I Am A Meta-Cognition!

Remember that scene in that one mummy movie and it had that one guy-with the chest- and then...were they camping? On the river still? I think there were bugs... the girl stood up and she was... drunk and, and she says Mmm...Oh yea...she says, "I am a librarian!" Maybe this was the part with the bugs?  Brandon-Brendon?  Was it actually called The Mummy? Anyway... My point is, when I say I am a meta-cognition...I'm saying it like that : )

A Happy Little About Me!

I'm ambidextrous. And a terrible punctuation-er.  And apparently also a glutton! Because I've already eaten all of the cookies I smuggled in to my office to eat while I was writing this!

I also enjoy drawing and I play a little guitar.

And I garden. Yea, flowers! And Bicycling...

My Professional Selfie:

Of course I have the ubiquitous degree in Literature. If I had known what it would be like in that classroom every day- I would have gotten my degree in a subject I didn't like so much. My poor, poor stories...what have they done to you?

 I refuse to reveal anything more about my checkered career past for fear it will bring out your judgy side and,in fact, find my mind drifting more and more back to the kitchen and my lovely tin of cookies. 

I Believe My Life Story Will Have to Wait!

I also like milk...

The Story of Blaize-- The End

******

Eventually his heartbeat settled down and began pumping blood to his brain again. He convinced himself that he was exaggerating what had happened. It had just been a mild form of a panic attack. He’d watched a show a couple of nights ago with a guy in it who had a panic attack. That’s what he’d had, exactly what he’d had.

He wasn’t going to stand around waiting for Angel that much he knew. It took her forever to get ready anyway. He grabbed his jeans and a clean t-shirt out of his dresser drawer and headed out of the room. He’d take his shower in his mom’s bathroom.

He stepped on something that made a distinctive crunching noise when he planted his foot on it. When he squat down and picked it up he found his watch crystal lay splintered in his palm. He glanced to his wrist-the watch was still strapped on- sans crystal- fine. He ripped the band free with a violent twist and threw the useless object onto his dresser. He’d had enough.

 He slammed the door on his way out. The too sweet fragrance of his mother’s incense over-powered his senses, made his eyes water and burned his nostrils. He felt an intense wave of anger flood him as he marched down the hall. Faith was such a joke. Why must his mother stink up the house with all that superstition? Real men didn’t believe in anything but themselves. They didn’t need anything but themselves.

He walked into his mother’s room and saw the tiny alter to the Madre Marie set up on a small wooden shelve. He’d built that shelve for her at church camp the summer he turned nine.

 His hands balled into fists and each knuckle turned white. A buzz thrummed in his ears so powerful he didn’t recognize the sound of his own pulse. He grit his teeth together, threw himself at the bathroom door then slammed it shut, shaking it on its frame behind him.

He found himself digging deep for his will power. There was something wrong and he knew it. This was no mere panic attack. But what it was… he didn’t know.

In the tiny confines of the bathroom he could hear himself growling. From low in his chest a rumble of furious sound begin to force its way out. In the wall mirror above the sink he could see his hands forming themselves into claws and his nails seemed to sharpen and elongate. The stubborn tilt of his jaw became an unrelenting bone with a heavy shadow of dark beard and an angle that beckoned trouble.

From a shadowy corner of the room he heard a hiss and snapped his head around in time to catch the cat by the throat as she leapt for the door. He held her like that-watched her back legs scramble for purchase as she twisted frantically for freedom. The edges of his mouth lifted into a smug grin. He brought her closer-wanted to look into her terrified eyes as she howled in pain and hissed in panic. He laughed and his mouth watered.

“Blaize, what the fuck are you doing in there? Hurry up!” Angel hit the door with the flat of her hand and reached for the knob.

Some part of him, some desperate, trembling part wanted to yell at her to run. Whatever this was that was happening to him, he wanted to save her from it. With an effort that made sweat drip from his brow he reached his hand towards the lock on the door.

Later, when he thought back on things he truly believed that he would have chosen her. Because, no matter what she had become, she would always, in some place inside him, she would always be his angel. So, he needed to believe that he would have turned the lock and saved her.

His hand reached for the lock and the door slammed open against it. The cat, catching sight of the opening gave an horrendous effort to leap using her hind legs against his forearm as purchase and leaving bloody welts gouged into his flesh. With a startled hiss he dropped the feline.

“What are you doing? Shit!” Angel jumped as the cat ran passed her. “What the hell, Blaize? I thought you were going to hurry. You’re not even dressed.” Her tone was accusatory.

To Blaize she sounded as if she didn’t believe he could even get dressed by himself. He felt his fury begin to rise again in a way he’d never felt anything before. The hand that dripped with blood from the cat scratches now reached for Angel’s neck. While she watched him with a mix of confusion and impatients he wrapped his bloody fingers around the sweet column of her throat.

Even as his fingers tightened enough to put pressure on her windpipe she didn’t seem to understand what was happening to her-what he intended to do. She seemed to believe she still had the upper hand and that he would still play at being her little lap dog. His lips curved back into a smirk.

“I like little girls. They taste sweet. Give me a lick little dolly.” And that sound rumbled out of his chest again only this time it was more of a purr.

Recognition dawned slowly and seemed to spread like palsy throughout her body. The color leeched from her skin then flooded back an ugly purple as his hand tightened. But her tone was defiant when she lifted her hand and began to claw away his fingers from her neck. ”Let me go, Azzel. You can’t hurt me.”

Blaize jumped inside his own skin. What had she called him? He wanted to ask her. He wanted to demand that she tell him…right the fuck now! But instead he heard a voice not his own snarl, “Little girl, I can do anything I want.” Then an arm no longer in his control threw her across the room.

Angel landed on the bed and he watched helplessly as she bounced there before scrambling to her knees and crawling to the other side until she was trapped against the wall. But she was still defiant, still certain of her control. “You can’t do anything to me, Azzel, I summoned you. I’m your master.”

Blaize recoiled in horror. It couldn’t be. What was she talking about? In his mind he heard a mocking voice whisper, “oh ho, it’s awake! And it speaks such lovely words of pain. What did you think, ‘em, is it really so hard to believe that a worm would betray a worm? If you let go of that five finger Jimmy you’ve got on me I’ll show you what I mean.”

Angel must have seen the monstrous gleam that shone red from the eyes she stared into because she began to make a frantic sweep of the room looking for escape. There was a growing sense of panic in her jerky movements but her words were still all Angel-all faith that it would work out just the way she wanted it to in the end. “Azzel, I command you to go back to sleep now. Go back to sleep until I call you again.” She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a tiny vial of clear liquid. She wagged it in his direction as if it were a loaded gun. “Holy water, Azzel., if you come near me again I’ll use it.”

Blaize felt the fury ignite within the demon he had become. “Of course, Master, whatever you say,” Azzel’s reply was a deceptively soft rumble.

Angel was easily fooled, willingly fooled, “Fine then.” Blaize could see that she never really relaxed her shoulders. Even as she slide along the wall and headed towards the door she was tense with anticipation. But there was also a sense of purpose. “We’ll just get to the party and then…”

“Don’t leave me! Angel! I’m still here…” Blaize called to her, terrified she’d leave him alone, trapped.

“…I’ll call Marina…”

“Help me, Angel. What have you done?” Blaize knew what was happening was impossible. He wasn’t locked inside his own body while a demon twitched his muscles and made his choices.

“Of course, Master,” The demon slide along his own wall-slow-like a snake.

Blaize thought-I can’t even make tears fall from my eyes.

Inside the body that was no longer his he waited for her to say something, a hint that she was just playing along until she could figure out how to help him.

He felt his heart race with joy when, just before she slipped out the door- she turned. There was a moment of anticipation- like time suspended in a crystal drop and then she spoke, “This isn’t even my problem really. I don’t even want you.”

Hell broke loose. Inside Blaize the demon roared his fury and twisted free when he felt Blaize stumble under the appalling truth of Angel’s betrayal. Azzel charged the girl and lifted her towards the ceiling with one arm. She tried to kick out still naively believing she had a chance of survival but he threw her like a rag doll across the room. Her body thwacked against the wall and broke- plaster showered down.

Horrified and desperate Blaize fought Azzel for control but the demon was in full possession and he wanted revenge. He stormed through the small space spilling perfume bottles and knick-knacks on to the soft white carpet. He shattered hanging pictures out of their frames and left them littering the floor like corpses. His fist crushed the fragile figure of the Virgin Mary and smashed precious holy items into detritus.

Angel whimpered and the monster turned to glance at her over his shoulder. He sneered when he saw the blood pouring from her scalp. It wasn’t sympathy that made him walk across the room and crouch by her side.

“Blaize,” her voice was a smooth blow on a hot horn and it burned all the way down. God, it had only been minutes ago that he was in bed with the girl he was in love with drowsily listening to Miles Davis on the radio, “Help me. I know you’re in there. They made me do it.” She paused and let her eyes searched his, “He was going to rape me, Blaize, if I didn’t pay him the money I owed.” She tucked her sweet bottom lip between her teeth and hissed at the pain. “I knew you wouldn’t want anything to happen to me.” A soft tear appeared like dew on her lashes and quietly fell down her cheek. “They did it months ago. You haven’t even known it was in you. Besides,” Her tiny fingers caressed the rough stubble on his chin, “You love me.” She aimed the splintered wooden cross at his neck and jabbed.

Azzel bellowed his all mighty rage and fisted the cross- crushing her fingers beneath his. He pulled it from her limp hand and smoke and the acrid stench of burning flesh fogged the air. Angel whimpered. She tried to fight her way passed the demon before he could recover but her leg was badly broken. The drugs polluting her system and her stubborn will were the only things keeping her conscious.

Azzel cradled his injured hand against his chest- the cross seared into it -and yanked Angel backward by the ankle with the other. She screamed in pain and frustration. Her head wound was leaking blood and her bones were jutting from her broken leg but she was so high—even now she didn’t realize she was dying.

Overcome with grieve and shock, Blaize struggled for control. He knew she’d done this to him, but still, he couldn’t bear to see her hurt.

Her tears ran faster now. Her hair was a tangled sheet. Leaning up, she spat into the demon’s face and when he slapped her, the blood drooled off her lip in a long, slobbery trail.

The demon carefully wiped her spit off his face without letting go of his grip on her leg. They shot daggers of mutual hate at each other as he carefully moved her long, glossy hair behind her ear and across her shoulder. It was with perfect calm and deliberation that he slid his left hand up from her ankle and spread it around her throat- equally calmly and deliberately he began to squeeze.

It was almost comical, the look of surprise. What had she thought would happen-playing with demons? Azzel calmly enjoyed the hissing of her breath and the sweet pop of the blood vessels in her lovely brown eyes. It was always nice when you could take your time and really savor the chore of murder. So it was entirely unexpected when he found his burnt right hand wrestling the wrist of his left into letting go.

“Little worm, is that you?” Blaize felt the ancient creature’s wrath like a tidal wave straining to burst his control. He knew he didn’t have much time.

“Let her go.”

“Oh, now, you don’t mean that, do you?  She sold you out for 50 bucks worth of sugar, Sugar. Now, don’t you think that deserves a little umm…payback?” Cajoling, conniving, the insipid whine was meant to deceive him into loosening his grip but Blaize refused.  

“When she sold you out—worm—who do you think bought you? Me…that’s who! So—just what do you think is going to happen here, umm? Do you recon yourself stronger…then me?” This time the demon didn’t both hiding the fury he felt.

Blaize felt his flesh tear as Azzel struggled to free himself. There was really only one thing he could do and as much as he prayed that it would work…he didn’t hold out much hope that it would.

Blaize waited for the moment the demon made another effort to break loose and then he let go. Azzel was caught off guard and in the one split second of surprise his action allowed him, Blaize reached out with his burnt hand, scooped up the tiny clear bottle of holy water that had gone unnoticed during the demon’s fit of anger, uncapped it and swallowed.

Immediately he felt his insides twist in agony. The demon roared inside his skull and pounded his fists in agitated fury. He tried to rise and bash their head against the wall. He threatened to fling their shared body out of the window and laugh as they rushed towards the pavement.

Blaize could hear it all as the monster raged inside his mind. And, maybe he would have won. Maybe Azzel, the centuries old demon, was stronger and more cunning than a nineteen year old boy-but not this day. 

Angel lay dying. Each breath she took was a bubble of blood. She made short, raspy sounds as if her lungs had collapsed and she held his gaze with eyes that were already losing focus.

“Let me get someone, Angel.” He smoothed warm lips across her brow.

A tear found a path and followed it down her cheek. Another joined it and together they plashed into the cup formed by clasped hands.

“You have to let me help you.” He begged just like the night they’d lost the baby.

Her fingers slipped from his.

“You can’t leave me.”

She stopped crying and he began.

“I love you…my Angel.”

Her breath ended on a sigh…

THE END

Judith Post is here today. Come meet her sexy man, Tyr.

Welcome! I LOVE paranormal romance! Now you know. And, one of my all time favorite authors of paranormal romance is Judy Post. Why? Because her books don't feel as if I'm even reading. They feel more like a memory. Her characters are so immediate and involved that I jump right into their skin. So, yum, what a way to go!
Today, she's kindly allowed her man Tyr to post a q&a he recently completed, here, on my blog!!!! So fluff your hair, Ladies and hold on. Dinners on me...beefcake is served ;)
Judith Post's, SPINNERS OF MISFORTUNE, will be available online August 18.

Tyr, dressed in faded jeans and a white T-shirt, walks into a hotel lobby. He's trying to blend in with mortals, but it's hard when you're six-six with rippling muscles, pale-blue eyes, and white-blond hair. Heads turn, then people notice the ragged tear where his flesh ends on his right arm—his hand and wrist gone. Onlookers stare, but Tyr's used to that. He scans the area to find the mortal who asked to interview him. Most mortals have forgotten him or think of him as a comic book character or part of ancient myths. He hasn't forgotten them. His piercing gaze settles on a lone man, in his early twenties, seated at a small table near the front window. Tyr strides to join him, studies him carefully—and once satisfied, takes a seat.

"You have questions?" he says.

The mortal can't meet his gaze, too intense, and glances at his notes. Voice unsteady, he says: I've heard you're a Norse god. Which one?

A: I'm the sky god. I came before Woden and Donar—you call him Thor. I came before all of them.

Q: A sky god? Does that mean you control the sun, thunder, and lightning?

A: Among other things. I don't have a hammer, like Donar, but the elements come in handy. I'm more interested in the big picture, though. Mortals once considered me a god of war. The Greeks thought to fashion Mars after me, but we don't have much in common. I use war to promote justice, not to conquer neighbors. Justice concerns me. As do wisdom and honesty.

Mortal frowns, looks Tyr up and down: You're tall, very tall, with lots of muscles, but you don't look like a god.

A: Really? What does a god look like? I assume a mortal guise when I'm among humans. At home or in battle, I grow to full height.

Q: And where's home?

A: Asgaard, home of the Aesir. You have to cross Bifrost to enter. We Norse have nine worlds. Different immortals rarely mingle.

Q: How many types of immortals are there?

Tyr smiles: There are frost giants, fire giants, dwarves, elves, the Vanir gods and goddesses—Freya's world, filled with magic and sorcery….

Mortal interrupts, then looks uncomfortable: I, um, can't help noticing that you only have one hand—your left one.

A brief smile. Tyr leans forward in his seat, putting his elbows on his knees. His biceps bulge, and the interviewer scoots back further in his chair: If you've done your homework, you know that the Norse gods needed to tether Fenrir, Loki's son, the monstrous wolf who fathered all wolves. The gods tried one tether, and it broke. They tried a second. Fenrir broke it, too. We had to ask the dwarves to make a magic ribbon, woven of six special elements. The ribbon looked nebulous, but contained strength that grew with each effort to break it. Fenrir wanted to impress us, wanted to show us that no ribbon was a match for him, but he didn't trust us. He threw out a challenge. If we wanted him to prove his courage, one of us had to prove ours. Someone had to place his right hand in Fenrir's mouth when the ribbon was tied around his ankle. If he pulled, and the ribbon didn't give, he'd bite down. There were no takers. Except me.

Mortal, silent for a moment: So you gave up your right hand to bind Fenrir?

A: It was the only way. (Tyr shrugs huge shoulders): Besides, I fight just as well with a sword in my left hand. I tug my shield onto my right arm. No gods defy me.

Q: Not even Donar, the thunder god, with his hammer? What about Odin? You gave him your place among the gods.

A: No one. Donar has a temper, but he knows better. So does Odin. But I try to stay out of the new gods' lives. I only help when I'm asked to.

Q: You don't miss the power of being the one-father?

A: I have power.

Q: But you still protect mortals.

A: Mortals interest me. I've pledged myself to them. So has Diana.

Q: But they don't worship you anymore. They have new gods.

Tyr shrugs: Mortals live brief lives. Their understanding is limited. But they strive so hard with what they have, I admire them. They're our world's future.

Q: That's what humans say about children.

Tyr smiles: To us, mortals ARE children.

Q: You've recently bonded with the Greek goddess Diana. How did that come about?

A: Who could resist a witch's charms?

Q: I thought Diana was the Roman goddess of the hunt.

A: Oh, she is, and so much more. She's also goddess of the moon and witchcraft…and in her darkest form, goddess of the Crossroads. She has a Viking's spirit—fierce and independent.

Mortal shivers: That sounds downright scary to me.

Tyr smiles: It sounds like a full-bodied, passionate woman to me. That's why I had to have her.

Q: And it's mutual?

A: I might only have one hand, but she's never complained.

Mortal, blushing: Will you two stay together until Ragnarok?

Tyr's blond brows pull into a deep scowl: According to our runes, I die at Ragnarok. Diana knows that. She doesn't believe it. She's a witch. She still thinks she can use her magic and save me. But it's been foretold. Fenrir kills Odin. Donar defeats the Midgard Serpent, but its poison kills him in nine steps. And Surt kills Freya's brother, Freyr.

Q: And you?

A: I'll defeat Garm, Hel's hound that guards the Underworld, but I won't survive my wounds.

Q: Diana doesn't believe that?

A: Diana's a Greek/Roman goddess. They're truly immortal, cannot die. She doesn't understand the Norse ways. She believes her magic can change the outcome. She's sworn to visit Hel to take me back if she has to.

Q: You don't think she can save you?

A: No. I think it's her way of coping. She doesn't want to lose me.

Mortal's silent a moment: Let's discuss the books that have been written about you. In Empty Altars, Diana's runes brought her to your meadow to battle the dark witch, Heid. How did you two team up again for another battle?

Tyr smiles: I forgot our date. Diana tracked me down. A good thing, too, or the Spinners would have drowned the dwarves.

Q: Spinners? They don't sound like much of a threat.

A: Norse women with magic use their spindles to weave spells. Six of them worked together to attack each of our nine worlds. They meant to set us against one another. They might have succeeded, too, if not for Diana.

Q: How did she help you this time?

Tyr glances out the hotel's window and stands, ready to end the interview: That's a long story. (A grin) You'll have to read the book.My novel, SPINNERS OF MISFORTUNE, should be available online soon. To celebrate, I decided to invite a pretend person onto the blog to interview Tyr—the Norse god Diana partnered with in the novel Empty Altars. Trying to protect Asgaard, Tyr and Diana fell in love—something neither intended to do.

Hi! This week I'm posting on Sneak Peek Sunday!  http://sneak-peek-sunday.blogspot.com/ These are the first six paragraphs of my WIP. Hope you enjoy them. Also, stay in touch because next week I'll be back to Blaize's tale and you don't want to miss that! Cheers : )

 “On or off?”

Gossamer Triggs fisted her fingers deeper into the bag she had crossed over her shoulder and shot the driver a desperate look. Deep within the cowl hood of her red cloak her cheeks burned with panic. She mumbled and dug faster. She knew the coins were in there …somewhere. She’d gone to the market herself just this morning. She’d sold the Mouse’s sneakers, risked selling a few more of the herbal amulets she’d made- they had to eat, didn’t they? Only, she’d been so careful to leave enough to make this trip but, now…it was just gone. Like the Mouse was just gone and home was just gone and this city… 

“Look,” the driver’s voice, scratchy and raw liked he’d smoked too many cigarettes and accompanied this time by sarcastic hand gestures grated out impatiently, “In or out?” His snarky expression made it obvious that he didn’t think she was smart enough to understand what he meant by “on or off.”

If she hadn’t have had to run for the bus. If she had just taken the time to knot the coins in one of the little bags she had stitched up to hold her herbs. If she hadn’t been so worried about wrapping the bottle full of water she intended to trade for information. But no, there hadn’t been time, it had to be this bus, she couldn’t have waited any longer or it would have been too late. The dark fell so quickly.

She knew better than to do it but couldn’t stop herself from casting a panicked look behind her. The longer the delay, the better the odds that a WLP guard would wander up- curious in that shovey shovey way they all had- about what the holdup was. In the end it was always the little things that gave you away, got you caught.

365 times six, that’s how many days she’d been living in fear and-what was today? Living…re-living the horror of being left in the dark, of being so cold- no way for the sun to ever touch you. Of being so hungry in the dark, so alone, desperate to hear the sound of another voice…but not his voice…never his voice.

This is part 6 of The Story of Blaize. I hope you're enjoying it!

 “Stop. Wait. Where are you going?” Her husky voice was the pungi and his tension the snake. He felt it coil higher up and up his spine in a mesmerized response to her luting call. “Everybody’ll be waiting.”

He leaned his shank up against the rumpled mattress and stared at the cotton sheet he held fisted in his hand. He thought, When did we become our parents?  but he only shrugged his shoulder at her reflection in the mirror, “I want a shower.”

“Alright,” he heard his mother in her tone as she said, “but hurry.”

His lips thinned into a hard line. She wanted to hook-up with her friends. The ones she’d dumped him for. The ones he wasn’t cool enough to hang with. And-he wasn’t supposed to keep them waiting. Fuck that.

 The coiled snake of tension had climbed his spine and now it struck with glistening fangs and pierced his brain stem. He felt the poison seep into his mind and become a rage so thick it coated his tongue like a bitter paste.

She was using him. He had no doubt. She’d always been using him. He was a fool. She would never truly love him. He was certain he couldn’t go on like this.

His nerves and sinew bunched and frayed with the need to do something!

“I’m going first if all you can do is stand there and glare at me.” Angel tossed him an overheated pout and when it took him a minute too long to figure out she was talking to him, to get his mind to calm enough to discern the words, the pout became a snarl. “Fine, whatever, Blaize. Why are you looking at me like I’m a monster? I haven’t done anything!”

He examined her as she spoke-looked for signs that she was lying-watched a bead of sweat form at her temple-elongate into a drop and then-roll down her cheek. There! Her hands were trembling as she pushed back her hair! Was she giving him an odd look? Now she was gathering her clothes together-laying them across her arm just as if she really were going in to shower.  That was very clever of her, a ruse to throw him off. While all the while-was she planning to run out on him?

If only he could think! He scowled. This wasn’t right. He didn’t know where these thought were coming from. He couldn’t think over the thrumming of his frantic heartbeat. Angel noticed the scowl, miss interpreted it, threw up her hands and marched to the door-tried to bang it behind her but it was a hollow core and didn’t have enough weight to slam. He wanted to go to his knees in gratitude for that small reprieve.

Finally she was gone. He was relieved to be rid of her. Relieved not to have to try and hide the pain that had taken him over. He needed to be alone so he could grab his head and squeeze it back to sanity. He stumbled towards the mirror puffing air so hard strings of spittle flew from his open mouth.

This was crazy. How could anger be a physical pain? It hurt so bad he had to check that blood wasn’t actually seeping from his eyeballs.

And there it was in the mirror. His nose was bleeding. He could see for himself. He was pale and shaky, the blood was red and gaudy. For a moment one clear thought rang out through the pain and he wondered if she’d somehow tricked him into taking her drugs. But then the buzzing in his ears got so jagged it cut through his reason and left him mad.

He eyes rolled in their sockets and his nails drove into the wood of his dresser until he felt them break off at the quick. He felt like he had in his dream. He felt as if he would die.

If only he could breathe.

******

World Blog Tour

Today I'd like to thank Suzanne Purvis at www.suzannepurvis.blogspot.com for inviting me on this great tour of blogs! Thanks Suzanne, I'm super excited! For those of you who haven't met Suzanne yet, she's a a published author of children's books and a really kind, supportive (and patient!) mentor to those of us just finding our writing/blogging legs.

A Little About Me...

I like being outdoors. I get my best ideas when I'm walking. I also like to ride my bike. I ride it the same way I did when I was a kid, hence all of the scars on my knees. I stand up on the pedals and push down on them with the flat of my foot, I lean across my handlebars, my elbows extended, I puff my mighty way up the inclines: puff, puff, puff-grrrr- until I reach the top and then... I go really fast down the hills so I can feel the wind whipping through my hair and little animals gasp in terror at my unstoppable charge and frantically scurry out of my way, sometimes tripping in their haste.

I also like to knit...socks.

Four Questions About My Writing...

Here I go...

What am I working on?

I'm working on world building. I write urban fantasy and I like to create my own reality.You don't think so much about how detailed your world will need to be when you first start. For example- what music do they listen to, do they watch tv, how will they wear their hair? But those things are super important to know, even if they never end up in the book. 

I think when you're first starting out as a writer you need to know as much as possible about each character and what's going on in their world. That way when you begin actually writing the novel it will flow more easily for you and you won't have to start and stop as much, which is just discouraging. 

So my experience has taught me that I should always answer as many questions before I start writing as I possible can.

How Does My Work Differ From Others of This Genre?

Well, it's important to respect the rules of your genre. So, if you're asking me, do I break them? Yes. But! I also go back and un-break them, too. Because, they exist for a reason and I humbly admit that I am not bigger than the rules. 

On the other hand, (tell me you knew that was coming) You can't write a book with the goal of selling it. If you write something with the intention of creating a marketable product you'll end up just being a creative typist. I prefer to be a teller of tales and sometimes that means I sacrifice the popular trends in order to write as the story is telling itself to me.

Why Do I Write What I Write?

I write like I paint and create music-it just sort of comes out. I'm often surprised by what I've written when I go back to revise and edit. It can be like I am a conduit for the story. I think that goes back to the first answer. The more I work on building the environment, the more I can just allow the story to tell itself. I become as much reader as I am writer. 

How Does My Writing Process Work?

I like to immerse myself in the tale so that I can hear the voices of each character and smell the scents that they do. I think that when I do this it creates a more all inclusive experience for the reader. I "notice" things, like- that I still have a knife in my hand or that the bottom of my shoe is sticky, that I don't think I would notice if I was "thinking" about what I was writing.

 Thank you so much Suzanne Purvis for allowing me to tag along on this fun World Blog Tour.

And please come back again. Next week I'll be continuing my Story of Blaize with part 6! Hope to see you and feel free to add a comment.

My gift to everyone who has been kind enough to read  my post is this link writingmusings.com which is Judy Post's blog. She's fabulous!  Please check her out  on July 22 or before : )

Thanks so much and hope to see you again, Sia

The Story of Blaize part 5 This is one of the main characters in The Witch Wars

But I miss you most of all, my darling  When autumn leaves start to fall

He woke to a sense of more.  As if he was more awake then he had ever been. The fan spinning overhead stirred more air than it had ever stirred before, the clock sitting on his nightstand ticked more tocks than it had ever ticked before, his nose needed blowing more than it had ever needed it before and his teeth ground together with more irritation than he had ever felt before. His first thought was I need a drink. And he realized that he wanted one more than he had ever wanted anything before.

He tried to move but his body wasn’t taking messages. He was laid out in a flat line down the center of the bed with his hands fisted on either side of him at his hips. His mouth hurt- his lips and teeth and tongue…swollen. But that was all he could feel.

Angel lay draped across his chest. He knew that because the fan was blowing little wisps of her hair across his face that tickled the inside of his nose. Also, she seemed to be breathing all of the air in the room and leaving none for him. And, she was pinching his nerves in that way that left his limbs numb and tingly. It was unpleasant.

Impatiently, unaccountably angry, he shoved her.

In the half- light coming from his bedroom closet she stirred sensuously and pulled away. Leaning up she smiled sleepily down on him and said, “I’m awake. I’m awake.”

He recalled his dream and the way she had looked down on him and it came back more vividly than he had ever recalled a dream before. More like a memory, with tangible smells and the feeling of hands leaving imprints on his skin as he was lifted.

He panicked. Feeling held down and trapped, he meant to lash out at her, could actually feel the yell crawling up his throat. But then-she rubbed her drowsy eyes-her fist balled up like a child’s- smiled- like the first time they had met. And just like that he breathed her name on a sigh, “Angel” and paused his breath at her beauty.

Her features were tiny, delicate and yet her brown eyes were large.  When she was standing she seemed to be all arms and legs and long, shiny curls but there was lushness to her. If he was a poet he would say that she reminded him of a spring bulb resisting the harsh March winds determined to peep her noddy head out and bloom in the sun. Her innocence, the scent of which could drive him mad, was defiance against the hell they lived in now. And he never doubted that she could do it-resist nature to get her way-she may be named Angel but she had the devil’s own stubborn streak.

He was sorry he thought it but couldn’t help but wonder was she really so innocent anymore?

“Why are you listening to this morbid song?” she frowned playfully at him. He didn’t stop her when she reached across the mattress and shut Mile’s horn off. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head to help clear it. He pretended not to notice how runny her nose was. But when she lifted her blue veined arm and combed her fingers through his hair in rough-play pulling at the strands he jerked away. ”Cut it out.”

She pouted. “What’s wrong with you?” Blaize stared at her mouth as she formed the words. Her lips without his kisses weren’t so pink or lush now. “You look pale,” he said.

She started, tried to recover by reaching for a cigarette, “Why can’t you be nice to me, Blaize? Why do you have to hurt me when you know how much I’ve been through?”

He didn’t move. It had become their routine. Funny how you could reach out to take a girl’s hand, pull her fingers to your mouth to suckle their delectable sweetness and somehow change everything. Maybe that was the much he was feeling- too much, too soon, too late, too many, whatever. Funny how one innocent question could blow-out your entire life.

What’s wrong with your fingernails?

He’d laughed. Now when he thought about it he couldn’t believe he’d laughed.

What’s wrong with your fingernails?

She’d looked at him like he’d stabbed her. Like it was that time again when she’d lost the baby and she was telling him how it had been for her, in the girl’s bathroom at school, in the stall, all that blood. He’d felt the guilt of what he’d done to her like one of those anvils in a cartoon landing on his head.

She stared at his blank face for a heartbeat and then laughed out a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Fine, whatever, let’s get dressed. I don’t want to be late.”

It wasn’t until she had scrambled across his body and flopped off the bed that he felt the first tingles of awareness return-the first fresh wave of air flow over him.