A Tale of Two Vampires

It's official! I finished The Ripper's Daughter, my vampire Victorian paranormal mystery for National Novel Writing Month on November 20 and verified it November 25.

I wanted to write about vampires, but I also wanted my story to be different. So I decided to make the relationship between Nathan and Stephen a symbiotic one. Stephen needed Nathan to drink his blood and Nathan had someone he could feed from without endangering other people's lives. Their relationship goes much farther, however, a sexual one they need to keep hidden from society. Not only that, but also continuing the charade of Stephen, Nathan's master, playing the part of his manservant.

Inspector Lewis

What really inspired me to write this story, though, was Inspector Lewis. The show aired on Masterpiece Mystery while I was plotting my NaNo WIP. Not that the two have anything in common except I knew, after watching Inspector Lewis, I wanted Nathan to be a former Detective Inspector.

Who would I pit Nathan against? Then it came to me. Who is the most infamous murderer in Victorian history? Jack the Ripper. (Okay, there are others, but I'm going with the most well-known.) And what if Jack the Ripper weren't human? What if he were a werewolf, and only Nathan knew this? So the DI risked his life and all he had to become a vampire and stop the Ripper? But what if he failed?

I explore this throughout the story. The guilt Nathan feels at failing to catch the Ripper and the determination to stop him when he finds the Ripper has come to Louisville, Nathan's new home. Nathan now owns a saloon called The Cloak and Dagger. I wanted a place where he could get information but not resort to making him work as a police officer or as a reporter. Besides, both those jobs would require working in daylight, something Nathan can no longer do. He can go out in overcast weather but direct sunlight will cause considerable damage, even death. And if Nathan dies, so does Stephen and vice versa.

Although this is a first draft, I thought I'd share a short excerpt.Remember, this is from a draft and is not intended to be considered final.

Please enjoy!

Excerpt:

I caught Stephen biting his lower lip, a worried expression on his face. Concern? He needn’t worry. After all, he turned me, knowing a vampire’s strengths and weaknesses. He knew I wouldn’t take foolish risks.

No, it was something else. Stephen hadn’t eaten or drunk much the last couple of days and seemed a bit sluggish and redder in the face, as if stricken with high blood pressure.

Something primal stirred in me. A faint coppery smell triggered an ache in my fangs which dropped slightly.

Our eyes met, Stephen’s blue ones darkening. He rose, pulling the brocade curtains shut against the moonlight and any passersby. We couldn’t risk complacency. To do so could put our lives in danger.

He crossed the room and sat on the sofa next to me. The light from the lamp glinted on his hair, throwing shadows across his face, the bridge of his aquiline nose. But my attention was drawn to his carotid artery. I licked  my lips, desire pooling in my body, heightened by his nearness and the smell of blood. As my fangs continued to drop, my need grew and I shifted impatiently, eager to drink.

Stephen leaned his head back. I unbuttoned his shirt collar, pushing it aside to reveal pale flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Leaning in, I breathed in the scent of soap and water, a clean smell.

He made no sound as I licked the skin, readying it. I looked down to see Stephen clench his fists and I wrapped my fingers around his wrist. The gesture served two purposes, to comfort him and to anchor myself against the ecstasy of drinking his blood.

Stephen closed his eyes. My breathing quickened, my heartbeat increased as adrenaline pumped through my bloodstream. In contrast, Stephen’s breathing and heart rate slowed as his heart struggled to pump the excess blood circulating through him.

Again, I marked the spot with a gentle swipe of my tongue, tasting salt. The ache in my fangs intensified and I became heady with passion, both for his blood and his body, which needed to be satisfied in that order.

I bit, incisors pricking his skin. A thin line of blood trickled free and I lapped at it. Within seconds I fed, my mind focused on Stephen and the pleasure this act gave both of us.

For him, it was relief. For me, it became an almost orgiastic experience.

His hand tightened on my leg, fingers pressing into my kneecap as I continued to drink. At first I worried I hurt him. But he assured me the sensation was one of pleasure-pain and far more preferable to the discomfort he felt when his body became gorged with too much blood.

     

Who'd Be A Writer?

Today, I'd like to share a joke with you.

A writer died and was given the option of going to heaven or hell.

She decided to check out each place first. As the writer descended into the fiery pits, she saw row upon row of writers chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they were repeatedly whipped with thorny lashes.

"Oh my," said the writer. "Let me see heaven now."

A few moments later, as she ascended into heaven, she saw rows of writers, chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they, too, were whipped with thorny lashes.

"Wait a minute," said the writer. "This is just as bad as hell!"

"Oh no, it's not," replied an unseen voice. "Here, your work gets published."

This is an old joke, but I like it because it rings true. No one sane would voluntarily choose to be a writer, and put themselves into this perpetual torment we all live in. The stress and anguish of rewriting and revisions. The depression that follows each rejection. The feelings of worthlessness that seems to hit every writer on a regular basis, making them doubt their ability to write anything that's remotely publishable.

We don't choose to be writers, we just are. The need to write is as inherent as the need to breathe. So we deal with it, somehow. We write, and we deal with the ups and the downs. Those of us with day jobs somehow find a way to fit the writing and all it entails in around the day job. Sometimes I envy my colleagues who roll into work a bit later, insisting they physically can't get out of bed before 8am. Sometimes I wish I couldn't either, but my 5:30am starts on writing mornings prove that actually, I can, even if I don't like it much.

Being a writer is not a career choice, it's just what we are. I wouldn't be me if I wasn't a writer. On the whole, in spite of aforementioned downers, I am proud to be so.

The Madness of Writers

I think it might have been Freud who said all writers are mad. Sometimes I wonder if he had a point with that one.

A recent advertising campaign trying raise awareness of, and dispel the stigma attached to, mental illness stated that one in four people have a mental illness of some kind or other. Amongst writers, I think that figure must be much higher.

All the people I've met who've been formally diagnosed with a degree of some mental disorder or other have - without exception - been writers. And there are many more of us who, although outwardly sane, have those weird little habits that might seem odd to other people.

I have to include myself here. I know I have a touch of OCD - otherwise why would I indulge in those little rituals that are so much a part of my daily routine I barely give them a second thought? I have to check three times that the hair straighteners are unplugged before I leave the house, otherwise I worry all day that I've left them on and they'll set the house on fire. Before I go to bed I check my bag to make sure my mobile phone, season travel ticket and wallet are there, and I put it by the coat rack ready for work in the morning. Before I leave the house the next morning I check again, in case one of these essential items has miraculously disappeared overnight, even though logically I know no one's been near my bag and everything is still in there.

I can't leave my keys lying around on a counter. When I get home I hang them up in the key cabinet. On the correct peg. I can't leave books all higgedly piggedly on a shelf. They have to be categorised. By genre, then author. And if it's a series, the books have to be stacked in chronological order - book 1 of the series first.

And then there are the occasions when I fall into a deep dark hole of depression, for no apparent reason, and wallow there in misery for a while, before eventually crawling out of my own accord. I don't think this could officially be classed as clinical depression. I don't entertain suicidal thoughts, or stay in bed for days at a time. I get up and I go about my usual routine. I just do it feeling rather miserable for a while. Then one day I'll wake up and everything is hunky dory again.

Many writers I speak to confess to having similar feelings. Which in a weird way is reassuring, and fuels my theory that you have to be just a little bit mad to be a writer.

It could, of course, be that you have to be a little bit mad to be human - and that we are all full of these little foibles and peculiarities, and they are not unique to writers.

What do you think?

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.

Writer, the Lone Wolf

Writing is very much a solitary sport. Its an exercise of the mind and a practice in endurance. The writer's world is a lonely one. It has to be. To quote Gene Wilder in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, writers live in a "world of pure imagination". The countless hours we spend playing with imaginary friends in imaginary worlds make us awkward in reality (there are exceptions, of course).

So when people ask us to describe our process or how we come up with ideas, it's very hard to explain. Sometimes the answers we give sound cliche, but in reality, it's hard to describe what goes on in our heads. A friend of mine once told me that if he didn't know me and what I do, he'd think I was bat-shit crazy.

Its hard sometimes to identify with people who aren't in the creative line of business. My brain never turns off and when I'm working on something, I spend 90% of my time thinking of plots, characters, scenes, etc. This makes regular conversation hard. It may seem like I'm not paying attention or I may come off as aloof.

Throw in the fact that I am rather shy, especially with new people, it makes it hard to socialize.

To some extent, the creative process is a harsh mistress. You give up a normal life, at the request of your muse, all in pursuit of your craft.

And the people in our lives, the people we ignore or have to remember to schedule in, are incredibly forgiving and understanding. New people may not be.

While we, as writer, try to forge some semblance of a social life, its difficult for us. So please, in dealing with your new writer acquaintance, be patient. And remember, we're not crazy (most of the time).