Darkness Becomes Her

I've noticed a theme in my writing. No matter what topic, what characters...no matter how lighthearted the story begins, there is always a touch of darkness in my writing. Even in DRAGON QUEEN, a story told from the POV of a girl who has a wry sense of humor and a pretty positive outlook on life, dark things happen. Bad things happen. And before the story ends, there is more than a struggle between the MC and the villain...there's that struggle with darkness.

Strange. I guess I'm a bit obsessed with darkness. And yet...I'm reluctant to embrace it. Maybe it's because the things I enjoy reading are not all that dark. I like to read things that amuse me and make me laugh. But then I write these dark, twisted stories where the characters are tormented and struggling. It happens unintentionally and that's given me a bit to muse upon.

Huh.

Even my short stories have a touch of darkness...and apparently I'm good at the darkness. More than being funny or clever, I can paint a bleak and black canvas. I was going through some of my stories that had been collecting dust and ALL of them contain that dark element. Even the ones that are meant to be funny have a sort of dark humor to them.

But, anyways, I thought I would share some of my darkness with my devoted readers. ;) This is a scene I wrote for fun involving the villain in my novel FURY. It is where Yalei becomes the Devourer. Yes, it's very dark and since I don't plan to use it in the novel, it is for your pleasure alone. Enjoy!

I never loved you.

The words peeled Yalei apart, baring her soul to the encroaching darkness of the mountains. Jagged peaks scraped at the sky, and an ominous mist seethed from the crevices like the breath of a beast. The evil taint in the air no longer had the power to frighten her away. She invited it in, turning her back on a world of light. There was nothing for her there. Not anymore.

She had come here to die.

The Dark Mountains did not promise a gentle death, but peace was not what she wanted. Peace was not what the dreamscape had whispered. The susurrus had promised something far more appealing:

Revenge.

She knelt on the rocky ground. It bit into her skin, already eager for her blood. But it would have to wait for the Devourer. That demon was the only one she would allow to spill her blood tonight.

As if her thoughts summoned it, she felt its presence. A formless shadow, it unfolded from the mountains and glided toward her. Its former host lay abandoned by a boulder, already crumbling to a heap of colorless ash. Flakes of it swept by Yalei’s upturned face, caught in her long black hair. She didn’t cringe away from the foul flecks, but waited.

The misty darkness surrounded her. Its damp touch hearkened a grave. She fought not to shudder, to recoil from the tainted caress.

This was what she wanted.

You came.

That same seductive whisper that had haunted the dreamscapes, calling her, coaxing her into nightmarish planes and, finally, to this place. Sibilant, like a thousand snakes hissing.

“Yes.”

I can feel your pain. So deep. So engrained in your soul.

She closed her eyes, but a tear slipped free.

Do you want it to stop?

The mist pressed her cheek, taking away the moisture and replacing it with a venomous film that pried into her soul. She opened her eyes.

“No, I want them to hurt, too.”

Good. The mist enveloped her. It crawled over her exposed skin, beneath her clothing, into her eye sockets.

Give yourself to me. Together, we will give them everything they deserve.

“And more,” she rasped.

It filled her throat, choking her words of acceptance. It didn’t need her vocal permission. It knew what was in her soul. She cried out. The Devourer drowned the sound, pouring itself into her like filth into an exposed wound. It spread through her veins, thrummed in her shuddering heart, pulsed in her brain. A part of her soul shrank from the onslaught. The Devourer chewed at it.

Yalei screamed.

Her eyes widened. Her throat constricted.

Don’t fight it, the Devourer hissed.

She gritted her teeth, forcing her body to relax, to accept death. Agony ripped through her. She arched. A scream strangled in her throat, and she died.

The Twisty Path of Writerhood

So, I thought I had it all figured out what being a writer meant. Just write. Write some more. Write, write, write. That was when I was young(er) and naive(er). Then I realized that to be a writer, you also have to be an editor. So I edited and rewrote and edited and rewrote. Edited some more. Cried. Sobbed. Contemplated burning MS multiple times. And then, finally, I thought I was finished. Like a child showing a mess of a coloring page to her mommy, I glowed with pride and accomplishment. And then today I had another revelation. An almost Grinch-like moment and my heart shrank two sizes.

It's not enough to write a good story. Heck, it's not even enough to revise it until it's a great story. And, by all that is freaking holy, it is STILL not enough to revise it into the most fantastic story of all time... if it's not marketable. You could have written the next Twilight (God forbid) and if an agent doesn't think that people will line up to buy it, they will pass.

And this has made the writer side of me, that sensitive, glimmering side still oozing innocence and imagination, curl up and die. Because sometimes a writer has to face the facts: you've written an awesome story that no one wants to read (well, besides your mom). And then all sorts of nasty thoughts enter your head. Let's change that ending, let's alter that query. We'll snag them yet, preciousss. Oh, yesss, we knowss what it likes. We knowsss. (Sorry, still have a bit of The Hobbit hangover.)

So what do we do to our literary masterpiece that is so deliciously dark with themes and struggles? We rip it apart. We make it light and sparkly and ensnaring. We contemplate changing the beginning, luring agents (and readers) in with false promises of happy endings and a predictable story arc (a gentle read) and then, when it's too late WE CLOSE THEM IN OUR TRAP! Muahahahaha! The sparkle will fade to a depressing gloom. But they won't be able to stop reading, not when that glitter of a happy ending is still dancing at the end. By then, it will be too late. There will be no escape. ::cue evil laughter::

(Wow, I should really lay off the Smarties before posting.)

Who's the MC?

It's usually easy for me to decide on the main character of a story, and then stick with it. As a woman, my MCs are usually women because it's easier for me to write from their POV, identify with their troubles, and allow their emotions to come across more honestly, since I don't have to filter them through testosterone.

But I think I've been wrong about FURY's MC. All this time, I was thinking that it was Fury. (Hence, the title.) But now...

The thing is, I've been struggling with FURY's query again. I've had some fresh eyes look at it (people who haven't even heard of my story, let alone read it) and it comes across as very vague and garbled. So, as an experiment, I used Nathan Bransford's query letter formula in the hopes that it would help me narrow my focus.

With Fury as the MC, I struggled. It's not that I don't know what her "quest" is, but it's not as tangible as Caden's. Hers is mainly an inner struggle with what she wants and doesn't want, and allowing herself to finally go after it. Caden's is more physical. He's on a quest to save his beloved from a deadly curse and gets wrapped up in the Devourer's schemes. Using Mr. Bransford's formula, this is what I ended up with:

Caden is a green-eyed warrior-prince living a privileged life in his father’s kingdom and eagerly anticipating his wedding to the beautiful Kaymarla. But when Kaymarla falls mysteriously ill, Caden must travel to the Dark Mountains and enter the service of the Devourer in order to gain his beloved’s cure. 

Yes, very simplified, but it got me thinking. ZOMG, is CADEN the MC of this story? That would sort of make sense, since he is the driving force behind changing Fury's life. He is the catalyst. He is the character who makes things happen.

Now, I've categorized FURY as a paranormal romance, so I'm sure I could get away with having two MCs, but for the purpose of the query, I'm wondering if I should use Caden's POV. And if my query focuses on Caden's quest, wouldn't it be sensible to start the story with Caden? 

I'm still struggling to comprehend this upset, so please feel free to chime in (whether you've read the story or not) because I need some advice!

Obsession

I have a family tree of addictive personalities. Drugs. Sex. Violence. Alcohol. It's all there. Lots of wackos and creeps. Cool, huh?

So, good little Brandi has stayed away from anything that might cause her problems (i.e. jail time, liver failure) because she knows that this evil little part of her wants to give in to all those bad things. Just like daddy and grandpa and aunt and uncle, etc. So, she drinks moderately. She doesn't smoke. She doesn't do drugs or have strange sex fetishes. She's a good girl. (Though apparently she likes to refer to herself in the third person.)

But I am obsessive. I obsess about things ALL THE TIME. I've been called a worry-wort and space-y because there is always something on my mind. This can be both a good and a bad thing. When I obsess about a story, it flows. Plots move forward, characters develop, description is precise. But then there is the downside of all this. I can't let things go. FURY is out on submission and I was obsessing about it so much it was literally making me ill. So, I'm focusing my obsessive drive on something else: revising Dragon Queen. This is hard. Really hard. Because revising makes me think of FURY. FURY makes me think of queries. Queries makes me think of checking my email for the millionth time that day. Argh.

Being obsessive makes me miss the fun of it all, though. That's the worst part. I write because I want to get published, yes. But I REALLY write because that's what I like to do. I love to put worlds and people down on paper. I love the excitement when a character does something unexpected and takes the plot in a whole new direction. I love stories in general. That's why I write. It's not about fame or glory or any of that. It's just about the story. I just want to share my story with others. And the main way to do that is through an agent. But I won't obsess about that process any more. I'm going to turn my obsession back to where it belongs: the story.

Spit, Rub, Rub, Spit, Rub, Rub, Viola!

You've heard it. I've heard it. Don't send your manuscript until it's polished. Or, as I like to say, spit-shined (just to gross people out).

You would think this wouldn't take a lot, right? Maybe just one or two revisions. A final read-through to make sure there are no glaring errors, and then let the querying begin. As I (and other writers) can attest. It's never that simple.

FURY has gone through SEVEN complete revisions. This means that I have chopped, cut, rearranged, rewritten, unwritten, shredded and reworked FURY seven freaking times. But, thank the Lord, I think I've finally gotten my manuscript to that spit-shined stage. (Spit-shining takes a tad more effort than polishing, in my opinion.)

But--hooray--it's finally there. It's finally ready. And, OMG, the feeling is almost euphoric.

Want to know the process? Sure, I'm happy to share.

1st draft -- Written in pieces and then sort of slung together. Transitions were choppy. Character arcs were barely there. Motivations were muddled.

2nd draft -- Smoothed out transitions. Thought of lots of cool plot points to add. Worked on characters, but they still came up short. Villain came up one-dimensional and too blatantly evil.

3rd draft -- Oooh, ooh! New plot twist. Worked on characters again. Added new scenes. Got rid of scenes. Reworked Fury's character (she was just too dang whiny) and gave Caden more of a background to make him less stereotypical.

4th draft -- (This is the one my critique group got to see.) Descriptions were superfluous. Transitions were choppy again. Characters were NOT sympathetic, especially Caden. Villain is still too one-dimensional.

5th draft -- Finally figured out what my characters wanted, but could not make them get there. (In real life, they would have run from each other the moment they met.) Tweaked personalities some more. Added some more of the Fae'len aspect into the story. Embellished Fury's power and gave it significance. More background info, and yet less (made it more meaningful and concise).

6th draft -- Everything is reading much smoother, but the characters are still not reaching their potential. Readers still don't care for Caden, so his introduction had to be rewritten. Devourer's powers are more specific. Fury and Caden's wants and needs are finally coming together.

7th draft -- Smoothed over jagged descriptions and transitions. Dipped deeper into Caden and Fury's heads (and hallelujah, they are finally coming across sympathetic and REAL). Rewrote some scenes that were a bit flat and missed their purpose. Found spelling errors and corrected rough syntax. And, gasp, I am DONE.

Argh! Query time!

Just Do It Already!

I've been having some minor panic attacks, coupled with stomach aches, that I am totally blaming on FURY. Why?

I'm getting REALLY close to the last polishing. Less than 100 pages left. (Thank GOD I did this by the way. I shudder to think of what would have slipped into an agent's hands.)

But today I'm procrastinating. Because I'm scared. Because once this is done, there is a query and a synopsis that is just waiting to be sent out. And that is REALLY scary. Because that means I will have made a significant step toward a real writing career. Which is good, right?

Yes, unless...

OK, I won't finish that thought. Too much negativity there.

I will try to be positive, however. And once I've finally sent queries for FURY out, I will focus on another project and try to forget about FURY. Until the rejections roll in. Sigh.

D.O.N.E.

I am finished with the final revision of FURY. Hooray!

I'm crossing my fingers that I corrected the weaknesses in the story and improved the character development and flow. (Please, God? Please?)

I will try to read through it by this weekend. If we lose power with the nasty weather moving through, I have a kerosene lantern, so I should be set. And it will also minimize the distractions. (I'm trying to look at the bright side of this, people!)

After I read through it (and try my hardest not the make more edits), I shall write the synopsis. After that? Agents, here I come. Fair warning.

I'm doing it again...

I have a big problem with complexity in stories. Not lack of it. Oh no. I have too much of it.

Why? Well, I love a puzzle. When I read a story, be it a mystery or not, I want to be able to guess at something and have an ah-ha! moment when everything falls together like it was supposed to. But, in my own work, I can't stop at one puzzle. Or even two. No. The more the merrier for me!

Which leaves me with a big jumbled mess.

I thought I'd finally gotten over this in FURY. I told myself "Just go A to B, Brandi. No more loop-de-loops. Clarify. Clarify. Clarify."

Except I got over-excited and did my whole "What if THIS happened!" and ka-blewy. There goes my linear story. Which might have worked if it was at the beginning. But I'm almost at the end for goodness sake. Grr.

Now, I have to take a step back and try to muddle through this new mess I've created. Messes are fun to make, not so fun to clean up. Especially in writing.

Eating Worms

I've always struggled with an extremely low self-esteem. It can be attributed to a number of things, but I try not to dwell on it. Still, I have a very big voice in my head that's constantly muttering "You can't do that," "No one likes you," "Everyone hates your story," "Go eat worms," blah blah blah.

When the voice starts screaming at me, I often have to take a break. Usually from reality. So, I'll immerse myself in a novel (someone else's, not mine) or play mindless computer games, trying to drown out that voice with someone else's.

Right now, the voice is screaming. It tends to do that a lot when I'm working on FURY. I don't know if it's trying to warn me that it's a worthless novel and to move on, or if it's just me being stupid. What I hate is that the writer can't shut out the voice to look at it objectively. Part of me will always think it's a story worth telling, while another part of me will always think it's a load of crap. And you know what the saddest part is? I don't have this kind of struggle with Dragon Queen. It's possible that is because Dragon Queen was written more for fun. I enjoyed the process and the story. Jade was so easy to write--perhaps because she was the lighter side of my writing ability (or disability). Fury and Caden are difficult. At times, I even dislike them. Which is strange--because a writer should never dislike her characters, right? (With maybe the exception of the villains.)

Sigh. Oh well. I shall forge ahead.

I Surrender!

I give up. I'm waving the white flag! And I'm admitting defeat.

FURY is a romance.

Let me repeat that: FURY is a romance. Not a romantic fantasy, but a ROMANCE in a fantasy setting.

Crap-ola.

I've fought it and fought it. But FURY is meaner and more tenacious than I. So I have thrown in the towel, hung up the gloves, and scraped at its proverbial feet. You, oh masterful manuscript (which is up to interpretation), have won. You've gotten your way.

Happy now?

Probably not. But you're just like your namesake, aren't you? (And, yes, I have spewed cliches all over the place...that's how upset I am.)

Stretching [Writer] Muscles

Last night after a strenuous round of Dance Dance Revolution, I was sitting splay-legged on the floor and was like "Gawrsh, this hurts." My feet were approximately four feet apart. Even I can admit that's pathetic. I used to be able to kick so high that I could touch my knee to my forehead (without bending forward). Granted, I'm no longer in high school, but still... it got me thinking of other things that need to be stretched.

Not only have I neglected my physical muscles but I think I've neglected my writer muscles, too. I have been so focused on DRAGON QUEEN and FURY that I haven't even thought about a new novel. Now, I know that DQ isn't finished, but it's almost finished, so I should be bouncing around ideas, right?

So, I did.

And I came up with something weird.

A mainstream novel. That, of course, quickly morphed into a paranormal novel. But, still, I haven't thought about writing a paranormal novel (especially when there are so many out there). But I was... intrigued. Like most of my novels, it started from a title (admittedly a weak title, but...). Anyway, the title was Soul Pieces.

However, since ideas aren't protected by copyright, I'll keep the rest to myself.

But this got me motivated to finish DQ by the end of this month, as well as (GASP) finish editing FURY. And then (yes, my friends, this is TRUE) send out query letters. So what does that mean? By the end of this month I will be A) exhausted and B) suffering from a constant stomachache--which is what I do when I'm severely anxious.

I guess I'd better get crackin'. Wish me luck!

What my writing means to me...

People write for many reasons, and I won't begin to even try to list them all, but a main reason I write is to address issues in my own life through my characters. This is especially true in FURY. I wrote the book as a way to address some of the "wrongs" that were going on not only in my life but in the world around me with the intent of it having an invisible depth. It's more than just a story of a shapeshifter, a demon, and a warrior. More than a love story. And I really hope that people can see that.

I was reading tips from Donald Maas on Writer's Digest about firing up your fiction, and some of the questions he encourages you to ask are: 

What in the world of your story makes you angry? The way people treat Fury makes me angry. The injustice of her situation--being scarred for a 'sin' she did not commit--makes me angry. The way people can use your own weaknesses against you makes me angry.

What is the most important question? Are the flawed redeemable?

 

What puzzle has no answer? Are we ever worthy of the ones who love us?

What is dangerous in this world? The obvious answer would be the Devourer, but she is so much more than that. The dangers are: self-hate, self-doubt, greed, anger, obsession, ambition, pride and unwillingness to forgive.

What causes pain? The misguided and, at times, thoughtless actions of those who are supposed to love us--including ourselves.

As you know, I've been in a love/hate relationship with FURY, but these answers made me remember what it was about the story that begged me to write it. Because it is so much MORE than what it seems to be. Even on the surface it's not your typical love story. 

And my protagonists aren't the typical protagonists of a fantasy, either. Both Fury and Caden, the MCs, struggle with self-loathing and that often projects onto someone or something else. I recently read that heroes aren't supposed to have a lot of darkness in them. I disagree. Maybe it's because I have learned that the true heroes usually aren't the ones that are bright and shiny and made into action figures, but the ones that have real flaws--deep flaws--and are still redeemable. Maybe it won't work. Maybe everyone will hate my book. But I'm not going to change it. 

They say write for your audience. Well, I guess I just have an audience of one. :) (Hopefully there are people out there who will want to read this anyway, however.)

What Your Characters Take From You, and What They Give in Return.

People often ask me, "Where do your ideas come from?"

From my characters.

"And where do your characters come from?"

From parts of me.

Often, a character will enter my head before his/her story will. Long before I knew Fury's story, I knew her. She came from a part of my life that we'll just sum up with the word "awful". She suffers from all the things that I suffer from, and I hoped that by telling her story and making her overcome some of her inner issues, not only would she grow as a character, but I would grow as a person.

I'm not sure if that makes sense, but bear with me.

You would think that the writer of a story knows exactly what is going to happen, how it is going to happen, and why it is going to happen. In my case, that's not really true. Often, I just have a vague idea, and my characters drive me toward it--often making unexpected moves along the way. Since that is the case, not only do the characters learn as they go along, but I do to. 

I learn from them.

Now, in "Fury" there is a lot of emotional/moral conflict. When I wrote it, I probably didn't even realize it, but looking back I'm able to pick it all out. And I can learn from it.

"Fury" is currently going through some major revisions, and a lot of things are getting cut. A story that started out at 119,000 words in its first rough draft, is now down to 112,000. And I'm not even halfway through. My problem--which I believed stemmed from the issues I was having in my personal life at the time--is that the story is not very active. There is a lot of inner dialogue. A lot of introspection. But my characters don't DO anything very much. I'm changing that. Not only to keep the reader's interest, but because I realized that the story is not one to be told passively. That's not its message. Characters--and people--don't change through thinking about things and just sitting around waiting for stuff to happen, they go out and do something about it.

I tend to be a passive person, but I didn't realize how much it reflected in my writing and in my characters. Fury, instead of being the active, in-your-face heroine I wanted her to be, was a mopey damsel in distress who took a total of two stands in the entire book. And even afterward she went on being passive. That's not her, and that's not the story. So I'm changing it. It means A LOT of revisions, but it will be worth it.

Because she deserves more, and I can finally recognize that. 

The Curse Is Broken!

Wait for it . . .

Yes, I have, officially, begun working on "Fury" again. I realized what was keeping me from being enthusiastic about it. The main thing was I didn't like parts of my chapters. There was a lot of TELLING. Which I didn't even realize. But I have smoothed a lot of those places over (at least up to Ch. 6). The story is coming across strong again. The way I intended. So, YAY!

And on that note, I have noticed a few mentions of Critters on the Writer's Digest Sci-Fi/Fantasy Forum. So, I took a peek. There are people on that site willing to give critiques not just on segments or scenes, but on WHOLE novels. They agree to read your story from beginning to end and offer edits, suggestions, and opinions. My reaction: Amazing!

So I'm going to be looking into that site further, and see if it's for me. I know something like that, if it's trustworthy, would definitely be an asset to my writing.

If you have any opinions to offer on the site, or have similar sites to suggest, I would appreciate the information.

A Glance at "Fury"

Since I've been trying to get in the mood for Fury again (so I can actually get around to querying for agents and the like) I thought I would post the first chapter. So, tell me, does it spark you?

One: Driven

Fury wanted to die.

An inescapable call, it drove her through the forest. She slid around a tree and angled for the river. The earth pulsed like a heartbeat beneath her. Its heat shimmied through her paws, up her legs and into her brain. Trees called to her, trying to distract her from her mission.

She wouldn’t stop.

She leapt over a fallen stump. Not pausing, she ran on.

The forest pulled at her, saturating her senses with its dark and bittersweet smell, until it was as if she were an integral part of the leafy underbrush, the stately trees, the mossy ground. But if that was the case, why did her heart thunder? Why did pain wrack her soul?

The wind whistled behind her, spreading through her fur like stroking fingers. The sensation urged her faster, drove her harder. To her left, she could hear the Yastire River raging. To her right, birdsong, and before her, she could see a break in the trees. Ahead of that, the jagged edge of a cliff. The river raced ahead, cutting her off, lurking at the bottom of the cliff like a frothing leviathan.

The crumbling shelf loomed closer.

She ran harder.

The shale disintegrated beneath her claws. The ground gave way until there was nothing but a brittle layer supporting her weight.

She gathered her strength and jumped.

She closed her eyes. This is it. I’m going to die.

But instead of the peace she had hoped for, panic filled her. Against her will, her form shuddered and twisted. Her flesh rearranged, her bones shrank, snapped, reformed. Feathers sprouted over her feline muzzle. Her nose became a beak, and between one instant and the next, the snowy mountain lion became a hawk.

She screeched and thrust the air beneath her wings, once more rising to the level of the cliff.

She had wanted to plummet to the water and let her body be smashed among the rocks until the river foamed with her blood. She screeched again.

The wind shifted, carrying the smell of soil and green, growing things, clearing her mind. She circled and glided to the other side. Landing on a lichen-splotched boulder, she quivered. Horrified, she shook her head.

What is wrong with me?

This had not been the first time she had tried to end her life, and like the times before, she felt that it had not truly been her decision–but an outside influence.

It had been a risk to try to switch from one animal to the next without using her natural form as a buffer. Something that outside influence had not known she could do. She hadn’t known that she could do it. But something within her, some instinct, had enabled the transformation, saving her. Her body refused to succumb to the whispers that originated from the recesses of her soul. The dark influence lashed out, making her wish that she hadn’t succeeded.

Fury tried to shake off the twisted desire.

She closed her amber eyes, once more focusing on the shape she wished to take. The familiar ache trembled through her body, almost painful, but deeply satisfying. Heat accompanied each transition, cleansing her soul. Even when she took the most dreaded form of them all.

The feathers retreated into her skin, leaving it naked to the breeze. Goosebumps raced across her arms. Once the process was complete, she straightened to her full height and stretched toward the sky. Keeping her eyes closed, she momentarily enjoyed the feel of her shape, the long limbs, the slender torso, the strength and grace of all her movements, the slight sting as the wind flung her hair against her bare skin.

She opened her eyes.

Scars shrouded her skin, leaving no expanse unscathed. They zigzagged over her arms, her torso, her thighs. Even her toes. But the worst of them split her face until none of her features could be distinguished beneath the ropy mass. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to adjust.

No matter how many times she shifted back, the scars still caught her off guard. When she wore the shape of animal, the scars did not mar her body. Beneath the fur and feathers, her skin was as smooth as a length of satin, and she prowled the forest as a beautiful beast. Returning to the carnage of her human body was like receiving a dagger in the gut, and it had the power to bring her to her knees.

Fury didn’t collapse, but stood straighter. She had lived her whole life with these scars, enduring them for many years before she discovered how to make her body obey her shapeshifting whims. It was her true form, her natural shape, who she really was. She touched her face, and her fingers flinched away.

Most would have ended this living torture long ago, and, oh, how she’d wanted to. The seductive thoughts whispered, and she looked for excuses to end her life. But she continued to survive. Even though she was worse than an outcast.  Even though humans shunned, abused, ridiculed and even hated her for how she looked.

Only the forest accepted her, both as a beast and a human. It had kept her spirit strong, kept her from giving in to those dark murmurs. Or perhaps she had been born to be fiery, to have a passion for life so great that no amount of scorn, despair or malicious influence could quench it. Not even her own. After all, what else could be expected of a shapeshifter called Fury?

A hawk’s cry pulled her from her morbid musings. Shaking her head at her foolishness, she padded away from the cliff’s edge. The trees’ girth blocked out the river’s deadly song, and her fragmented heart softened a little around the edges. The insanity that had compelled her to seek death returned to its whispering state, replaced by the murmurings of the trees. She cocked her head to listen. Relief, joy, worry and fear muddled the message, but she understood. The trees were glad she was alive. Glad that she had not gone to a place where she could no longer hear their words. For who would listen to the forest if not her?

It was a consolation that she was able to speak—and listen—to things that normally ignored the animated. Something to keep her from shattering with loneliness. She sighed and placed her hand on a nearby elm. The bark scraped at her palm. The heart of the tree hummed a slow, steady song.

“I’m fine now,” she reassured. “It’s gone.”

The tree’s song thrummed in response.

Yes, it was gone. But how long would it stay away? These fits—for that was the only word she could use—had been coming upon her more and more frequently. At times she felt as if she no longer had control over her actions, like it wasn’t even her that desired oblivion, and she could only watch her life be consumed by something that had the power to make her feel all the hurts of her past as if they were in the moment. Every childhood fall, every cruel slight, congealed within her.

To escape it, she fled to the deepest parts of her soul and cowered, making it all the easier for that outside influence to seize control of her body. She shuddered again as she thought of how close she had come to losing the battle today. A few more seconds and…

She wouldn’t finish the thought. Angrily, she shook her head. She wouldn’t succumb to those whispers again.

She retrieved a small, sharp stone and placed its point down into the flesh of her palm. Clenching her fingers around it, she forced it into her skin. She gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. Only when the blood began to well around the rock did she release the pressure. The stone tumbled from her hand, red now from her blood. She let the wound bleed.

She prayed it would scar.

That scar would remind her of her promise: She would not give in. And even among the other scars, Fury would be able to pick it out, because it was one that she had actually earned. Curling her fingers around the wound, she placed it over her bare chest.

I will not give in.

e f

I will not give in.

It screamed in rage as the girl’s soul-promise carried through the currents of the dreamscape, smashing against the magic that had made it possible to carry out its influence. The power lashed back and bit into its skin, lacerating its flesh and revealing the horror beneath. It hissed and devoured one of the souls writhing within it to gain control of the magic. Another consumption restored its pleasing appearance. Only one soul remained. It would have to hunt again soon.

Its enemy was growing stronger. Did she know? Could she tell? It fretted for a while before calming itself. No, she didn’t know. She couldn’t know. Not yet. Not when it was so close to finding the key to destroy her.

It allowed itself a smile.

So close. The key was so close. And it was getting closer. Even now it could feel the key approaching its domain. What shape would most likely snare it? It smiled again.

It knew.

Twirling away from the edge of the cliff where it had woven its dream-power, it once more focused its magic and allowed a small fragment of its host to return.

The years had tainted her, made her more susceptible to its whims. It was grateful that it had preserved her. It would need her pain, her love, her regret and her thirst for vengeance to defeat its enemy. Her enemy. Our enemy.

“Yalei,” it said in her voice, “I am Yalei again.” Her lips curled up, revealing the tips of her fangs, and her jubilant laugh echoed like death’s screech.

The Ripple Effect

As most of you know, my completed novel, Fury, has been on the shelf for a while (as in my shelf at home, in third draft form). I've tried recently to pick it up and edit it for the last time before I scrape up a query letter and synopsis, but my attitude is still blase. 

And on top of all that, I had an idea. You can call it a "what if".

What if I changed the setting of my story? What if instead of it being a typical fantasy background, I set it in the modern day? What kind of complications would that produce? How would Fury survive? Could she survive? 

Lots of intriguing questions. But there is another one that is even more important:

Would it work?

Let's say that it would. A modern setting would mean getting rid of some of the main plot points. A modern-day Caden probably wouldn't set out on a quest to solve a curse for his one true love. He'd be cruising around in a sports car looking tough. Which would mean that I would have to find a different reason for him to go searching for Fury. Endless possibilities.

So, will I do it?

Nah, probably not. First things first: Fury is hideously deformed. In the here and now, we're not very nice and Fury would be hard-pressed to escape EVERYONE. Sure, she could keep to the forest but then what would be the point of having a modern setting? 

It's intriguing to think about, however. Changing one thing in a story can have a ripple effect. You think that something like Where wouldn't be that relevant, especially if it's a character-driven story, but it is, and I find that amazing.

Things besides setting can have the same effect. One sentence can change a whole scene. It sounds crazy and intense, but that's how it is. I'm discovering that in Dragon Queen. I'm playing with a scene right now. Last night I had an idea on how to introduce Drake back into the story, but in order to do that, I have to change almost everything that I have written for Ch. 19. And then there is everything that follows that just doesn't fit anymore. It's frustrating sometimes. But that's just another one of the many joys of writing.