I haven't been around the blog as much as I like lately.
It's because I've been up to things… Several to be specific, but one thing in particular. And I'm excited, and a little bit frightened. And that usually is the best combination.
As I've mentioned a few times, I'm working on one of last year's novels, slated to be self-published around November/Devember (and a lot of you are getting copies thanks to your contributions to my causes).
This novel has taken a lot of research, and along the way I have been collecting snippets and ideas for back story and history of my characters, things that don't need to be in the novel, but are in my head all the same.
And so, I have launched a blog for the prequel of The Novel, and I am using the momentum of Camp NaNoWriMo to get it written (edits take a little longer).
The story is about vampires, about what we become to survive, about love that lasts through changes and separations, about friendship. And it all centers around a girl, found in Ireland, with a destiny to become one of the most feared beings the vampire world has ever known.
Here is my first entry. The rest can be found at cultofthesun.wordpress.com if you want to follow along.
If only she had forever to live, if only she had more than seventeen years to become brave, she might have found the courage.
But she killed him anyway, the vampire.
The stake, carved for her from the rung of a baby's crib, did not go in smoothly the way she hoped. She knelt at his sleeping side, and her arms shook when she raised it above his death-still chest and plunged down at his heart.
His eyes opened, bright with shock, and he scratched at her; his nails dug long channels into the pale terrain of her flesh, across her chest and down her arm, and red bloomed, further staining the torn silk of her gown and mingling with the pooling black blood of the vampire. The scratches burned like when she backed up against her mother's oven, hot with breaking bread.
She did not scream. And she did not stop.
He clutched at her, bucking and writhing, noises coming from his blood-drenched throat. She closed her eyes and pushed harder against the stake, thinking about butchering lambs in the frost, how they made sad, small sounds and steam rose from the blood, caught in troughs for the season's offerings. She felt his ribs break and give way, like branches under heavy boots. His heart did not resist, and when she penetrated it at last, his body shivered and went limp.
She moved away from the bed slowly, wary of him rising again. Distantly, she knew that her bones ached, that her blood ran hot along her skin, that her lip was split and swelling, and worse things had happened–things she could not think on–but she couldn't feel any of it. She sat as far from the bed as she could, back against the wall, fingered the cold shackle around her ankle, and waited for morning.