Storytime Saturday

So recently I wrote that I wanted to start posting bits of story on Saturdays and asked which world you wanted to hear from. I didn't get many responses and none were definitive so... you get what you get, dear readers ;D You want something else next week, ask! :D

I'm posting the rough-draft prologue of the newest book I'm working on. Hopefully, when this new book is published and wildly successful, this blog will be a good example of what happens in editing.

The book is going to be the first in a series of modern urban fantasy books focusing on faerie, demon and angel mythology.

It's not finished, so anything here is subject to change (though it's still copywritten by me, so don't steal!) It's my first in the genre, so be kind! :)

Launa

Excerpt from "Selkie"
(I don't usually title my work until I'm done, so Selkie is a project codename.)

Prologue:

The sea shattered against the breakers, sending spray like gems into the air. She watched them intently. They glowed like sapphires in the moonlight. Moonlight was never more blue than it was here. Beside the sea. This sea. The portal back.

She crouched along the shore, the pebbles beneath her bare feet had been worn smooth from millennia of tumbling on the ocean floor. She reached out and brushed her fingertips along their smooth, hard surfaces. She had jars of them packed away beneath boxes of carefully wrapped shells and driftwood amulets collected from generations of walking the same beach. Each piece had been hand-selected. Each piece was hers. But these stones, here beneath her feet, were not. They were divine. A pathway heading out to the sea. A threshold she knew that, if she crossed, she may never cross again.

Tears slid across her cheeks and down her chin, dripping onto the back of her hand. She watched as it slipped across the drying blood on her arms, turning crimson before dripping to the ground, staining a white stone.

The battle was over but as the waves crashed and roared she could still hear the clang of swords and the blast of guns. She could still hear the screaming. The memory of holding a dozen fallen friends was permanently pressed against her skin, their weight still tangible. Not nearly as tangible, however, as the knowledge that all of their deaths had been her fault.

She crept forward and ran her hand through the shallows. The water clung and pooled around her long fingers, welcoming and possessive at the same time. She shuddered, not from the wind or the cold of the sea, and stepped back. Her hands shook as she clenched the collar of her brown leather jacket. It would be so easy to leave. The depths of the sea would wash away her fear and pain. Would wash away what she had done.

She closed her eyes and a shock of pain rippled through her body, curling her in on herself and fresh tears streamed down her face. Lorenna. Her body shattered on the battlefield, her eyes wide, her hand stretched out, reaching for her. Lorenna hadn't been truly killed. Her body would disappear and she would be reborn from the sea. But for all intents and purposes, she was dead. No one knew when she'd return or what would happen to the Homestead with her gone.

Come back... Come back...

The grief was too much to bear. The whisper danced on the wind and encircled her like a long time friend beckoning to her, calling her to peaceful oblivion, setting a longing in her heart she couldn't deny. She would come back. But by the time she did the world would be different and her mind would be at peace.

She ran. She didn't hesitate anymore. She broke through the shore line, no longer feeling the cold and dove into the waves. The water couldn't drown her. The rocks wouldn't crush her. The sea wanted her back and she was happy to return.

The moment she was completely submerged, her skin warmed and her leather jacket melded against her skin. An instant later, her mind went blissfully blank and all she knew was the cold oblivion of the sea.

~*~

The storm flashed across the night sky, streaking the long gray clouds with lightning. The trees danced in the wind, flowing and rippling. The high french windows were thrown open, the rain falling past the balcony, soaking the carpet. The scent of roses and saltwater filled the air. It wasn't a natural storm. It was magical. An omen. A woman closed her eyes and took a deep, lingering breath, lost in memory.

“Lorenna?”

Lorenna turned slowly from the window. Despite her human form, it was impossible to mistake her as mortal with the raging storm behind her. Her long dark hair remained motionless in the wind, every wave perfectly in place. Her dark leather jacket and sleek leather pants shone with raindrops that sparkled like diamonds. Her eyes glittered like amber stone, hard and fierce, rippling with power.

A soft knock on her door broke her concentration.

“Yes, Delilah?” she called without turning from the window.

“Cassie's having a fit. Says one of the old ones is coming out of the sea.”

Delilah stood, rocked back on her heels, her hands in the pockets of her loose jeans, her shoulders tense with anticipation. Where Lorenna was ethereal and otherworldly, Delilah was completely grounded. She sat heavy on her feet, connected permanently with the earth. Her face, though smooth as if with youth, was unreadable and ageless, defying all attempts at classification. Her shocking, icy blue eyes burned with reality and sensibility.

Lorenna turned back to the window. Her voice remained steady, almost emotionless. “Is it her?”

Delilah's breath caught in her throat and she looked at her sneakers. “I don't know. Cassie doesn't say. She's been gone for thirty years but... I feel it. I feel her close.”

Lorenna nodded slowly. “Yes. I'll call together the Hunt. We'll find her.”

Lorenna swept out of her room without looking at Delilah. She was already fixed on the next task.

Delilah stood alone in the doorway, staring at the storm. Her unreadable mask melted and her face softened. She closed her eyes and drew the sweet air over her tongue and rocked her head to the side. She pulled a spun-silver chain out from under her shirt and ran her fingers over a thin, white-gold band dangling at the end. She could feel it coming again. The cycle beginning anew. She could barely breathe.

In the distance, the horns signaling the Hunt flooded the air.

She brought the ring to her lips and kissed it once before tucking it back beneath her shirt and running down the hall to join Lorenna.

A Quick Question (And Some Shameless Birthday Plugging)

Hey everyone, just a quick note: I want to make Saturdays "Storytime Saturday" and post short stories from one of my universes (Mardi Gras 3000, Leather Ladybird, Areane or new projects.) Anyone have any requests for the first story? Which universe do you want to hear from? Or do you want something completely new? (like from the series I'm working on now?) I love reading behind-the-scenes shorts by authors and I figured this was as good a place as any to sneak in little surprises for my fans :D

Also... November 15th? Yeah, it's my birthday. I've been asked by a few people what I want, so I made them a wishlist! For all those people who want to support an insane (and tragically under-funded) author, here's the link ;) : http://www.amazon.com/wishlist/2RIVH35CLVMSP/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_wl_BJGXmb187GHNB

Thanks! Talk to you all again soon :D!

Launa

I Turn Into Gollum at 4AM or My Adventures with Procrastination

Yep. It's been a month since my last post. I should feel guilty. Like an utter failure for saying I was going to post regularly and then stopping after only a couple weeks. I could blame this on a number of things but the truth is simple: I'm lazy. It's actually a real problem. "I'm going to write 2,000 words tonight!" very quickly turns into dozens of rounds of internet anagram games I already have the high score on. (Unless, of course, I have a deadline from my publisher. I always meet my deadlines. Mostly because my publisher would kill me with a spork, feed me to a hungry lion and revive me just before digestion and force me to meet my deadline if I didn't.)

I try to fight the laziness and procrastination. I really do. I'm up until dawn every day anyway (because I'm freakishly nocturnal) so I have no excuse not to finish projects, have a sparkly clean house and a stack of finished paintings. I don't have anyone calling me. I don't have employers bugging me about my numerous day jobs. I even close the blinds so I can't be nervous about ghost children looking in at me through the huge windows in my living room. But most nights I sit on my couch, glancing between my exercise equipment and "The Office" reruns and slowly crumble into a mass of frazzled hair, bloodshot eyes and honey (from the peanut butter/honey sandwiches I suddenly crave at 3AM). I'm sure I look something like this:



After a while my cat sits on my stomach and stares at me like this:



And I just know she's judging me, which makes me cranky because I'm silently filled with suppressed shame at my procrastinating self and she's making it harder to suppress said shame. Which just means I look like this:



Finally I push my cat off my lap, pick up my computer (which has been sitting on the floor, my file open and ready for hours) and angrily try to plunk out a few paragraphs. Not long after I realize I have no freaking idea who my characters are and return to my outline and start messing with things. Depending on the time of night, this may end up dramatically altering the plot of my story and, often, leads to my single book becoming a series. I think I'm incapable of just writing one book. The story either becomes a short story or a series. Sometimes my series even become a series of series. (Try saying that ten times fast.) But, as the sun is rising and I know I either have to go to bed or just not sleep, all I've finished is a detailed outline for a series of books that I know will change again by the time I wake up and start thinking clearly again.

It's a miracle I've finished any books at all, let alone published them. I have a theory that I'm only able to finish them on the nights I eat so much chocolate I slip into a sugar coma and I'm possessed by the ghost of the drug addicts that used to haunt the basement of the house I grew up in and they write my stories. Obviously they all were fascinated with young adult fantasy. (can you tell I'm writing this very early in the morning, with a bit of a fever?)

Comics are different. I can actually focus on a comic (probably because there are so many little parts to each comic that my attention can keep flitting back and forth between useful things instead of between my book and the window I'm sure a ghost is waiting behind.) Still, if it gets late enough, I end up making strange decisions with the artwork that ends with me bashfully trying to tell my editor saying things like "The image is very striking, but she doesn't look like she's screaming in fear, Launa. I don't think that's what you're going for." and I blush and vow never to work so late at night again.

Still, as I bounce on my giant exercise ball at midnight and feel proud of myself for at least giving my legs a work out, I realize that spastic procrastination is and probably will always be a part of my life. After all, I get all the necessary things in life done. I go to work. I meet my deadlines. I even have a mildly thriving little herb garden. So, like the chick I saw on TV who likes to eat chalk, if it's not killing me, I don't think I'll feel guilty about it. And my cat likes to throw herself against windows, so who is she to judge?