Tribute to a beautiful woman

I have lost a wonderful woman.

The world may not know her name and no one would think of her as important, but I do. For so long this woman was my rock, my cheerleader, my confidant, and my biggest supporter. She heard my voice when no one else did and encouraged me to speak up.

She taught me that I don’t need a huge platform to be heard. I just need to speak what’s on my mind and in my heart and eventually, someone, the right person, would hear me. This applied to my writing. When I was struggling to put words to paper, to deal with the rejection letters flooding my inbox, she was the one that encouraged me to keep at it.

When my first book came out, she was in my acknowledgements. Though that was a way of saying thanks, I feel I have not done enough to thank her. I can never do enough.

Now that she’s gone, I am determined to honor her memory, much as I honored her in life. I shall continue writing, because if I don’t, she might just rise from the grave and slap the mess out of me. I will continue to do good for others, because she has always felt that there is nothing so nearer to heaven than to help others. She used to say it didn’t matter how you worshiped or if you worshiped at all, all that mattered was what you did to be a good person and that you did it from your heart, not expecting praise.

My great aunt was a strong woman who was self-reliant, caring, kind, loving and giving. She instilled these qualities in me and every day I continue to remind myself of the type of person I want to be. Though I am a work in progress and not perfect, she taught me to never expect perfection. The only way to gain perfection is to be dead. Part of the fun of life is being a constant work in progress.

In honor of her, I'm posting the below video. She used to love to listen to Elvis's spirituals. Said it did things for her soul. So Auntie, this is for you:

Inspiration

The first thing people ask me is where do I find inspiration. My typical answer is everywhere. But today, it occurred to me, that to a person who maybe doesn't have an artist's mind, this answer may not make sense. So I thought about it. I dug deeper for the answer to that question.


Yes, I do find inspiration everywhere, but that's because I look for it.


I don't mean that I go out of my way, but I've noticed that a lot of artists, writers, actors--basically anyone in the arts--are of the quieter variety. To the outside this makes us seem shy, and many of us are, but just because we're not speaking, doesn't mean that we're not paying attention.


A few nights ago was a good example. I was at a party (a situation that I feel entirely out of sorts with) and though I probably said fewer than two words, I learned more about the people attending then I think they learned about each other. I listened to their conversations, the careful back and forth that reveals everything and nothing. I watched their mannerisms, the subtle body language. I observed every nuance from they walked, to the dialect in their voice and the way they stood. I filed these bits of information in my brain, to be used at a later time. Who knows, maybe party-goer A is my new hero.


When I go somewhere, I find that I take in every detail. My brain memorizes the smells, the sights, the lines of building architecture, the taste of food or drink. I break these down into elements and somehow they work their way into my worlds.


Another example was when I was hiking yesterday during the fall As I traipsed through the woods, my brain flashed to a scene that I hadn't yet written. It was as clear to me as a memory--as though I knew those woods and that scene happened to me. And I realized I was seeing the woods not through my own eyes, but that of my characters. I went home and jotted down the scene. It will be in my current work in progress.


So you see, inspiration does come from everywhere. But that's only because as an artist, I view the world very differently. Some might say strangely, but it all makes sense when I write it down.

A Little Fun with Angel

The other day I was watching Angel (a Joss Whedon creation and spin-off to the Buffy series) and I realized that Whedon is a master of integrating setting, plot, and characters.

Angel is set in modern day Los Angeles, which is a hotbed of vampires, demons, and other otherworldly creatures. Now, having grown up in So. Cal, I can honestly say L.A. is the perfect setting for such a show.

Whedon takes Angel, a centuries old vamp with a soul and puts him among these creatures as a detective of sorts. He helps those who can’t help themselves against the darker forces in the world.

In Angel, the setting becomes just as important as the plot of each episode. It is always explained, if it is not obvious why a certain species of demons need to live in the sewers under the city.

Also, for the title character, Angel, Los Angeles is the place he comes to start over and find a purpose. The city of Lost Angels plays host to Angels own quest for redemption and purpose only to find out that he is the “Chosen One” from the Powers that Be. Now, he not only is trying to answer the question of who is he, but he is also trying to find what it means to be a hero.

If you have not seen this series, I recommend you watch it. I’ll leave you with a little of David Boreanaz’s hotness as Angel as he is awkwardly singing karaoke.

*Warning: Angel Can't Sing, but he's cute when he tries

Published author...now what?

This week, I've decided to write on the realities of being published, versus the romantic connotations of what it means to be an author.

When I was simply called a writer, I thought that was difficult. My life at the time consisted of writing, revising and editing my manuscript so that I could send it off to a publisher, agent, etc. The waiting at this point was excruciating, I would submit and wait with baited breath for a letter with the golden words:


Dear Ms Christman,


We’re happy to inform you that after reviewing your submission, we’d like to extend a contract for (INSERT MANUSCRIPT TITLE HERE)....


I thought once this happens, my life is going to be different. But more often than not, it didn't happen that way. I got the form rejection letters (although when I was subbing The Witching Hour, I did get a couple that were personalized and said something along the lines of: I really enjoyed your manuscript, however.... but I wouldn't recommend any changes) and felt the momentary disappointment at the setbacks. I believe I subbed five manuscripts before I had even written The Witching Hour, all to unanimous no's.


But enough dwelling on the no's. The purpose of this blog is not to give rejection stories.


When I finally got my letter with the magic words that my manuscript had been accepted for publication, I was elated and ecstatic. I was ready for the long road ahead of me. I finally had a foot in the door somewhere and my book would be distributed for the consumption of the masses.


Although I didn't feel any different, I had moved into a new category of writer. I had moved into author and from now on, the craft that I was so dedicated to was my business.


I was prepared for the long rounds of editing that I had heard some of my favorite authors talk about. The going back and forth with an editor who would work with me to polish and produce the best possible version of my book.


I was even prepared for the long arduous road of self promotion. Because let's face it, no one is going to buy your book if they have no idea who the hell you are. I hate self-promotion, but marketing was something that I was reasonably knowledgeable about thanks to my jobs in corporate America. I had learned the importance of branding and building a brand. Things that helped me as I moved forward. But in the meantime, while I waited for my first round edits to come from my editor, I read absolutely everything I could find about promotion and marketing even coming up with a plan.


The essential difference between a writer and an author is an author realizes that publishing is a business. An author wants to write as a career. A writer can write one book and be done with it all.


As any business owner will tell you, the only way to succeed is to have plenty of product and plenty of effective advertising. This is where my life became different.


When I was a writer, all I had to worry about was writing and I did that when the mood struck. As an author, I now had a business to consider. It is my desire to be very successful (we're not talking millions here, just a healthy royalty check); my ultimate goal is to be able to make enough to write full time. And it happens, but not without a considerable amount of work.


This point of my career consists of making sure that I continue to build my brand, promotion, writing, and revising according to my editor's suggestions. And while it seems that this is not a lot let me assure you, promotion and brand building take up about 75% of your time. Of course all the interviews, signings, etc in the world aren't going to help you if you don't have a healthy backlist, which is why I no longer write when the mood strikes me. I literally schedule time to work on my WIP. And because I am just starting out and have no assistant, I also have to make time to update my website (which can take some time depending on what I am doing);updating my blog, twitter, and facebook. I also have to make sure I tackle any and all revisions on time (so my release dates don't get pushed).


Then there is scheduling time to spend with my poor neglected BF and pooch, both of whom put up with it all so well.


Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't change a thing. I love the new challenges of this phase of my writing career. But I work harder now, then when I just worked a regular cubicle job. And I am more willing to do this because its my passion.


I am not advocating throwing in your pen. I'm just saying that if you want to just write, then being a professional author is not really for you. Similarly, if you expect to just write a book and get rich all of a sudden, it doesn't happen that way (there are a few exceptions--very few). There's a lot of work involved to just be able to make a decent living at it and like anything in life, you have to be willing to work incredibly hard to achieve your dreams. So my advice to anyone who wanted to get into this line of work would be: Be able to take rejection--its par for the course. Be prepared to work extremely hard, with long hours, and a flexible schedule. You have to really have a passion for your job if you want to be successful. Don't get into writing if you want to be rich.


I have a passion and I don't do this for the money. I do it, because for me, there is no better job in the world.

New Year, New Goals

After taking a long sabbatical for the Holidays, I'm back.

Since we are in a new year, I decided to blog about writing goals, seeing as how I've recently taken the time to evaluate some of my own personal goals. For a writer, goals are important. Goals help us complete stories and/or decide what the next level in the ladder is. I'm not going to get all preachy and tell you what your goals should be, because the truth is every writer needs to set their own, whether it be small goals, short term goals, or larger ones. I will however share some of my own goals and how I plan to achieve them.

1. Write at least one 80,000 word novel.
This one may seem like a no brainer, but I've been hovering around the 60,000-70,000 word mark and I'd like to expand. In order to accomplish this I'm going to have to beef up my story lines and learn other techniques to improve my writing.

Which leads into the next goal...

2. Improve on my writing.
Whether it be through books, workshops, or continuing to work with my editor, I plan to improve the skills I already have and learn new ones to effectively craft my tales. I don't want to be a one trick pony and I'd like to stay in the publishing world. However, in order to do this, I can't rely on rehashing the same things. It'll only bore me and my readers.

3. Write at least two stories that are outside of genre.
This may sound simple, but you'd be surprised how hard it is, for me at least, to writed stories that don't fall under the paranormal or urban fantasy. Right now I am working on an erotica tale and a piece of historical fiction. Hopefully they pan out.

Of course this doesn't mean I won't still be crafting Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Fiction, but it does mean I'm going to be giving some new genres a try. Besides, you never know, I may have a hidden talent or two.

My last goal is more of a professional development goal.

4. Continue to build a back list.
The more things available for people to read, the more I can hope to use my writing to make a living and the more I can write. But until that happens, I still have my day job.

Anyway, enough about my goals. What are yours? I'm curious to hear about them.

The Art of Writing Well

Something I've decided to learn was authentic French cooking from French recipes and what I've noticed is unlike the American versions of the very same recipes, the original French recipes are often long, involved, and take a lot of patience. For example take chocolate mousse. The American version of this recipe is made with very few ingredients and takes no more than forty-five minutes of active cooking time. The result is a nice dessert, but nothing spectacular. However, the French version is much more involved taking a little over an hour of active cooking time. You start with warm cream, then add that to eggs and sugar before heating it to 160 degrees Fahrenheit making something that looks like a custard. Then you slowly melt the bittersweet chocolate in a double boiler, adding sugar and whisking. Once the chocolate is ready, you mix them all together. Now in the American version, you shortcut and add gelatin to give the mousse its texture and stick it in the freezer for an hour or two and its done. In the french, you have to whip cream until stiff peaks form (do not use cool whip, you do not need anymore sugar) than slowly whisk the cream into the mousse and chill for six hours.

The results of this intensive and slow going process is an immensely decadent dessert full of body and rich with flavor. Something that eating only a couple of teaspoons full will satisfy your sweet tooth (which is one of the many reasons french food is served in much smaller portions--its rich and filling) but it's a food that you'll crave more of.

What does this talk of food have to do with writing?

Well, I was illustrating a point. How many times have you stumbled upon a piece of writing, be it a novel or short story, that just seemed hurried and sloppily but together? You'll read it, but it doesn't leave you wanting more.

But a story that's been well crafted, every detail properly measured, descriptions that are rich and used only as needed, characters that are full of body--that leaves you wanting more. That's a story that's worthy of devouring.

The point is this, the art of writing is very much like the art of french cooking, while there may be shortcuts, they're not necessarily good for you. Sometimes you have to take the slow going long road. When you take your time and lovingly put in the effort needed for the entire process from conception to editing, the result is a tale full of body, rich and decadent, that once you get a spoonful, you'll want a whole helping.

Mythology Monday #1

With a little over a month left until The Witching Hour is available, I've decided to share my love of mythology with you in. Why, you may ask? Because The Witching Hour is full of mythological figures and deities from pagan cultures.

So to kick off my mythology kick, we'll start with the god Apollo who makes an appearance in The Witching Hour. Apollo was, in Greek mythology, the god of healing, prophecy, music and the sun.

Like most of his fellow Olympians, Apollo did not hesitate to intervene in human affairs. He was the reason the mighty Achilles fell in battle. Of all the heroes besieging the city of Troy in the Trojan War, Achilles was the best fighter by far. He had easily defeated the Trojan captain Hector in single combat. But Apollo helped Hector's brother Paris slay Achilles with an arrow.

When someone died suddenly, Greeks and Romans said to the victim was struck down by Apollo's arrow.

As god of music, Apollo is often depicted playing the lyre. He did not invent this instrument, however, but was given it by Hermes in compensation for cattle theft. Some say that Apollo did invent the lute, although he was best known for his skill on the lyre.

He won several musical contests by playing this instrument. In one case he bested Pan, who competed on his own invention, the shepherd's pipe. On this occasion, King Midas had the bad sense to say that he preferred Pan's music, which caused Apollo to turn his ears into those of an ass.

In The Witching Hour, Apollo is depicted as a god full of bravado until he's forced to admit he can't intefer with other pantheons. He, along with the other gods, get a chance to mess with Lucky Sands, my hero, but also show some complexity beyond Greek Myths. Still, it's always a good idea to understand the core stories that inspired them, and I hope you take away some new knowledge.

Music thine Muse

First off, allow me to start this blog post with an apology. Last week I missed my post because we had family come in from out of town and it was a crazy busy time for me.

This week I chose to blog about music. Music is intrinsic to my writing process without it, I find my words fall flat, my scenes are less dimensional and my characters don't seem like themselves. I, like some of my fellow writers use music to set scenes, motivate us and just keep us in the zone.

For my current work in progress, Dead Before Midnight, I often rely on music to help me get in my character's heads and set the tone of the scene. When I listen to the blues, it connects me to Derek, who doesn't find the blues painful or heartbreaking, but rather uplifting. I tend to switch it up to jazz and some old school Edith Piaf for Alex, because surprisingly, the often times complex tonality of jazz music fits her rather colorful personality.

When the two of them together, I find that classical music works best. Hauntingly beautiful nocturnes best illustrate all the things left unsaid. While during a fight seen, I find myself listening to Do-wop (50s and 60s pop) like The Chiffons, The Shirelles, and The Shang-ri-las.

Since the beginning of time, music has been able to move writers to create beautiful words and painful moments. And I find that this is increasingly true the more I write. Each book has it's own soundtrack, each character their own theme.

So the next time you want to get into a writer's head, ask them what's on their soundtrack...you might just be able to figure out what motivates your favorite characters.

And now one last thing. I leave you with a piece of music that helped me write a zombie fight scene (I kid you not).

Requiem is Available Today

The moment that every author waits for has finally arrived. My book was released.
Requiem is now available from Noble Romance and I couldn't be more excited.

Requiem is the story of Kate, a vampire succubus, who has wandered through life feeding on both the blood and sex of mortals, with an utter disregard for human life. Even that gets boring after a while. But problems don't arise until Kate meets the new “Hollywood Heartthrob,” Aidan Cross.

Aidan is human, which would normally put him on the menu, but Kate finds herself attracted to him in more ways than one and decides to wait before she kills him to see if the allure is something more than his irresistible good looks.

Jack and Kate have a very complicated relationship dating back to the fall of Rome. He's an angel, she's not. One night with her will make him fall and be damned to life in the demon ranks, and she'll become mortal.

With Aidan, she gets a chance to play human. One night with Jack and she'll actually be human, but that also means giving up everything she loves.

Requiem is an unapologetic look into the journey of one vampire--a memoir of sorts. Kate is unrepentant about her lot in life and her need to feed, but instead of being a complete villain, she undergoes a journey of redemption, and learns that life is more the selfish pleasure.

To give you a little taste, I'll give you an excerpt:

If I weren't already dead, I would die of boredom.

In fact, I wondered if I could die again from the crushing wave of tedium the lecturer's words stirred as he droned on about microquasars, primordial magnetic fields, and dark matter. So what was I doing at an astrophysics lecture? I was out hunting. And as soon as the speech was over, I would lure the handsome graduate student two rows in front of me out back to the quiet little alley and drink his sweet life's elixir.

Or at least that's what I would have done, had my phone not started going off in the middle of the lecture. Annoyed, I made a quick exit out of the auditorium. Another missed opportunity. One I was particularly upset about, considering I had already invested a little over one hour of listening to that boring discussion.

The phone stopped ringing before I could answer it. A cool breath grazed the back of my neck. Only one person would call me off of a hunt and play like this. "This had better be good Nick," I said, through gritted teeth. I hadn't fed any of my hungers in nearly a month, and I was ready to tear the head off of a cow if that would've quenched my thirsts.

He materialized in front of me, a mischievous smile on his face.

Nick was a demon from way back, although his exact age I couldn't be sure of. He never would come clean about that. We both usually stopped at the Roman Empire, although sometimes he would hint at knowledge of Mesopotamian culture far beyond what's known in history books.

Unlike the popular culture images of demons, he didn't have scales or claws. Most demons didn't. Nick had a passing resemblance of a young Johnny Depp this century. He was fond of changing his appearance to avoid being recognized, especially if he chose to stay in a city for a long time. One of the first things you learn, as an immortal, was to either stick with really big cities or move a lot, in order to avoid being recognized.

Of course, most of us avoided social interactions with mortals. They tended to have the pesky habit of dying just when you'd finish breaking them in like a pet. It was a lonely existence we led. Most of us were solitary, having brief moments of companionship and no true circle of friends. Immortals tended to have very little patience for other immortals. Perhaps it was the fact that our longevity made us very depressing to be around—we often spent too much time reminiscing about the good old days. Then again, there were always exceptions to the rule.

I think one of the things that endeared Nick to me was that, unlike a lot of other demons I had come across in my years of living, he had at one point been mortal. Like me, he had made a choice that led him to the life he had now.

"I need you to do me a favor."

Not in the mood for what he had in mind, I shook my head and walked out of the building into the cool spring night.

Nick followed behind me, "Kate, please."

"Nope. I'm not interested," I replied, walking briskly down the city sidewalk.

"You know you've been in a bad mood for five years now." He kept pace with my rapid steps, breathing down my neck.

Five years might as well have been a few months the way time passed for us. One of the first things people think of with immortality is how cool it is to know that you get a chance to live forever. You get to see the world change. In actuality, it can grow quite tiresome. The world changes, but you stay the same, locked in an unending cycle.

Sure, you drift along doing whatever you please, but soon enough you've seen it all, then the thrill is gone. Humans have no idea what the phrase "the more things change the more they stay the same" truly means, but I do. I learned the meaning millennia before the phrase was ever created.

God I was bored. Could you have a midlife crisis when you were well beyond a mortal mid life?

I stopped abruptly and did an about face. "What's the favor?"

"Now we're talking." Nick smiled. "There's a party over in West Hollywood at some house. I need to get a few contracts signed."

"Don't you have enough celebrities who have sold their souls?"

"This is not a celebrity. It's some agent who wants to be head of a studio."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "What do you need me for?"

Nick did his best to be charming. "I need you to use that lovely succubus charm of yours to get me in the door."

My succubus charm. I rolled my eyes at the mention. I didn't like using my so-called succubus charm if I wasn't in the mood to use it to feed.

It's a well-known fact that most vampires feed off of blood alone. But the much lesser known fact is that some of us had the ability to feed off of other things, such as emotion, energy or sex.

I could feed off either blood or lust. Unlike my pure-vampire brethren, I got the chance to choose what sustenance I wanted at the moment. It was all because my maker was an incubus, a male vampire who could feed off of lust. So when I died, I got the very same abilities.

It came with some perks. My maker was a very handsome man. His skin glowed milky white, his lips were lush, his hair a rich black. But his eyes were the most beautiful, the most compelling—violet with silver rings around the irises. His incredible looks and mesmerizing eyes were for luring in prey, the succubus and incubus arsenal. Things he couldn't help but give to me when he made me. When I died, everything about me changed, and the people I had known would not have been able to recognize me. Becoming a vampire succubus changed my appearance so much, I scarcely remember what I looked like in my mortal days.

"You know I don't do parties." I sighed. I hadn't been to a Hollywood shindig since the Rat Pack were the Kings of Cool and Marilyn Monroe was still making films.

"Please. I don't ask you for many favors," Nick reasoned. "Besides, it could be fun."

"You know how I feel about today's Hollywood," I reminded him.

"Yeah, and that's why you haven't been to a movie since A Clockwork Orange in nineteen seventy-one."

Knowing what it meant for him as a soul collector, I couldn't hold onto my reluctance for long. Live long enough, and you had a habit of collecting favors that could be cashed in anytime, place, or century. "Fine. I'll help you."

He smirked and pulled my hand, tugging me in the direction of his car.

The party in question was being held in the West Hollywood hills. It didn't matter which decade in Hollywood's history you were in, the parties remained the same. The elite came to rub elbows and network, while young starlet hopefuls acted as eye-candy for the lecherous executives and agents. Although it had to be said, the starlets today were far more forward about the things they were willing to do to fulfill their ambitions than their predecessors had been. Where the infamous couch sessions were kept secretive in the old days, today's hopefuls had a definite exhibitionist streak.

Security at the mansion was tight. So tight that there was no way for a crasher to get in without making a scene. No wonder Nick needed me. Soon I stood before the burly doorman, who'd been assigned to check invitations.

"Your invitation, ma'am?"

I smiled and turned on my preternatural charm and charisma. "Darn, I must have left it at home." I let my voice roll over him like velvet, cloaking any suspicions he might have had. I flashed him another quick smile. One that said, look at me, I'm cute. He smiled back and let Nick and me through the door.

The party was just as I had anticipated—too cool and trendy to really be hip. The room was dim—what they liked to call mood lighting. Truthfully, it was just irritating. My eyes could adjust to any level of light, but I suppose I felt the halfhearted attempt was ridiculous. On or off, was my thing. One or the other, none of this mood crap.

I looked around the party with a hungry gaze. My brain switched over to predator mode, scanning the crowd for a meal. There were plenty of victims . . . err . . . I mean, oh hell, why finesse the truth? I meant victims. I had only to choose the hunger I wanted to feed.

A short man carrying two drinks approached me. He had a shiny bald head that reminded me more of grease than anything else. I found him utterly disgusting as he smiled and handed me the second drink in his hand. I sniffed it, taking in the scents of mint, rum, lime, club soda and sugar. But there was something else in the cocktail no human nose would have detected. A Mickey. The poor, greasy, little bastard was trying to slip me a dose of Rohypnol, a date rape drug, not knowing what I was and that his special cocktail would have no effect on me. I took a sip of the drink and gave him a sensual smile.

He showered me with the usual slimy compliments lowly producers, without any real clout, gave to all the wannabe starlets. The typical, "You are a very beautiful woman", "You ought to be in movies", or my favorite, "I can help you get into the pictures, if you're willing to do what it takes".

I smiled and nodded politely, every so often offering a gracious giggle while I pretended that the drug in my drink was starting to take effect. He examined my tired eyes. His black irises narrowed on my bosom. I recognized that dark glimmer, the vicious stare. He hunted those he felt were weaker, stupider, and more susceptible to what he perceived as charm.

He had no idea I was a predator, too, and that he had just become prey.

I let him usher me out of the party and to his waiting car. He smirked as I pretended to drift in and out of consciousness.

I decided to kill him tonight. I didn't have to kill him to feed, but I wanted to. I wanted to feel his blood run hot down my throat, hear his pathetic whimper as he realized what was happening, and I'd enjoy it. I'd decided from the moment he approached me with a cocktail laced with Rohyphnol that he would die in a painful manner. I would not roll his mind or seduce him into sex to feed. That would make him enjoy it too much. I'd made up my mind, when I decided to kill him, to make him suffer.

He pulled the car into a dark, open field. He was going to rape me—well, attempt to rape me—in the open, away from anyone who could bear witness to his crimes.

That was fine and dandy for me. No witnesses.

Opening my eyes, bright and full, I smirked and moved to the edge of my seat. He nodded and smiled as I placed a hand on his groin.

He unbuckled his pants and wriggled them down around his ankles, before leaning his seat back. I suppose he merely assumed he didn't use enough of the drug to keep me asleep. But judging by the look on his face, he wasn't too disappointed.

I sniffed the foul smell of his sweaty crotch. He disgusted me on every level. But the prize was yet to come. I could smell the blood in his femoral artery, flowing just under the surface of his white-gray skin. It was a smell I knew very well. A smell I relished and enjoyed, especially now that I was starved for it.

A smirk graced my lips as I extended my canines into two dainty fangs. I kissed his thigh, right at the femoral artery, and licked the area, anticipating the scalding release of his blood. He let out a happy sigh. Mustn't play with my food, I thought to myself, just before I plunged my fangs into the meat of his flesh.

He yelped in pain and tried to beat me off of him. I took both of his hands into one of mine and held him firm. His blood was hot as it flowed out of him and into me, filling my belly with its warmth.

When his heart stopped beating and the blood had run dry, I released my grip on him and let his corpse slump in the seat. He had been a good meal, if nothing else.

My hunger satiated, I got out of the car and ran with my superhuman abilities away from the scene. To anyone who might have been passing by, I would have only registered in their subconscious as barely a blip on their radar.

Was I worried that when the cops found the body they'd trace it back to me? Nope. They would find no evidence that I even existed. No remnants of shed hair or skin for them to find. Nothing with a shred of DNA. That sort of stuff didn't really apply when you became an immortal. Like I said, the world around me changed, I didn't.

I, like every other undead creature on this planet, was stuck in a permanent stasis.

Full, I felt better, physically, but my mood was still shitty. And, I was still bored. The kill had been easy, too easy, like everything else in this modern world. I'd had millennia to perfect my techniques, to learn to stalk and truly hunt my prey, but in this modern world of technology and instant gratification, it had all become so easy. There was no thrill of the chase anymore. Hell, there was no chase. Humans had grown soft.

Young vampires relished this culture of instant gratification. This breed of human that was so easy to catch. There was no thrill to it. I remember the days when humans had true warriors who would put up some fight. Sure, they lost every time, but it was a hell of a lot more fun. And people thought these modern days were violent.

I was in a sour mood when I finally got back to my house in Redondo. The home came complete with its own private beach access, a little ways down a hill.

Built in the mission style, with lots of Spanish architecture, the home had attracted my attention and I'd purchased it when it was still brand new during the twenties. I mean the nineteen twenties, although I did buy a little villa in Greece during the year 20 B.C. It's was a nice home in Athens. Unfortunately, it got destroyed in an earthquake and the subsequent fires. Oh well.

I opened up all the windows in the two-story home, with lightening speed, allowing the sea breeze from the Pacific to fill the house. The morning sunlight peeked in, chasing the darkness from each room. It was an old wives' tale that vampires would burst into flame or turn to dust from contact with sunlight. We could be out anytime we pleased; however, in the days of old, it was easier to hunt at night.

I curled up in my favorite chaise and began to read Eugénie by Honoré De Balzac in its original French. Being fluent in most languages, including the dead ones, was one of the perks of having lived for so long, in almost every corner of the world, and not having to sleep as much as a mortal.

Vampires, in general, slept when we felt like it, where we felt like it. Hell, there'd been years where I hadn't slept at all, and then times where I slept for years. I missed the entire American Revolution. I had decided that since I was so bored of that era, I'd find a nice place to sleep it out. I slept for an entire decade between 1776 and 1786 in a mausoleum in France. It was the safest place to be at the time. I didn't need to worry about some overzealous villager or uneducated peasant believing folklore and trying to stake me.

Not that a stake through the heart would kill me. I learned that early in my afterlife. It would hurt, be uncomfortable and plain irritating, but it wouldn't kill me. Very few humans could actually kill an immortal. It took a special breed. They had to be born, but often these natural slayers had no idea they held such special powers. And as time went on, there were less and less demon, vampire, or whatever else-slayers out to kill us. The humans had become so used to our presence, they typically ignored that little voice in their heads that said there was something wrong with the person standing next to them. We were living in an age of political correctness; no one wanted to be the one to point out that there was something different or not right about his or her neighbor, or the beautiful woman sitting at the bar. They didn't want to be stuck with a negative social stigma.

In truth, most of us were thankful for that. Those of us old enough to remember the bad ol' days, where bringing attention to yourself made you a pariah, were well accomplished at blending in with the humans and not arousing suspicion. Sure, there were a few little clues that we were not like them, but for the most part, we looked like any other humans. Even demons and angels blended in well. They shifted in and out of forms when needed.

Do you know how to tell when there is an ageless immortal in the room? It's not the expensive clothing they're wearing—that can be imitated by mortals. It's the jewelry they wear. Those of us who are old tend to collect pieces throughout the years and wear them. Pieces that belonged in museums. Of course, mortals would think they were clever replicas if they had even noticed them to begin with. That little distinction was not enough to cause humans to think we were unlike them.

It was the young ones we worried about. The ones who tended to be reckless and impulsive, bringing attention to themselves by acting out their God fantasies. They were the ones most at risk and who needed to be kept in line. That's why, when a new vampire is made, their sire is around them for a few years, showing them the ropes, even if they don't plan on making them a companion. We weren't completely dog-eat-dog. We did have some sense of moral responsibility. Mainly our code was limited to the whole life in the shadows thing.

Granted, we didn't really live in the shadows, but we were the ultimate secret society. Only a select few even knew of our existence. We immortals, all of us, not just the vampires, liked to keep our existence secretive. We didn't want mortals to spoil our fun and games.

I was just getting comfortable in the chair, reading the book's climax, when I felt a presence in the room. I looked up from my book to see Nick sitting in the chair across from me. He had a glow about him, a glow I'd seen a hundred times before. The glow he got when someone signed their soul away.

Nick had once told me that collectors were motivated to collect souls not only because it was their job, but also because they got a real energy boost from it. It was like a feeding for them. He explained it was similar to the glow and feeling of complete satisfaction I got when I fed on sex and lust rather than blood.

"You know when you sit utterly still like that, it's unnerving. It's like you're a statue or something," he said.

"It takes years of practice to be able to sit like this," I replied. It was true. After being dead for a while, you find you don't really have to do things like move. You never get uncomfortable from staying in one position for too long.

"Centuries, I suppose," he said, taking two tickets out of his jacket's inner pocket. He looked around the living room. "You know there are really only two things you need in here, a refrigerator and a television."

"When I do eat regular food, I eat out. And you know I haven't owned a television since I Dream of Jeannie went off the air." I loved that show with all its kitschy humor. They just didn't make sitcoms like that anymore.

Nick snorted at that. He and I had this discussion a lot, and he knew he would gain no ground. It was always fun to get two very stubborn immortal beings together.

"I've got two tickets here for a movie premiere tonight." Nick fanned himself with them.

"So," I replied indignantly. "I've been to plenty of premieres. None of them have been as much fun as the one for A Streetcar Named Desire."

"You only say that because Marlon Brando was the last celebrity crush you had and you fucked him afterward."

I smiled at the mention of that tryst. "What can I say, Marlon was a good shag. We lasted the whole weekend actually."

"Ah yes." He smiled fondly. "I got an excellent soul out of that deal."

I shagged Brando, and Nick got his soul. Oh, don't feel too bad for the bloke, he did go on to be one of the biggest movie stars of all time and live a long life.

"Come on, Kate. You've been in a rut. Maybe this is just what the doctor ordered." Nick put on his best charming smile. "Besides, there will be plenty of food there."

I frowned and put down my book. "I'm full."

"Oh right, you probably drained that guy you left the party with. But I bet you haven't fed the succubus part of you yet." He no doubt noticed the lack of a glow in my skin.

"I can go years without feeding that."

"But then you need blood more often," he reasoned.

I nodded. He was right, damn him.

It wouldn't kill me to get out and go to the premiere. I just didn't do the whole Hollywood scene anymore. It was hard to keep a low profile in this digital age if you insisted on being at every hot spot or celebrity haunt. The paparazzi were bolder these days, and with everything being recorded for posterity, people would notice the lack of aging.

"All right. I'll go." Nick was one of two people who could get me to go to these sorts of things. I considered Nick one of my only two very close friends. The other one was a very old friend, and was due for a visit very soon.

Nick got up from the couch. "Great. I'll pick you up at five thirty. Movie starts at seven."

"Who's the soul?" I asked.

"Does it really matter? Some bit actress. Let's just say she'll soon be a star." Nick liked working the Hollywood beat. Besides the perks, like movie premiere invitations and award shows, there were lots of easy souls, ripe for collection. Plenty of people would sell their souls for money, power, and fame; Nick was just there to collect. All they had to do was say the magic words, "I'd sell my soul . . . ." or some variation thereof, and poof. There was Nick, contract in hand, ready to have them sign away. And no, it wasn't signed in their blood. It was done with a ballpoint pen, preferably black ink.

I wasn't really in the mood to read anymore. Nick had ruined it with his movie talk. Instead, I decided to go shopping and get a little pampering done. I wanted to look my best if I was going to a big movie premiere tonight. Although, for a vampire who was a succubus, it wasn't really hard for me to look appealing. All I needed to do was smile.

Now that its out, I have to ask you to purchase your copy over at Noble Romance
But stayed tuned, The Witching Hour will be out this November. And don't forget to head over to my website for the virtual release party!

Sometimes you just need a hobby

I have just completed edits for The Witching Hour and I find that my current WIPs are stalled. My imaginary friends have essentially turned their backs and decided they don't want to talk to me. Naturally, I am alarmed by this. I'm not use to silence when I sit down at my computer, I'm used to the chattering that is my muse telling me my story.

So a friend of mine suggested that perhaps my characters are telling me I need a break--to which I respond in my head with, "If I'm not writing what am I going to do?"

This went on for a couple days and then I remembered a hobby I used to do before I decided to neglect it. Acting.

Low and behold my local theater was having auditions. I go, I do okay (won't know til I get the call) but I get home and the creative juices were flowing.

Moral of the story--maybe a life away from a computer screen is healthy.

Loup Garou in Children's Literature

Lycanthropy legends go all the back to antiquity. Every culture has a story, from King Lycan of Greece to the wild were-cats of Japan, people have been using lycanthropes to explain away some of the more monsterous aspects of human behavior.

So imagine my cool meter going off when the history channel pointed out the Little Red Riding Hood is a werewolf cautionary tale. Honestly, I had to think about it (I even pulled out the book). Let's analyze shall we?

First Red (Little Red Riding Hood) is sent to her grandmother's house and decides to take a short cut through the woods (a big no, no in medieval times--never go through the woods alone).

Then the wolf finds her and wants to eat her, but not in public (not wanting to reveal his bestial nature), so he approaches her and she naively tells the wolf where she is going.(Never talk to strangers kids.)

The wolf suggests Red goes and pick some flowers for Grandma (What grandma doesn't want flowers from her grandkid) and she does. In the meantime, the wolf goes to grandma's house and swallows granny whole (Grandma: the other red meat).

Red gets to grandma's house. She notices Grandma's strange appearance, comments on it, but doesn't run (Rule #1 for avoiding old school horror beasts: CARDIO). Instead, she's swallowed whole.

Queue the hunter (Can you say Van Helsing types or even Buffy type). He cuts into the wolf, kills it and rescues Grandma and Red. They all live happily ever after. Yay!


So where's the werewolf part? Its in the fact that the cross-dressing wolf can talk and be understood by humans.


The story also conveys medieval ideology. During the dark ages, the woods represented danger and a place full of devils. So the lesson was stay out of the woods and in the safety of the village kids, or a werewolf might eat you. Especially in a time when people genuinely believed that werewolves were real and would tear you from limb to limb.

Anyway, thanks for staying tuned for this interesting analysis of Little Red Riding Hood. Now back to your regularly scheduled internet.