I Wish I'd Written That

"Half Human, Half Monster, All Attitude"

I mentioned Rob Thurman a while back – she (yes, she) is the author of my favourite urban fantasy series starring Cal Leandros (pictured above) and his half-brother, Niko. It’s such a good story and the characters are so brilliantly portrayed that I actually drop whatever else I’m reading when the latest volume is released. Eight are on my shelf and I’ve heard that the ninth is to be the last, but that’s okay. They’re good enough to read more than once. I can say that because I’m on the second round as we speak and none of it has paled for me.

She has totally nailed the first person narrative. Cal is the primary voice and he is … gods, how does one describe Cal? He’s dark, he’s surly, he’s street-smart, he’s scary, he’s hysterically funny, he’s loyal, augh, he’s fabulous. He’s so great that I wish I had written him. Truly. Characters like Cal are not a dime a dozen; I would happily pop him into my top five favourites. I might even put him in the top three.

Cal’s world is as uniquely special as he is. Yup, it’s a paranormal, homicidal, kill-or-be-killed kind of world and all the while he’s trying to stay one step ahead of the real monster within himself. I read these books with my heart in my mouth, they’re action-packed and freakish in the horror department, yet the characters – always the characters – make it, well, not exactly fun, but … yeah, they’re fun. I can’t imagine that they are written slowly; they read as if Cal is running and talking at the same time, and he’ll be the first to tell you that grammar holds no place in the survival game so proper English has been pretty well abandoned. He gets his point across with pitch-black humour, loads of cursing, and the aid of his prized Desert Eagle.

I—love—this—guy.

That’s it. I just wanted to rave about a series so dark and villainously twisted that I’ve developed a serious case of writer’s envy.

"Cafe de Nuit"



They called her “Anise”, those dissolute souls, born of the Green Fairy to inspire their art.

She posed exotic and nude for Paul, who never touched her though he desperately longed to possess her.

She wore white lace and a blue bonnet for Georges, who soiled her dress with a savage lust that made her laugh when he was done.

She was the muse for Jean-Claude’s verse, shrouded in metaphors of amber dawn and purple twilight, and the dark wanton harmony for Henri’s torrid melody.

She sipped absinthe as she shed her clothes; she fed their fancies and played to their illusions. She sold their dreams for a song, smoking slim cigarettes late into the night, over languid claret and honeyed pastries.

They adored her to immortality, those dissolute souls.

François worshipped her in silence, the sweet shy waiter who never said a word but professed his love nightly with the perfect café au lait.

 

copyright 2013 Ruth R. Greig

No Left Turn

I must have succeeded in switching sides over the weekend. When I got to work this morning, I couldn’t remember what I do for a living. Honest. It took me most of the morning to settle into harness and even then, I had no interest in any of it. I caught up with co-workers and answered emails, which can be fun because it’s a form of writing. It was after ten o’clock and hardly anything had been accomplished before I finally realized that something mental was up.

Apparently, Right Brain is as aggressive and territorial as Left Brain once she’s in control. Regrettably, she’s not as sneaky else I’d have whittled the entire day away instead of getting wise an hour before lunchtime. Can’t say how the rest of the day will proceed, but I can sense logical, analytical Lefty creeping up in the passing lane. Righty is such a tourist, so easily intrigued by dreams and pretty things. I don’t have a problem with that on my own time, but I do have a work ethic (the source of which I am unsure) which demands I put in a decent day’s work for my salary ... but, really, does anyone really get as much done on a Monday as they do on any other day?

A Touch of Shade

I don't know who owns the copyright on this,
but it reminds me of my dark angel so copyright be hanged

I still haven’t nailed a surname for Curtis, but I’m getting warmer. What I have nailed is my first deleted scene – five pages in and I’m already cutting up the content. This was actually the second scene, but after writing the fourth, I see that it doesn’t work given what happens later on. I like the piece, though, so I thought I’d put it up here as a bit of a teaser. Cristal is walking home after experiencing some powerful déjà vu and discovers that she has a shadow …

ó

Drawn off course, my eye caught a shadowy movement across the street. The misty twilight made it hard to identify features, but I recognized both his build and the contraction under my ribs. Seized by unaccountable elation, I streaked toward him.

He tensed as I left the curb. A car came from nowhere and would have—should have—hit me had I not veered back the way I’d come. I stood on the sidewalk with my heart pounding so hard that my vision shook. The near miss rattled me into shouting. “Are you following me?”

“Just making sure you get home okay,” he answered from his side of the street.

“Who are you?”

His grin glowed like a night-blooming flower. “Your guardian angel.”

“I don’t have an angel.”

“Looks like you could use one.”

“Are you applying?”

“What if I am?”

“You blew the interview when that car almost hit me.”

“It didn’t hit you, though, did it?”

I couldn’t believe it. I was arguing about angels with a stranger. “What do you want?”

“I’m just making sure you get home okay,” he repeated.

“I can make it from here.”

“You’re sure?”

I waved an ambiguous hand. “It’s not far.”

He nodded and rotated slowly on his heel. The movement was so powerful, so eloquently graceful, that imagining wings was easy. They’d be dark wings, I thought, and slender, black like his hair, with a sapphire sheen in the moonlight. I watched him walk away and felt myself begin to worry that he wasn’t joking.

What's In a Name?

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

Not so, Will. A name can cause a problem by word association if the author isn’t careful. Case in point: my angel story.

The protagonist’s name is Cristal – named for her father’s favourite champagne. (Her father was a rock star in the 80s so I suspect that particular libation may have had something to do with her conception.) She came with her name; I didn’t have to hunt around for it.

Her father came with a first name – Curtis. His surname eludes me, but I know it starts with a hard C or a K. The first option was King, which would absolutely fit his persona, but there’s already a musician named Curtis King and while I doubt it’s copyrighted, I want to respect that someone else in the field already owns it. Next up: Clarke. Yeah, “Curtis Clarke ˮ has a nice ring to it … but then I realized that his daughter’s nickname is “Cristiˮ (“Crisˮ didn’t work for either of us), and even though she wasn’t given her father’s name at birth, there are still some folks who would automatically assume that her name is Cristal, or Cristi, Clarke.

If you live in BC, and if you know me at all, you probably know where this is going …

The Premier of BC happens to be named Christy Clark. Spelled differently, sounds exactly the same. I refuse to saddle any of my characters with a name that instantly sends me to a blood pressure situation, ergo “Clarkeˮ has to go. The story is going so well, though, that I’ve been forced to type a placebo where Curtis’s surname would be until I can figure out what it actually is, and then I’ll do a global replace. Bother.

My hero, George R.R. Martin, once told a story about a famous sci-fi author who named no characters until after the story was complete; she would simply type “Name Aˮ for the hero, “Name Bˮ for the baddie and so on. She would plug in the names later. George couldn’t get his mind around that and neither could I. Names are important, not only for identifying the character, but for developing it as well. People really do become their names; at least in my stories, they do.

I wish Curtis himself would be more helpful here, but he’s not giving me an inch. I guess it doesn’t matter that much to him, but it will drive me crazy until I figure out what he signs in an autograph …

Mrs Bones

Another Hot Red Cantaloupe

No walk for me today – my right knee blew up like a red cantaloupe overnight (again), and while I’ve managed to get it to bear weight, it fights me on bending so better not to attempt the stairs without someone home to call 911 if it buckles. It’s not an excuse to avoid walking, either; I’m miffed about it because I really enjoy my solitary sojourns on my mornings off.

No matter. I have appeased my OCD regarding dust on the dark wood furniture and am ready to hit the writing computer when I’m done here. In fact, horror of horrors, I got an idea for untangling the knot I left in the novel at the same time I got a nibble for my next scene with Cristal. This means a little internal duelling to decide which thread gets my attention. It’ll be a good writing day.

I got my marathon Newsroom viewing done yesterday, when my right knee blew up the first time and kept me off work as well as off my feet. Two days running, it’s flared at 4:00 in the morning and I can’t figure out why. The usual suspects are notably absent from my diet, so it must be, er, um, hormones. These wonderful shifts in the female cycle can cause arthritic flares. I swear, whoever said it was great to be a girl had to be a guy.

Not only have I been dealing with hormones since I was thirteen, I’ve been dealing with arthritis since then as well. My younger older brother, The Handsome One, tagged me with the nickname “Mrs. Bones” when I was a teenager and still calls me by it thirty-some years later. It’s nice to be special that way. I have a few nicknames, but this one is my sentimental favourite.

I don’t know how my illness affected the rest of my family. I do know that I wasn’t the only one who had to cope with it. My focus was exclusively narrowed on getting through every day, sometimes moment by moment, so either I didn’t notice how everyone else reacted or they did such a good job of hiding it that I wouldn’t have seen it if I had been looking. We’re a pretty stoic bunch despite the powerful emotion roiling beneath our collective skin. I don’t remember talking about it with any of them. I tried not to talk about it at all. I just … got through it. My mother believed that she had done something to make God mad and He was taking it out on me; I hope she’s let that go because I never ever believed that. My bones were my challenge, but being aware of how much Mum suffered for my pain, I did all I could to be as normal as my healthier siblings – thrice-weekly physio and ongoing medical appointments notwithstanding. Mum was with me every step of the way, for which I am eternally grateful, but I also know the rest of the family, my wee sister especially, felt the loss of her attention.

Ironically, both my mother and my wee sister have been diagnosed with the same cursed thing during the last decade, and my father is starting to feel the effects of “everyone’s bones” – the arthritis we all get as wear and tear builds on ageing joints. Each of them has said to me at some point in the past few years, “I don’t know how you did it.”

You know what? Neither do I. I sat with a bag of ice on my knee this morning and stupidly said to Ter, “I think my walk is toast today.” She gave me the look that warned I’d be toast if I tried to push it – my parents once worried how I would manage when I left the nest. With Ter on board, they truly have no need to be concerned. I’m more afraid of her than I ever was of them!

Annoyingly painful as these incidents are, they serve as a good reminder of where I came from and what I was able to overcome with the support of my whole family. Even if all my brother could do to help me feel better was to give me a nickname, he did it. And it helped.

Surrender

 

 

“If you surrender and go with her, you have surrendered to enchantment, as if in a voluptuous dream.”

 

Way back in the 1970s, this was the Boston Globe’s opinion of Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire. I would dearly love to have it apply to my writing, so I’ve kept it in my heart for all these years and aspired to be worthy of it.

 

I was heavily influenced by Anne Rice in the 1980s, then George R.R. Martin, and now, Rob Thurman. Three vastly different authors with three vastly different styles, each of which has left an impression that may or may not be reflected in my own writing. In striving to emulate each of them, I have also discovered and developed my singular style, for which I am eternally grateful to them as teachers, and as storytellers.

 

I write about people. Families, lovers, friends, enemies, passersby and casual acquaintances, they are all connected through their human experience. If you surrender and come with me, you will fall in love. Your heart will soar and your heart will break. You will know joy. You will know pain. You will laugh. You will cry. You will be hunted. You will be the hunter. You will cradle a child to your breast. You will mourn that child. You will know fear and you will know relief. You will see and hear and feel the characters’ experience to the nth degree – but you will also find that nothing has changed when it’s over. You will be safe and sound in your comfy chair ... and if I’ve done my job well, you will remember.

 

But first, you must surrender.