After-Dinner Activities or What Would a Vampire Do? (Part Two)

So assuming a vampire doesn't need all night to sup, what would he/she do for the rest of the night?

It was a question, I think, many vampire novels don't address. Most of them are written from the victim's perspective, where the emphasis is on the attack. Or even if they are from the vampire's perspective, it's about the stalking and then the attack.

But what happens when the attack is finished? Then what?

That was the question I asked myself a couple years ago when writing the second novel of Before the Blood, my five-novel prequel to the BryonySeries trilogy.

The protagonist, Kellen Weschler, is a poor seventeenth century German farmer who is turned while dying from the bubonic plague. During his miserable years of life, Kellen was one joy.

He can read.

Now his only reading material is his grandmother's “Straf Mich Gott” Bible. But now that he is immortal with the ability to teleport through time, and now that he has plenty of middle of the night time on his hands, why he would read.

And so he does.

But the problem with reading a good book is that one gets lost in a good book. What if Kellen got so engrossed that he lost track of time and someone found him, or, worse, dawn sneaked up?

So I answered that, too. Like this. A bit raw and unedited, but I'm still drafting.

Oh, and if you're wondering what comes next, that's the bit I'll be reading sometime between 6 and 8:30 p.m. Nov. 2 at the Book and Bean Library, 3395 Black Road, Joliet.

That's the date and time for WriteOn Joliet's semi-annual open mic night. Well, open mic for members. Entertainment for attendees. Please join us.

And now, here's what THIS vampire does after dinner.

During the initial century after his turning, Kellen was content simply to experience a new pleasure: leisure. Freed from the minute by minute struggle to survive another trip around the sun, Kellen, once he had destroyed and imbibed,  had the long hours of night to enjoy.

                Now Kellen didn't care about soft evening winds brushing his icy skin, the stunning stars under which he pranced, warm summers and brisk winters, or the dew kissing his feet good morning and reminding him to dig a deep hole for the day.

                No, Kellen seeped through the cracks of library walls and read.

                At the Codrington Library of Oxford University, Kellen huddled in the recess at the north end of this narrow building, a curious meld of gothic exterior and classical interior, and studied law. Inside the remote El Escorial in Spain, Kellen sat beneath vaulted ceilings and amongst the frescoes of the seven liberal arts, pouring over ancient manuscripts in their original Arabic, Greek, and Latin, and never wondering at his natural ability to read them.

                Kellen infiltrated the General Library of the University of Coimbra in Switzerland and feasted on manuscripts dating back to the eighth century. At the Admont Abbey Library in Austria, Kellen studied the frescoes depicting human knowledge and enlightenment.

                At the library inside the Hofburg Palace in Vienna, Kellen perused through all seven million items, including the sculptures and frescoes. The Albrecht Altdorfer Danube landscapes particularly fascinated him, and Kellen did not know why.

                Yet, it was a simple inscription outside this library that Kellen would always say held the most sway: “In quo omnes thesauri sapientiae et scientiae,” or "In which are stored all treasures of knowledge and science.”

                Because now they were stored inside Kellen.

                While Kellen read, a lone crow kept watch at the window and warned him of advancing dawn, much as he and Ilsabe once kept watch for Metta when they read from Straf Mich Gott.

Centuries-Old Recipe for Snipe

In Bryony, Kellen tells Melissa that he became powerful by preying only on the rich and influential. Sounds like a good plan, right? I mean, somebody has to play victim to a vampire, so why not be choosy?

So in Before the Blood, one victim Kellen pursues in the 18th century is the Squire of Levonshire. While attending the squire's Michaelmas party, Kellen encounters one maiden - with red hair, what else? - who complains the snipe is dry.

Not sure what recipe the squire's cooks used, but it probably wasn't this one.

Recipe for a “surfuit” of snipes, from The Cookbook of Unknown Ladies

A Surfuit of Snipes

Take a fillit of veal. Cut it small with a pd of sewit, half a pd of good fat bacon, some thyme & pepper, a little shred lemon. Let these be minc’d extraordinary small, & made in forc’d meat wth an egg. Put a layer at ye bottom of yr dish & cut yr snipes in halves & lay a thin rashure of bacon on them, every one. After you have place’d ym handsomly in yr dish, strow a good deal of crumbs of bread & shred parsley & a very little pepper over all. Put some forc’d meat on ye edge of yr dish, & yr forc’d meat yt is left put as a lid over ym. Bake it an hour at least. When it coms out, cut a whole in ye top & pour in some very good greavy. So serve it up for first course.


And for more information on The Cookbook of Unknown Ladies:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2363961/Cookbook-Unknown-Ladies-dating-1690-reveals-gluttonous-recipes-cow-heel-veal-kidney-florentine.html

In My Absence...

...I worked at work, and then I worked a church fundraiser.

I also managed to squeeze in a bit of a weekend, yesterday afternoon into early evening, which meant time spent with Before the Blood.

And that's it, vampire fans.

First, the fundraiser...

This was our church's 50th annual dinner (St. Nicholoas Orthodox Church, Homewood), and if we never have another, this was a good way to end it. We have, at best, twenty active members at our church. With the exception of three adult children, there is only one member younger than I, and that is not by much, and his health is fragile. The rest are over sixty (including both priests, with our pastor being eight-two), and most are over seventy and eighty.

That was our work crew. Now, no one has said we will not have another dinner. But I am a realist. And next year's dinner is a year away.

Was it hard work? Of course, but there is a special sense of serene stillness and profound joy that happens when you can bless those that have first blessed you. Add to that mix the opportunity to watch the children you have raised do likewise, and the serenity becomes elevated to high praise to a God that allowed you to share in the building-up of such character. Acts that seems ordinary - kitchen prep work for four hours, running the raffle for five, and another two of tear-down, not to mention missing most of liturgy the next day to help in kitchen clean-up - take on a level of extraordinary when performed in that spirit.

Did I mention that most of our spaghetti dinner patrons were also elderly?

In short, we served - and we made people feel like a million bucks. It was a fantastic weekend.

Now for some self-ministry, which is important for we love others with the same measure that we love ourselves. Three weekends back, I was on call; two weekends back, we moved; and last weekend was a hybrid of various activities, which did include some writing. Next week, I am again on call. The following weekend is Pascha.

When life is busy, it's easy to cast aside one's personal needs in favor of more pressing duties. But never addressing yours can produce internal resentment and exhaust the spirit, never a good thing.

So yesterday afternoon, I claimed the room I share with Rebekah and tackled chapter seven of Kellen's story that has stubbornly refused my attemps at rapid completion and worked out the last couple of scenes, leaving only several miscellaneous paragraphs for short bursts of tackling, when time is brief. At that point, the muse had kicked in, so I proceeded to chapter eight, and wrote half. I saw the time, reluctantly shut off the flow, and made some notes of what to write when I return, whenever that is. Although actual minutes and hours were less than I would have liked, the production reflected the opposite and altered my perception of  Monday morning.

This means that, instead of starting the new week a bit weary and frustrated with lack of "me" time, I'm actually rested, refreshed, rejuvenated, and renewed, ready to begin a round of work that won't really pause until the first weekend in April, and happy to be of service, wherever I am called.

And wherever I can squeeze in a bit of vampire fantasy, trust me. I'm gonna do it!

BryonySeries Throwback Thursday: The Mission: Victorian Suits for Two Very Tall Men

Monday, September 26, 2011

The Mission: Victorian Suits for Two Very Tall Men

6'5" and 6'10" to be exact.

Today, the theatre department of a local college lent me all its Victorian clothing for any VampFest worker that still needs a costume. We stacked gorgeous dresses in a wide variety of hues and fabrics and a fair amount of non-period tuxedos (just in case)into the back of the van, but saw nothing that would fit our John Simons and Kellen Weschler.

In August, the Joliet Drama Guild performed, "Jeckyll & Hyde," so I had contacted the guild president, who put us in touch with its costume director, who is steering us to one of the actors. I messaging him tonight, hoping he can steer me in the direction of the perfect suits and top hats.

In the meantime, if anyone out there just happens to be sitting on Goliath-sized, Victorian menswear, please contact me at BryonySeries@gmail.com.

Happy Thanksgiving BryonySeries Fans with an Excerpt from "Staked!"

For a day that celebrated the joys of feasting on animals, a surprising amount of people crowded Living Water Worship Center. A woman wearing a bulky fur coat and heavy make-up scooted closer to the elderly man on her left in a futile attempt to make room for them.

          

“Go ahead,” Brian whispered to Steve. “I’ll take Ellie and Fawn and look for another seat.”

           

 Deanna resisted John-Peter’s nudges to get into the pew first, but since he refused to cozy up to the giant raccoon, he grabbed Deanna’s arm, pushed her into the seat, and quickly slid beside her. Steve squeezed next to him and blocked further movement.

           

“That was a dirty trick,” Deanna mumbled.

          

 John-Peter grinned open-mouthed at her and then said, “Shh. The music is starting.”

           

 An off-key guitar band opened the service. John-Peter gazed about the bare white walls and tried to ignore the grating twangs. Steve closed his eyes, smiled, and tapped his foot. Deanna squirmed restlessly and jabbed her elbow into his ribs.

           

 “Sit still,” John-Peter hissed.

            

“Make me,” she hissed right back.

             

At the song's completion, everyone clapped, and the guitarists immediately began another. Deanna yawned loudly, and John-Peter slid his finger in her mouth. She slapped his hand and whispered angrily, “You messed it up.”

           

 “Cut it out, Deanna.”

             

“You’re not my boss.” She yawned again, this time wider and louder.

           

Finally, the pastor assumed the podium. For the next forty-five minutes, the man recounted every food-related story in the Bible, beginning with The Garden of Eden and continuing through Peter’s vision of the unclean animals. Deanna’s eyes drooped. John-Peter stifled his own yawn and accidentally bit his tongue.

            

“But all the food in the world will never satisfy our hunger for God, who made everything that sustains us.” The pastor raised his hands. “Let us all stand and sing our thanks to God.”

            

The nauseating smell of dead fowl assaulted John-Peter’s stomach the moment Ellie opened the front door. Even the garlic from the mashed potatoes couldn’t mask it. Cindy walked from the kitchen and noticed his discomfort.

            

“Whew, it’s hot in here.” She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Brian, can you open the window by the sink? It’s stuck.”

           

 “Cindy,” Darlene called out. “I can’t tell if that lentil loaf is done.”

            

Brian kissed Cindy on the cheek and started up the stairs.

            

“How was church?” Aunt Cindy asked. 

            

 “Packed. But the girls behaved themselves.”

            

After they had all gathered around the table and Steve had begun the blessing, the front door blew open.

           

 “Sorry I’m late,” a red-faced Kellen said as Cindy rushed from the table to take his coat. “My flight was delayed.”

           

 Brian said, “Ellie, let Uncle Kellen sit by Aunt Melissa.”

           

 “I wondered what happened." Melissa looked up as Kellen assumed the vacated seat and unfolded his napkin.

            

 “Arthur was supposed to call," Kellen said, huffing between words.

           

  “He did call when you were taking a shower,” Darlene passed the platter of turkey to Kellen. “I forgot to mention it.”

            

 John-Peter carefully observed Kellen's pouring of gravy over everything on his plate. Kellen stopped in mid-stream and stared back. “Is there a problem?”

           

 "Your face is bloated and blotchy.”

           

 Kellen puffed the air from his cheeks as he set down the gravy boat. His hands were ruddy and swollen; the veins were engorged “It’s a little warm in here, that’s all.”

           

 Brian opened another window. Kellen picked up his fork. Steve cleared his throat. Melissa nudged Kellen. He raised blood-shot eyes as red as his lapel rose, noticed Steve’s folded hands, and laid the fork against the plate.

            

Steve bowed his head. “Heavenly Father, we give you thanks and praise for bringing us here today to celebrate your bountiful goodness.”

             

John-Peter studied the lentil loaf Aunt Cindy had sliced. A little dry, but not bad for a first attempt.

            

“And we thank you for providing us with family, people we can love and who love us. We ask you to continue blessing us in the coming year so we can once again join together to give thanks. Amen.” Steve reached for the cranberry sauce. “How’s that? The food didn’t even have time to get cold.”

            

The phone rang.

           

 “You sit,” Brian said to Cindy. “I’ll get it.”

            

“There’s pineapple in the sweet potatoes, Grandpa,” Deanna said.

           

“Well, it’s a good thing I like pineapple.”

            

“I helped make them yesterday, before you guys got here.”

           

“Then I’ll have to take an extra helping.”

            

John-Peter gestured his fork at Ellie’s plate. “You haven’t touched your Brussels sprouts.”

            

 “Brussels sprouts are pukey.”

            

Brian reappeared, looking grim. “Melissa, it’s for you.”

           

“We’ll wait to go around the table,” Darlene said.

            

John-Peter had hoped this year they might skip the "I’m thankful for…” ritual his grandmother always insisted they perform. Be thankful for what? His best friend was in love with a marionette; he was related to no one in his deceitful family; and his doctor just told him (DELETED. SPOILER).

          

“More turkey, Kellen?” Brian said.

            

Melissa sat back down, biting her lip to keep from crying.

            

“It’s Carol,” she said, picking up her napkin and placing it on her lap. “They’re not sure what happened. The aid who brought her dinner tray found her unconscious so they called an ambulance.”

            

“Thanks, Brian,” Kellen said, taking three large slices and then checking his watch. “Do you want to fly back with me tonight, Melissa?”

            

She shuddered and rested her head in her hands. “I don’t know what to do.”

            

Darlene interrupted. “I’ll be fine driving alone. I'll have Steve and John-Peter to keep me company.”

            

“Grandpa,” Ellie said. “We have two kinds of pie tonight: pumpkin and apple."

           

 "Make up your mind, Melissa," Kellen said. "I haven't got all night."

            

“Maybe I should go," Melissa said. "I’ll go call the hospital and tell them I’ll be there tonight.”

           

Steve pushed away his plate and patted Ellie’s hand. “Your grandmother won’t let me eat two pieces.”

            

“You probably shouldn’t have one,” Darlene said.

Ashes

I figured since I've already posted some excerpts from John's story, I'd post this. It contains no spoilers, and the writing style is different from the previous section. However, it's an example of how I do see chapters almost as short stories in their own right, with a silent exhortatin to turn the page.

Before the Blood, Kellen's Story, Chapter One: Ashes      

            War.

            It's all Metta knew. It's all Metta had ever known.

            Every day of each of her fifteen years, "Because of the war," was the barricade to every wish and want.

            "Why can't we have eggs?" Metta grumbled into her bowl of beans and vegetable broth.

            "Because of the war," her father  would answer. "The soldiers stole our stock."

            Metta did not know what "stock" was.

             "Why can't we have a big fire?" Metta whined when her body shook from winter blasts, despite feather blankets pulled to her nose.

             "Because it's dangerous to venture into the forest," her father would answer, "where soldiers are hiding, because of the war."

            Metta wondered what a forest looked like.

              "Why can't we have a doctor?" Metta whined when her body blazed with fever and coughs racked her chest.

             "The doctors are busy with the wounded," her father would answer, "because of the war."

            Metta wondered what a doctor looked like. She only knew about doctors because Greta's grandfather had been a doctor, before he died in the war.

            The hut was too empty and quiet. That, too, was because of the war.

             She wanted Pawel, Henning, Drewes and, Arnth, but each brother had left, one by one, to fight against the Spanish armies and never came home. Were they still fighting? Were they wandering mercenaries or street beggars in some far-off village?

             Her father had no answer. That irked Metta.

            "Families should be together," Metta sniffled over her sewing.

             Her mother, still kneading, glanced at Metta's father.

             "That cannot be," her father muttered and poked at the fire, "because of the war."

             From that day forth, her father stopped answering questions. The next month, her mother was gone, all because of the war.

            Metta swung the bucket as she trudged to the well. The noon sun warmed her arms and pretty brown curls. Talk to no one, her mother always warned, especially men in uniform. So Metta ignored the frauen's gossip and impatiently waited her turn for water. She stomped her foot. She loudly sighed. She had many weeds to pull.

            She sulked walking home. The wood bucket bump-bumped against her shins and sloshed. Her frowned at the half-empty bucket, but he did not beat her. He even let her take some water to the fields. Why had her father changed?

            Then came the day that changed everything.

             "They are distributing eggs," her father had announced.

            Metta had grabbed her basket and flew out the door, never stopping until she reached the village center. The lines were long and wide. Metta took her place, doubting she'd see any eggs.

            "Psst."

           

            She looked up. A man, black hair sleek in the sun and blue uniform clean, kindly smiled down at her.

            "Come with me," he said.

            Metta followed him behind the shops. Still smiling, he lifted the cloth from a bushel heaped full with eggs. He filled her basket and told her to return at sunset. She looked quizzically at him and shook out her curls so he could see how pretty they were.

            "Have you no tongue?" the man asked.

           

            "My mother told me not to speak to you," Metta said.

            The smile fled. "Then you must obey your mother." The man replaced the cloth and turned to leave. Metta grabbed a cuff.

            "My father gave no such instruction. Why must I return tonight?"

            He stopped, surprised, and dropped his voice. "A surprise."

            His words angered her. Her cheeks burned.

             "We in Grotekop don't get surprises," Metta said bitterly, "because of the war."

             The man softly laughed, brushed her cheek with his knuckles, and walked away.

            At sunset, Metta came back. She beheld the man in the distance, leaning against a fence. As she approached, he held up a sack.

             "Look." He pulled the ends open.

            Metta looked. At the bottom lay a chicken with a broken neck.

            "My gift," he said, "to you."

             Metta studied the flies crawling on the fowl's open eyes.

            "I've never had a gift," she said.

           

            "And now that you have received one, what do you think?"

             "I do not know," Metta raised her eyes. "I've never tasted chicken."

             The man chuckled. "Well, then, run home and ask your mother to cook it. Then come again tomorrow and tell me if you like gifts."

            Metta's eyes narrowed.

            "I have no mother," she said hotly, "because of the war."

            She snatched the sack, turned her back, and marched home. Her father showed Metta how to pluck the chicken. Metta watched him cut up and cook the chicken. She wondered at this taste of bird flesh, firm, chewy, so different from beans, bread, and wild onions and asparagus.

            Weeks passed.

            "They are distributing grain," her father said.

           

            Metta took an empty bucket and raced to the village center. She scarcely felt the bucket's bumpety-bumping on her shins. Again, she faced a sea of hungry people. Again, men in blue uniforms shared their stores. But was "her man" among them? Forgetting food, her father's order, and the man's rude comment about her mother, Metta climbed onto a wagon and stood tall. She shaded her eyes and peered. Yes, he was there!

            "Mr. man!" she cried and waved. "Mr. man! Mr. man!"

            He looked up and saw Metta. So did a second uniformed man, who shouted at her to get out of his wagon. But Metta's man reached her first and helped her down.

           

            "Can't you behave?" the man sternly asked, but his eyes were twinkling. He turned to the other soldier. "Laech, take my place."

            Laech scowled at Metta. "You bad girl. If you were my daughter, I'd whip you." He glanced at Metta's man and said, "Whip her good, Captain Weschler." Then Laech strode back to the crowd.

            Metta turned bright eyes at her man. "You're a captain?"

            He clicked his boot heels together. "Captain Brandt Weschler, Fraulein."

            Giggling, the first giggle of Metta's life, she curtsied back. "I'm just Metta."

            Brandt gazed intently at her. "Well?"

           

            "Well, I very much like gifts. Have you others?"

            "Not today," Brandt's face turned serious. "I was hoping you might give one to me."

             "I have no gifts," Metta said, and Brandt added with her, "because of the war."

             They both laughed.

             "Laugh again," Metta said. "It makes your eyes very blue and crinkly."

              "I cannot laugh on command. But I know a way to make me smile."

            "How?"

             Brandt pointed to his cheek. "Kiss me. Here."

            Metta's needle moved in and out of the cloth, as she blushed in memory, but not that memory. It was only a kiss. It was only on Brandt's cheek.  

'          

            That time.

            She and Brandt roamed the forbidden forest, realm of soldiers, now the hideaway of Metta and her soldier. More than once, after Brandt bid her farewell where the trees met the grove and then disappeared back into woods, Metta picked a snow daisy and pulled off its petals while murmuring, "Er/sie liebt mich. Er/sie liebt mich nicht," all the way home.

            Her father grew suspicious of her itchy eyes and sneezing.

            "You have either wandered near the forest," he said, "or you are sick."

            Yes, Metta was sick, sick of war, so sick that Metta had become sick. Metta feared she would die. She did not recognize this strange sickness. It was not the fever, headache, and rash of typhus victims. It was not the fever, headache, and swelling of plague victims.

             No, this was a new sickness.

            As soon as her eyes opened to dawn, she vomited. She vomited her breakfast. She vomited her lunch and dinner. She vomited for no reason. Her pretty curls grew dull and limp. At night, she cried scalding tears for Brandt, so bravely fighting the enemy. His victorious homecoming would crumble to ash. He'd return only to mourn her death.

            And then she vomited into the dirt.

              "A pox on Catholics," Brandt said, and he spat tobacco onto the ground. "All they know is war."

            Metta did not understand this talk of Catholics, Lutherans, and Calvinists. But it sounded important when Brandt spoke of it.

            "When will war end?" Metta asked.

            Fire flashed in Brandt's wonderful blue eyes. "When they learn our lessons, lessons not taught from the pulpit."

            Metta shivered with delight at Brandt's commanding authority and grasped his arm tighter. "You are strong, and your army is mighty. The Catholics should be very afraid."

            Brandt stroked Metta's curls and stared into her eyes. "Are you afraid of me, Metta?"

            It was not fear Metta felt when Brandt looked at her that way. She nearly fainted when Brandt did more than look. She hated her father's beatings, but Brandt's pounding sent her to heaven. So was death good?

            Metta knew death's face. She had seen its frozen features on enemy corpses in the streets. Death looked like her father before she had become sick: sunken eyes, wasted limbs, raspy breaths, and hard and swollen belly, as hard and swollen as Metta's belly.

            It was good her father had died. It was good he had not seen her sick. With joy, Metta had dug a grave, dragged him to the yard, and rolled him into the hole. With joy, she had shoveled dirt onto his stiff and lifeless frame. He was never the same after the French had raped and dismembered her mother.

            "Watch over my mother, Metta," Brandt had said before he had galloped away. "I trust you."

            Metta could not listen to his words. They hurt her heart, and she clung to his coat.

             "Don't leave, Brandt!" She buried her face in the rough cloth. "Don't leave your Metta."

            Brandt's voice was solemn. "I'm leaving for you, Metta. For my mother. For the family we will raise. For the villagers. For all the blood spilled on German soil by wrath of Ferdinand II. To have a future, we must have freedom. There is no other way."

            So Metta had moved into Ilsabe's hut. But now, Metta was dying. And Metta could not watch over Ilsabe if Metta was dead.

            Summer's heat withered at autumn's chill. Metta gathered twigs and broken branches to keep the fire burning at night. She worked the harvest. She gleaned the fields. She patched the thatched roof. Metta did not die.

            Autumn's chill became winter's cold. She and Ilsabe lugged home manure from the landowner to burn for warmth. All winter, they huddled about the fire. They ventured out only for more manure and to beg for food. Metta did not die.

            The warm winds of spring blew away winter's frigid ones. Again, Metta gathered twigs and broken branches until spring grew strong, and fire was not needed.  Metta did not die.

            Soldiers shuffled home. Metta's man was not among them. Tomorrow, Brandt would come back, she told herself as she lugged the bucket to the well. Tomorrow, she told herself, as she gathered wild herbs. Tomorrow, she told herself as she worked the spring planting.

            Ilsabe grew restless inside the hut while Metta worked. So Metta led her to the well. Metta lowered her bucket. In the water's reflection was a soldier. Metta dropped the bucket. She spun around. The soldier wore blue. Metta knew that straw-colored beard and hair. She  grabbed his sleeve as he passed.

             "Give me news of Captain Weschler!" Metta demanded

             Laech irritably shook off her hand. Metta's courage failed. She whimpered at his harshness. Then she shook. Then she sobbed.

             "I'm sorry, Metta," Laech said. "He was my friend, too."

            A strangled cry broke from Ilsabe's lips. Tears ran from unseeing eyes.

            "What are you saying?" Metta cried and lunged at Laech.

            But Laech broke free and kept walking. Through swimming eyes, Metta watched him leave. Ilsabe moaned little moans and groped Metta until her hand found Metta's belly. The child inside responded with a firm kick.

            Something deep within Metta, not the baby, twisted hard and turned to stone. Metta's fear of death was now a wish for death.

             The war had won.

A Rather Productive Weekend, In Some Ways, And Yes, That Included "Staked!"

Quick synopsis on a busy Monday morning:

* Completed Chapter 1 of Kellen's story in Before the Blood

* Completed a couple thousands words of Chapter 2 of Kellen's story, same novel

* Spent several hours yesterday evening with Sarah Stegall, combing through Staked!, answering any lingering questions and fixing any lingering formatting/copyediting errors. Sarah's plan is to upload Staked! this week, adjust any shifting, and release the book. (Crossing fingers this time...)

* Two episodes of Family Guy with Daniel on Friday night, two episodes of Once Upon a Time with Rebekah on Sunday (We missed church because Timothy had to work and took the car, hence, some of the productivity).

* On the down side, I didn't get as many briefs edited as I had hoped on when I went into work on Sunday. Once I knew my ambitious plans were naught, I split my time between the easy ones and the "time-consuming, needing heavy editing ones" that I'd been setting aside.

* All this in spite of computer issues. Flash drives won't read on the desktop, internet acting like a spoiled three-year-old...

Fast reflections as we stand poised to (finally, we hope) release Staked!

* What a strange wonderful journey writing the BryonySeries has been. A fleeting idea that caught hold of my muse almost three decades ago grew into more than the single novel I had planned to write. I have learned so much about writing, editing, story construction, character and plot development, dialogue, the publishing world, blogging, social media, etc. than I ever could have imagined.

* On that journey, I have met some incredible people: fellow writers, amazing editors, loyal readers, talented artists. For this, I am most grateful.

* I have also had the opportunity to share my growing knowledge with others beginning the journey. For this, I am also most grateful.

Curiously, while writing the prequel, looking backward is also looking forward.

Or is that vice versa?

Either way, write on!

 

What Faults Do Your Characters Have?

Nothing makes a character seem less real than one without any faults or failings, and that includes your heroes.

No person is perfect, and creating perfection in your character, unless for some reason "perfection" is inherent to the story line, will give that character a plastic appearance. The faults can range from the minor flaws we all have (yes, we do) to severe personality or moral defects, depending on the role and relationship of your character to your novel's plot.

Consider the following from Bryony:

*  Melissa Marchellis: occasionally lies when it suits her purposes, sells out her safety to live a fantasy, and is obsessive about the object of her fascination, which leads to impulsive and poor choices.

*  Brian Marchellis: can be enthusiastic to the point of annoying and energetic without focus. Luckily for Brian, a good mentor harnessed those traits.

*  Darlene Marchellis: distracted and trusting enough to be irresponsible where her children are concerned.

*  Steve Barnes: other than occasional crankiness (who could blame him?), Steve is really all right. :)

*  Ann Dalton: unrealistic idealism

*  Katie Miller: immaturity, hero worship

*  Julie Drake: bluntly outspoken

*  Shelly Gallager: passive personality

*  Laura Jones: boy-crazy

*  Kimberly Whitney: narcissistic

*  Frank Marchellis: extremely bashful and introspective

*  John Simons: self-centered and manipulative

*  Henry Matthews: biting sarcasm, mocking, hedonistic

*  Kellen Weschler: insatiable need for power and control

Ten Chapters, Done!

This weekend, I completed the first ten chapters of Before the Blood.

It's an exhilarating feeling and, I must confess, a bit of a downer, too. It's the last time I will compose the story from inside John's head, a saying good-bye to a story that's brewed inside me since January 1985.

And yet, the accomplishment!

So many false starts since I finished Staked! over Memorial Day weekend 2010; finally, the book is really on its way. Plus, the only day I really can immerse myself in it is Saturday. Sundays are full with church, work (put in five hours yesterday), and family interaction. So with those perspectives, not too much of a downer, just a bit of a wistful good-bue.

I've already begun serious work on the next ten chapters, Kellen's portion, and am looking forward to making some progress this weekend. I am on call and have some other obligations, but I have my very first vacation day ever on November 3, and I intend to make good use of it. This is not forgetting that Halloween is on a Friday night, and I have the apartment to myself.

:)

Before the Blood, as you might recall, is a series of four novels - ten chapters each from the viewpoints of John Simons, Kellen Weschler, Bryony Marseilles, and Henry Matthews - that move in singular-novel fashion, with all four characters intersecting for the remaining twenty chapters. It is, by far, the most complicated writing I've ever done and, except for the standalone werewolf novel that's next on the list when I finish Before the Blood, the only serious piece of fiction I've got rolling around my brain, although who knows what project will grab hold of my muse when I've finished with those.

And for Staked!? I messaged Sarah Stegall with a WTH? on Sunday morning, and she texted back with "A lot of OT," and promised to get back with me, so hopefully, soon...

Research

Arguably, for me, one of the most delightful part of writing fiction.

Anyone that has read Bryony can see the vast amounts of research that went into the book...and the citations at the end are only the sources that made the cut! The rest went into folders for Before the Blood, folders that grow larger each weekend.

Visage, completely set in the 1970s, didn't contain quite so much research, although it still had a fair amount, and Staked! veered into another knowledge-seeking direction, unfamiliar to me (at the time) and yet quite delightful, thank you, Ed Calkins.

In the past two weekends, I've learned that Ellis Island was not the first immigration site and that P. T. Barnum actually once managed Jenny Lind (very cool, considering I already have a reference to Barnum in a previous chapter).

I've studied up on Castle Garden, the Steinway family (and found the diary of William Steinway online, very helpful), the history of the Metropolitan Opera House, Spode China, and built on my knowledge of both Delmonico's and McSorley's, both still in existence (getting hungry and want to go there...)

Despite my lack of geographical orientation, from the many maps and city layouts I've found online, I'm fairly certain that, if Kellen Weschler dropped me in the middle of nineteenth century New York, especially around Fifth Avenue or 7th and 11th Streets in lower Manhattan, I could find my way around.

Well, as long as I don't use the Simons mansion as my landmark for the first or Hewes Music Hall for the second.

Because these only exist in my imagination and on my computer screen.

 

Just an Excerpt, Just Because

No spoilers, if you have read Bryony, just a glimpse into current work-in-progress, a snippet from Before the Blood.

That was Jackson, loyal to the end. Dana Hewes would be proud. Without another word, John trudged down the dark and silent back of the house to the dressing room, retrieved his coat and hat, and walked outside through the rear door. Much of the fog had dissipated and appeared to be moving away, as the air was clear to John's left and steamy to his right. As he started for the staircase, a fleeting movement caught his eye, a dark wisp here and then gone. A drunk pillaging the trash barrels for a midnight sack? A thief waiting to accost him? Motionless, John waited. He heard nothing except his own breaths and the drumming of his heart. He set foot on the first stair, and a silhouette slipped through the haze.

"Who is it?" John called out.

A pair of red eyes stared back. A form took shape in the gloom. Out stepped a man, his sleek hair and goatee blacker than his top hat and cloak

"I am the devil," the man replied with a faint German accent.

He was simply an eccentric, and John had met plenty of that type during these last years. With a tip of his hat, John sarcastically said, "A pleasant evening to you, sir," and turned toward the fire escaped, but the man was now walking down the stairs in John's direction and examining him with a studious air. John stopped short, wondering how the man had moved so quickly, until the stranger stood before him, leaned closed, and sniffed his neck.

"Do you not fear me?" the man murmured, his gaze flitting over John's face.

"No."

"My very sight doesn't chill your blood?"

John attempted to move past, but the man grasped the rail, barring John's way. "Mr. Simons, do you know who I am?"

"No and don't really care."

"I..." The man raised a finger and passed it back and forth across John's face, "I am a well-connected concert promoter, well-acquainted with your exquisite musical reputation."

This time, John took a step back, the better to examine this man: deathly pallor, swarthy hollow eyes, crimson lips, and sharp white teeth.

  

"Is that a fact?"

"Ohhh, yes, indeed, Mr. Simons. Would you dine with me this enchanted evening?"

Ravenous and still unafraid, John nevertheless paused. Was this man as strange and sinister as he appeared, or had days of insufficient food clouded his perception? Apparently, the man mistook John's silence for assent, for he swept out his arm in the direction of the alley and said, "Step this way, Mr. Simons."

Ten "Before the Blood" Quotes

Circulating around Facebook in various incarnations is a list of rather clever two-line horror stories. One WriteOn Joliet member posted such a list on our page, prompting another member to suggest we compose our own, in honor of October and Halloween, etc.

So this weekend, nibbling on pen cap and musing possibilitiess, I realized two things. One, the lazy selfish author in me would want to incorporate any two-line soundbites I'd write for mere exercise into a novel (Why waste them, right?). Two, the thought-provoking effects of the two-line challenge resembled the book quotes I'd pull and post on Facebook before the release of a book. We call them "30-Day Countdown Quotes."

Unfortunately, we I posed those of Staked! a year ago, thinking release was imminent.

My point is that the purpose of the exercise and my countdown quotes are the same: to tease the reader and whet the appetite for more. So instead of writing a random series of two-line stories and pullilng my attention from my latest work-in-progress, I've chose instead to read some (or all) of those countdown quotes.

And since I'm approaching the end of John's portion of Before the Blood - some 50,000 words later and rather bittersweet - I pulled a few lines from each of the chapters. Feast on these, vampire fans!


They entered the birthing chamber, and he recoiled against the stifling stench of sweat, human waste, and blood. Why was it always blood? Prologue

1) With her spirits sucked as dry as an old orange, Lucetta edged between old Miss Polly and the end of larger sofa and pretended to enjoy a conversation about corns and smelling salts. Chapter 1: One Magical Christmas

2) On Sundays and Holy Days of Obligation when Abbot was in town, father and son attended High Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral, its Federal-style architecture and plaster ceiling and walls resembling home: hard, beautiful, and cold. Chapter 2: Tasting Immortality

3) Despite its abundance of guests, Spencer Inn felt as still as a forgotten cemetery; the kitchen lacked bustling and laughter. Reality hit John like a brick in the face. Chapter 3: Keys to Heaven

4) . John never realized someone so pure of heart had ever walked the earth. Certainly such a woman never passed through the doors of his father's home. Chapter 4: Maid to Order

5) As he tried to save her immortal soul with pleas for repentance, she wove a hypnotic tale of the sinister plot against her, spurred by jealousy of her healing powers. Thus, she reeled him in, thread by thread by thread. Chapter 5: Post-Graduate Studies

6) As John had requested, Della had provided a copy of the invitation and the guest list. Many were his father's colleagues. Good. Chapter 6: Shedding the Cocoon

7)   The first lesson was inside  another tenement apartment, not far from Hewes Music Hall. The children, a girl and two boys, along with their parents, were busy rolling cigarettes. This was no small operation; as a group, they turned out thousands each week. Chapter 7: Music Halls and Garbage Cans

8)   "Look, Agnes and I get on jolly well," Henry said, "and if that isn't sufficient grounds for marriage, then what is?" Chapter 8: One for the Memory Books

9) . John stopped short, wondering how the man had moved so quickly, until the stranger stood before him, leaned close, and sniffed his neck. Chapter 9: The Contract

10) John unbolted and unlocked the door, then paused, as his stomach took a sickening plunge. He hadn't yet figured out Kellen, but John knew one thing. This wasn't the way Kellen had left. Chapter 10: Crossing the Rubicon