I couldn’t think of a topic this month. Thought about some examples of the reason I have no writing time, but that was too private. I can delve into my character’s private life but not my own. Then I feel guilty for complaining when other writers have so many more and vital reasons.
This week I began working on a vampire book, and I feel back
in my element. When I started writing—in the last days of the nineteenth
century—I wrote vampire stories. Monsters were just being admitted as heroes. My
vampire stories collected rejection after rejection. I had SO much to learn. Today,
I face an important decision, to me that is…whether or not to continue
writing. I have some 10 books published, but my sales have been
disappointing and just life in general has become a challenge to writing. I
seem to have no time. And then we have the dread promotion.
Last year, I signed a 4-book contract with Magnolia Blossom
Publishing. There were two westerns, and I was to divide one of my longer vampire
books (Cardinal Desires had been previously published) into two shorter books to
complete the contract. I must admit that
the westerns weren’t exactly easy to write. Fun but not easy. I have now begun working on this book, but again
finding time to write is one of the reasons I think of quitting.
Cardinal Desires won the Maggie. It is my current WIP, polishing and dividing. Sigh. Here is a short excerpt from the beginning of the book.
Two steps outside the mausoleum doors, he
stood motionless, trembling at the beauty and the horror of what he saw. In a place where only darkness should have reigned,
light glared, stinging his sensitive eyes. A surreal gabble of voices and discordant
music clawed at his ears. The squawk of a horn startled him, but he didn’t
move. He was drowning in strange sensations and images. When his vision
cleared, he was too weak and shaken to leave his sanctuary. It was night. That was somehow important. Yet
it wasn’t really dark. Pink wisps of
cloud drifted across the indigo sky. He knew where he was supposed to be, but
this wilderness couldn't be the home he remembered.
Wild roses choked the once immaculate formal
gardens. The flagstone path was a
crumpled ribbon flung in the chaos of grass and vines. He was a sleepwalker, who’d awakened in the
wrong time and place. His heart wept,
but his eyes only burned, unable to cry.
~~~
I’d be very interested in whether you think I should
continue in this vein, or maybe trim this down or off completely.
Thanks! and have a happy Friday eve,
Linda
