heroes today.

So here’s to heroes, and common people, and finishing stories to start on the next one.

Quality or Quantity?

I realized today that it does me no good to get published, if my work is mediocre. I’ve lost interest in plenty of authors because I picked up a book, got bored, and never looked back. I don’t want that to happen to me!

So the question is, should I be sure and hit my goal of November 1, 2008 for mailing that first query? Or should I be a little more flexible, and make damn sure I have something that not only will be picked up, but will be remembered. I want people to say “Who the hell is this? When’s the next book coming out?”, not “well, it was ok, for a first novel. Maybe she’ll do better later.”

I read the first chapter of my manuscript out loud today. It sounded like something off a best-seller list. I think I will take a little more time to tweak and make it pretty, and hope it is worth it.

Free Write: Horror

Whisper in the wind, a breath of sound. A ghost running behind me. A demon ahead. A monster in the earth, a foul imagination above me. A thousand beings of evil legend in these woods, and I alone, weaponless and friendless. As fear slithers about my ankles, a friendly reptile, music starts in my mind, a soundtrack of damnation and terror. Every frightened sound, every moan and scream and cry, here now to haunt me. Behind it all runs the steady percussion of a heartbeat, and the ragged string ensemble of breath. I can only move on, run, walk when I cannot run, and crawl when I can no longer walk, until I drag myself along the earth, claws sinking into the slime and mold of the swamp. A mist forms above my hand, tendrils wrapping around my fingers with the cold lust of the dead. A twig comes to life in my hand, a poisonous adder, ready to strike. Behind me a tree groans, and a demon perches with furled wings, carrion bird waiting for the struggle to be over. Whispers of apathy and dejection remind me it is futile. The dawn will never come, I will never be saved. The thousands of ghosts in the fog and dead-whining wind screech of madness. Everything is crystal clear now, prisms of fire sparking when a harpy lights a torch in a burst of ghost-light, a caw from that skeleton crow, the insinuating laughter of the naked demon behind me, the hands clawing my belly and thighs, shredding the last thin veils of dignity I have left. Sanity is perhaps perfect now, each moment preserved in my brain for the scavengers to lust over and feed on and cackle about. Crystal clear. Perfect sanity. Mists and ghosts vying for my soul. A tendril of dead flesh wrapping around my wrist, around both wrists, tying me down. Ripples of water lick my face and breasts with greasy promise, the hooves of the demon moving with easy certainty of his prey. Breaths of sound, promises of hell. Ghosts and demons and monsters, things without names. Whisper in the wind.

The Red Sun Rises

What makes a hero? The right choice isn’t always available, sometimes none of the choices offered are going to cut it. The proverbial rock and a hard spot you know, neither answer is going to make life any better. And it just gets worse when the heart has to have a say in the matter too.

You try choosing between your only child and the fate of the world.

Two fathers. Both have lost their children. One will destroy what’s left of the world to avenge his family and bring them peace. The other will give up everything he has to walk into Hell and free his son. One is an ancient prince. The other is a common journalist turned politician. Each will have to make a choice.

You could be a hero and save ten thousand faceless people. You could save your only child.

What would you choose?