Hello, friends! So, I’m not alone with my writing today–Biff’s getting over a fever. Oh, he seems okay, much more animated and energetic than yesterday. Still, I don’t need a relapse in the midst of my panicking university students and sub teaching gigs, so here we are, home together, him wondering why I won’t let him watch tv all day and me…um…wondering I won’t just let him watch tv so I can get some writing done. đ
Writing Music: Laurie Anderson and Kronos Quartet, Landfall
âThomas!â Angela clung to the sliding doors as
her body hung forward, face as fearful as any caught animal. âThomas, you let
Chloe go up there?â Her feet moved for the stairs, yet her hands would
not let go. âDid she talk to you?â
Chloe and her father moved as one to meet her at
the base of the stairs. Chloe wrapped her arms tight around her momma,
murmuring, âIâm okay, itâs okay. Sheâs just creepy, is all.â
Thomasâ long, powerful arms held them both close
to his chest. He kissed the tops of their heads, then rested his own on
Angelaâs. âItâs almost midnight. Doctor said sheâs in her last few hours. Itâs
almost over.â
âOver.â Angelaâs face was but a few inches from
Chloeâs, and yet Chloe felt like her mother couldnât see her at all. What could
she see? âC-can it really be over with…withoutâŚâ
Sal knocked on the sliding door to get their
attention. âAng. The crows. Do you hear them?â
Just like that, Angelaâs focus sharpened on her
daughter, husband, brother. She pulled away from her family and ran into the
living room and its windows. Chloe followed, keeping her distance from Reg
whose back was to them all. He sat at the small, plain desk not far from the
hearth, its surface lit just enough by the fireâs light that he could draw in
great, dramatic strokes. Papers littered the floor about his dusty chair.
Papers filled with crows.
No one spoke but the fire. No one moved. From
somewhere came a ticking. From somewhere came a thock. Thock. Thock.
âYou must make the sign,â the grandmother had
said. The crows upon the floor had outspread wings and
open beaks, long talons and wide eyes. They stared at Chloe from the paper,
stared like those hidden golden eyes on the bookshelf–
From somewhere came voices, beastly and strange.
âIsnât that plowman supposed to be feeding the
crows?â Angela asked. âWe canât lose them, not now.â
Sal nodded. âIâll go check.â
You must make the signâŚ
But Reg was already making plenty of signs. What difference
would a drawing by Chloe make? And Chloeâs stomach still rumbled, and her
father was giving her that âwe have to talkâ face while touching her motherâs
shoulder. Damn, heâs going to bring up
the radio job to get Mommaâs mind off crows and witch-mothers. She had to
separate themâŚbut no. Not when her mother looked ready to jump out of her own
skin. And unlike Angela, Chloeâd already seen the bloody kitchen.
âIâll come with you.â Chloe practically skipped over to Salâs
side. âUncle Sal.â Anything to put off âthat
talkâ until weâre in the car. Hell, Iâll talk the whole way home about it if it
means not doing it while Mommaâs like this.
âYou sure?â Chloeâs father asked. He sure wasnât.
But the scribbling noise from Reg and the tappingof Angelaâs fingernails on the laced
table made the bloody silence of the kitchen sound like a sanctuary to Chloe. That,
and the ginger scarecrow that was Sal felt like the least threatening thing in
this house. âMmhmm.â
âWeâll just be a moment,â said Sal, and led Chloe out.
The foyer felt far colder than a moment ago. Little whips of wind lashed the back of Chloeâs stockinged legs. The lights flickered once, twice. But no black laced shapes loitered on the stairsânot that Sal looked up to check. He was all too happy to share a smile with Chloe instead.
âThanks for this. I hate walking around here by myself. When
I saw Reg at the front door, I justâŚstayed with him by the fire until you came.â
They paused by the display of crow skeletons. One skeleton was posed to look
outward, right were Sal stood. âItâs always feltâŚsafest, in there.â
Chloe shuddered. âShould I ask where you guys slept?â
Sal swallowed. âNo.â
The cold had been coming from the kitchen. The back door
stood open, just a sliver. The dead rabbit was gone.
So was the axe.
Word Count: 675 Total Count: 11,215
Consarnit! I can’t wait to share the next moment with you, but I teach all day tomorrow, so there’s a good chance I won’t be posting. Stay tuned!
Hello, friends! I know I’m slowing down a bit with this scene, but I did so want to give a bit of history and had no idea where else to put it. (If you want some context, check out the complete list of current contents for What Happened When Grandmother Failed to Die.)
Chloeâs father blocked her halfway down the stairs. Light from the grandmotherâs room faded against the second floor corridor until it was just as dim as the rest of the foyer. The grandmotherâs presence, however, hadnât faded, not at all. Go to the desk near the fireplace downstairs, sheâd said. Take ashes from the hearth, and with your own fingers make the sign. She refused to watch Chloe or her father leave, eyes still transfixed upon the window where the owl and clawed its own mark. Do it now, before he finds a way inside.
Not that the owlâs mark made much impression on Chloeâs father. Already he was grumbling about Chloeâs love of music. âYour momma got you that job to help jumpstart your journalism career, not to write songs other people are gonna sing without even mentioning your name.â
Chloe slumped to a seat on the stairs. âI didnât want it to be like this,â she said, voice hardly above a whisper. She clutched the hem of her skirt, so carefully sewn by her mom to help Chloe to look like someone who was on campus to learn, not serve. âI wanted to surprise you both. Play the radio and tell you, âI wrote that. Thatâs my song Brenda Hollowayâs singing.â Through the rails of the bannister Chloe looked down upon the crow bones on display, the hung feathers, the child drawings. How many had been pinned to those places and left, unmoved, for years and years? âSome friends at WNOV, theyâre going to set up a meeting with representatives from Motown after New Yearâs.â
âSong writing. Jee-sus. Chloe, IâŚâ Thomas Watchman bit his lip, breathed deep. Chloe knew exactly what he was doing: he was looking at her as if she was a clock refusing to wind. âWhen you reported what happened at the Black Student Strike in Madison to the Milwaukee campus, your momma and I, we were so, so proud of you.â He knelt upon the stair to see her eye to eye, to hold her hands in his calloused palms. âYou were in living history. Do you have any idea how powerful that is? How important that is to preserve for your own kids and grandkids?â
Chloe swallowed back a hard lump of fear. So chilled, these stairs, like the sidewalk Chloe fell upon that day. The car horns, the words hot as acid on Chloeâs earsâŚEven Gwendolyn Brooks, a Black woman white men awarded, was almost run down while talking to the students. Yes, Chloe wrote a report and shared it on Milwaukeeâs Black radio. But the real fire came in the words Chloe wrote after, words for a song, a song to hear with a piano and a microphone in a smoke-filled room, where tables are sticky with booze and old stories and the floor doesnât care whose shoes walk its boards.
Thomas Watchman gave his daughter a little smile to tug her back into the present. âYouâve got the words and the soul to take on all those white men who think they know what deserves to be recorded and read by our eyes. Well they donât. You.â He brought their held hands up to Chloeâs chin for a gentle nudge.âYou do.â
Hello again, my friends. Not gonna lie–it’s been a helluva week, and the finals from students are nowhere near over. Let’s see if we can at least learn a little something from Yana Perdido and Chloe both before it’s too late.
Writing Music: Greenred Productions, Dark Cello Music
Dr. Artair laughed, his hands up in surrender.
âVery well! Madame Yana, I shall take my leave–for now.â He gave them a curt
bow and left, his laughter echoing up and down the foyer.
âThat man is insufferable.â The grandmother
picked up the tea left by the doctor and held it up to her veil. âHmph.
Medicine, indeed.â
Thomas Watchman shared a look with his daughter
to head for the door, then said, âIâll tell your children youâre–â
âNot yet.â The grandmother shuffled around the
bed, thocking as she went, still holding the cup, still hmphing under
layers of black lace. âTell me, what do you know of crows? Apart from the
laws.â
âExcuse me?â Chloe could see her fatherâs grip
on the leather arm bond tighten, though his voice remained cool. A bit too
cool. âI donât hail from the South.â
The grandmother shuddered and gasped. It took a
moment for Chloe to realize she was laughing. âIs sin limited to the South? I
may be old, but I am no fool.â
No, she wasnât. Chloe watched that gnarled hand
carefully balance the cane against the wall, and reazlied that this woman
practically read Chloe like a book in just seconds. âCrows eat garbage.
Roadkill. Scavengers.â
âDid you know they are also extremely
protective?â The grandmother pointed to a painting on the wall behind Chloe and
her father. It was as massive as the ornate, gilded bed: a painting of crows
flying after a lone owl, its eyes shut as it flees. âIf there is a predator
looming near a crowâs nest, a signal is called out, and all crows in the
vicinity will work together to drive the predator out. Kill it if necessary.â
She unhooked the brass latch of the window. Tendrils of sparkling night air
curled into the room as she tossed the doctorâs tea out the windowâ
Screech! Harsh, sharp, grating, the sound came higher and higher. The
grandmother cried out, tripping over her own shrouds, dropping the cup and
shattering it with her cane. Chloeâs father ran round the bed to prevent the
old womanâs fallâ
A shape flew to the window. White, black, silver,
wings stretched like the arms of a ghoul, eyes golden, too bright, too bright,
Chloe canât stop staring back, the refrains of a thousand songs filling her ears
when she sees that gold, that goldâ
Thomas slammed the window shut and latched it
shut. The creatureâs talons scratched at the glass, its beak clamped down on
the window frame, but neither gave. Its feathers pounded the glass as hard as
any blizzard, and the night air now in the room seemed to answer the feathers
back, rising in the room, causing all three to shiver.
Not that Thomas Watchman was one to openly show
fear. He put his nerves into his fist and pounded the window, yelling âBack!
Get outta here! Out!â
Darkness.
The shape had flown awayâno. No not yet. It
hovered in place a few feet back at Thomas and Chloe, whoâd joined him by the
window. That canât be the same owl from the
truck, Chloe wondered. And yet its stare, it felt so familiarâŚ
The owl lunged for the window, but not with its
feathers. Screeee. It dragged three
sharp talons against the glass right in front of Thomasâ face. Then it flew
back into the snow, and the dark, and the quiet.
Chloeâs grandmother staggered back just enough
to sit back down on the bed. Her words came out with what sounded like a froth brewing
in her mouth. âOwls are the worst of the predators. They will hunt for crowâs
nests. They will eat the weak, the young.â Chloe handed the old woman her cane,
which she promptly thocked to steady
her withered, laced nerves. âOwls are the boogeymen crow mothers and crow fathers
warn crow children to beware.â The veiled face turned up to Chloe. âYou, you
must make the next sign. You, must, beware.â
Word Count: 666 Total Count: 9,998
Gah, two words short of 10,000! But supper calls, and family, and grading, and, you know, life. đ
For a current list of installments for What Happened When Grandmother Failed to Die,click here.
Good morning, friends! Between the swamp of final papers and the hours of breaking up fighting school children, I’m ready for some escape from reality–even if it’s back to the Crow’s Nest.
Writing Music: Kronos Quartet, “Little Blue Something”
A lone caw cried out in the dark snow. Chloe couldnât see into the night, not with snow spinning in circles outside like toy ribbons from a parade. âMy family,â she said curtly.
Thock went the grandmotherâs cane. Yana Perdido pointed a gnarled finger at Chloeâs chest and said, âNo. This family has already been claimed. What, is, yours?â
Whimpering downstairs. Cawing outside. Muffled voices, closed doors, silent snow, golden eyes, and all beneath the tap tap tap of Dr. Artairâs ring as he sits, watching like all the white men who think they have the right to see her as less, as worthless, just some sooty the dean needs to throw out with the trash, all the snickers and the jabs and the tossed books and the mud kicked at her legs and the noise and the noise and the noise, Chloe has to cover her ears to keep out all the damn noise—
âMusic!â She was panting. Why was she breathing so hard? Sweat streamed down her back and chest. Her heart wanted to collapse from running, running from all the stupid whiteys who think they own the world but they donât because of âMusic.â There. She could speak without panic now, without that clawing on her brain. She slowly ran her palms down her skirt to dry them. âI write songs for the radio.â
âSince when?â Chloeâs father filled that decrepit doorway with his body and his voice. âThat job at the station is for school, not–â he paused when he saw Dr. Artair in the corner and realized the grandmother was sitting, unveiled, and staring.
It takes a lot to unnerve a man like Thomas Watchman. The grandmotherâs face came damn close…until he saw Chloeâs frazzled face. He clenched his jaw as he towered over the old woman on the bed. âMake my wife or daughter a jabbering mess like that son of yours downstairs and Iâll use your own tools against you.â He pulled out the leather arm bond he found in the foyer and held it to the lamp. The large buckle flashed light in the old womanâs eyes, reflecting little back. âUnderstand?â
âOh dear, oh dear.â Dr. Artair wore the face of a Santa Claus reading a naughty list. âPerhaps, Yana, it is time to make amends with your children. Should they not be compensated with–â âTreasure?â Thock. The grandmother recovered her face with the veil, and she stood, a black spectre once more. âYou think you can drug me enough with your silly medicines that Iâll reveal its hiding place, do you? Get out, you fraud.â Thock. âOut of this room, and out of this house.â
Word Count: 446 Total Count: 9,332
CONSARNIT! Sorry, folks, but I have to cut it here so I can grade before another teaching gig. Here’s hoping a little more time will come my way tomorrow.
Hi!So a day’s break from writing allowed a serious question to hit my face: What does Chloe care about? Here I’ve got this girl in the main crew of characters, we’re with her practically every step of this journey, and….I have no clue what matters to her. And if I don’t know, you sure don’t know, you awesome readers, you. So let’s see if this veiled grandmother can work a little narrative magic, as it were, so we can all learn what’s up with Chloe. (And for those who feel a little dĂŠjĂ vuwhile reading, it’s because I’m recycling some setting details from an earlier brainstorm shared in October.) Let’s go!
âYana, what ever are you doing out of bed?â Dr. Artair wagged his finger at the old woman and pointed at the wall. âBack to your room, my dear. Iâve brought your medicine as well as your granddaughter for a little chat while the others calm your son.â
ââSon.â Hmmmph.â The veiled grandmother thocked the floor with her cane as she hobbled to somewhere on the left. âRefuse of the orphanages, they were, all of them. I knew he wouldnât want them.â
Refuse? Refuse?! Chloeâs throat burned with acid and anger as she stomped up the stairs, nearly knocking the toadish doctor over. âMy mom isnât garbage.â She pounded after the woman, glaring down at her veiled back. âSheâs smarter than any white man at her university. She knows more about the world than you ever will, and sheâs smart enough to stay the hell away from you!â
A slow, gurgling cackle shook the old womanâs shoulders. Chloe should turn back. She should run. This woman canât be human, not really. Sheâs a monster under all that lace, and thatâs why Reg is practically foaming at the mouth. No wonder, no wonder Chloeâs mother never ever wanted to set foot in here and was ready to sleep out in the car in the middle of a blizzard.
âAnd yet, she has returned.â The grandmother turned, slowly, straightened, slowly. By the time she faced Chloe, her head was high, almost regal. The outline of a face floated behind the veil, with two holes where eyes should be. âWhy is that?â
Chloe clenched her jaw. âTo help her brothers, obviously. A minute with you and oneâs crying crazy.â Why WERE they there, really? They didnât have to come here. Chloeâs mother could have hung up the phone and left it all aloneâŚno. Chloe didnât know as much about her mom as sheâd like, but she knew one thing for sure:
Angela Perdido Watchman could never leave any past alone.
âNow now.â Dr. Artair blocked the doorway out. They were all in this grandmotherâs room, Chloe in the middle. âLetâs not start off on the wrong foot.â
âAnd which foot would you prefer, you fraud?â The grandmother stiffly sat on the edge of her bed. It stood high with wooden globes for feet, globes carved into precarious connections along the frame and headboard. The blankets on the bed looked like cast-off ball gowns, all bright colors in expensive fabric stitched with gold. âI will take no more of your supposed medications. Youâre simply here for money. You will get your dues in the post from my attorney, just like Dr. Caden.â
Dr. Artair chuckled as he set the grandmotherâs tea on the bedside table. âI only wish you to be comfortable, Madame. But, if you prefer to be in pain…â He took an orange shroud off a heavy, ornate lamp, throwing a hard, yellow light upon the room. ââŚthen so be it.â The light added dark cracks around his smile.
Thock. âYou care nothing about my pain or anyone elseâs.â
Chloe had to blink, readjust her eyes. Everything, everything was golden–crucifixes, mirrors, even the very fireplace opposite the bed had gilded edges. So did the two wooden chairs framing it, right down to their scrolls carved with wings and talons.
Thock. âSit, child.â
And lose her ability to look down on this witch? âNo, thank you.â Chloe folded her hands primly in front of her.
âWell I should very much like to sit,â Dr. Artair said, and did so, âif you donât mind.â
Now the way out was clear, and Chloe sure as hell wasnât going to give that up. Only a couple more minutes before her father will come to rescue her. She would not end up like Reg downstairs. Chloe kept her face a mask, her heart calm. This heap of old lace wonât make her a wreck.
The grandmother certainly was staring at her enough, looking for something until thock. âHmph. You see all the gold, but you do not stare at it. You are not here for treasure.â
Chloe felt like the woman was digging through her head. Chloeâs mind raced through childhood, pausing only a couple times: listening to Etta James for the first time,her father pulling out a gilded but broken timepiece from a dumpster, a wall of golden records, her mother sitting with her in the Public Museum, gazing upon the Egyptian mummy encased there, telling Chloe tales of archeological sites in the Far East and what an adventure it must be to dig through time. Then the memories became a blur, a spinning blur, a blur like a carousel ride in chaos and Chloe would surely get sick all over this witchâ
Dr. Artairâs ring loudly rapped the arm of his chair. âOh, this really is so exciting, seeing distant family brought together at last.â And he shooed with his fingers at Chloe to make her look upon the grandmother again. âGo on, go on. Pretend Iâm not here.â
The old woman had removed her veil. Her sickly skin was as peeled and cracked as the woodwork downstairs. But her eyesâthose werenât holes at all, but dark, night-dark, and they looked hungry for anything Chloe had inside her. âYou are Angelaâs child. That stubborn stare confirms it.â And she nodded, approving. âYou would fight the world to protect your own, would you not?â
The sweat between Chloeâs fingers made her folded hands slip a little. âYes.â
âTell me, child.â She leaned forward, hair long enough to touch the top of her cane. âWhat is your own?â
WORD COUNT: 925TOTAL COUNT: 8886
Gah, we didnât get to Chloeâs motivation! Well, we sort of did. I bet you caught the hints. đ Ah well. Letâs try next time, shall we?Â
Good morning, my friends! As promised, I have a lovely author interview to share with you while I run off into the snow to teach high school calculus (yes, you may giggle). Meet the amazing writer of mystery thriller and dark fantasy, Daniel Kuhnley!
First things first! Tell us a little about yourself please.
Sure. My name is Daniel Kuhnley, pronounced like “coon lee.” I’m a Christian and an author, but I don’t write Christian fiction. I enjoy all sorts of activities, including music, movies, disc golf, working out, programming, and writing. I’ve been married to my wife for 22 years. Wow, it doesn’t seem that long! Just this last weekend my parents celebrated their 50th anniversary. That’s quite remarkable in this day and age. There are no children or pets in our household (my wife is allergic to both!) I have three siblings and six nieces and nephews.
What is your favorite childhood book, and how would you say it influenced your own passion for storytelling?
This is a tough question. How far do I go back? Perhaps a few examples would be good. I loved The Monster at the End of This Book, The Berenstain Bears and the Spooky Old Tree, and Where the Wild Things Are when I was young. All three of them have a fantastical and sorta scary story. I think those led me on to books like A Swiftly Tilting Planet. This book opened my eyes to a new world where I could escape from everyday life as I read it. The characters and world and adventure stole my heart and made me want to write stories of my own. There were many other books as well.
I see you enjoy writing in two different genres: mystery thrillers, and dark fantasy. What draws you into these different writing-worlds?
Passion for the genres. I absolutely love Dean Koontz and the thrilling and mysterious books he writes. Old Stephen King ones too, like Cujo and Firestarter. What really drew me into fantasy and wanting to write it was Terry Goodkind’s series, The Sword of Truth. The first book, Wizard’s first Rule blew me away with the characters and depth of story. I’d never really read anything like it before. I knew I had to write character-driven stories like his. So, each genre is a different challenge. With fantasy, you get to create anything you can imagine. Worlds full of unique characters and places. No one can tell you it’s unrealistic. However, mystery thrillers allows me to delve into the human psyche and tell tales of sick and psychotic characters that fill nightmares. It’s fun to imagine how people like that think and what drives them. It’s even more fun to write about flawed heroes and heroines who are trying to stop them.
World-building is often one of the most difficult elements of fantasy writing: how far back should a writer go in creation? How much should be shared with readers, and what can be left in the notebook? Whatâs safe to rework from reality, and whatâs got to be built from scratch? (You donât have to answer my rambly rhetorical questions , but I am curious about your world-building process in creating Centauria for your Dark Heart Chronicles.)
World-building is a tricky thing. There are so many factors that go into it, and it can be the crowning achievement of a series or its downfall. A robust magic system is a must. It doesn’t need to be overtly complicated, but it should be a reflection and a driving factor of your world and its characters. Whether or not to include a language of your own is also another question to solve. I’ve read many books without one and it takes nothing away from it. I chose to create one for my world just for uniqueness. As far as creation of the world, you can go back as far as you want for its history or treat the moments your characters are living in as its beginning. I know many fantasy authors with tomes of history and backstory on their world and characters and others who have little to none. Personally, I find it far more interesting to understand the history of a world, its cultures, creatures, landscapes, and everything else that is part of its make up. I think if you’ve got some history to your world it creates a depth to it and your characters that you might not otherwise have. The readers will never know and understand everything about the world and its characters. The reason for this is that you never know when you might want to create another series based on some of that information. It could also spoil the mystery of the stories if the reader knows everything about your world and the characters. I’d say 70% of the information gets left in the “notebook.” It can cause issues though, too. Often I’ll be talking to my wife about something that happens to a character in my story and she’ll stop me and ask where that information was relayed to the reader and I’m sitting there thinking it’s somewhere but quickly find out those details are only in my head or “notebook.” As far as what can be reworked from reality vs. what should be built from scratch, that’s entirely up to the author. You want authentic, fresh worlds but readers also expect familiarity. If there’s no familiarity, it can cause the reader to have trouble picturing your world. There are obvious things that cannot be drawn from reality like unicorns, dragons, and other fantastical creatures. The hardest part for me in my world is describing the flora and fauna of the landscapes. I see them in my head, but I’m no expert in what those types of trees and plants are.
So Iâm a HUGE fan of writing with music. Iâll even build up playlists to match up with major plot points as I write. What scores/composers would you like to recommend and why?
For me, I MUST listen to music while writing. It keeps my mind focused. However, I cannot write to music with words. I’ve tried and find myself singing along and not writing. As far as recommendations, my absolute favorites are Epic North, Audiomachine, and Brand X Music.
All three of the produce movie trailer and movie score music. Epic North has some great music for writing battle and physical conflict scenes. I’ve got a little over 500 of their songs in a playlist that I keep on repeat. I never get tired of listening to them. I love some of the music from Two Steps from Hell, but it’s difficult sifting through their music because they do have quite a few songs with lyrics. Some of the music I listen to does have chorus chanting but its in Latin, Italian, and other languages I don’t know, so it doesn’t bother me.
What is your writing Kryptonite?
Outlining. I pantsed my first book and it took me 12 years from start to publication. With the second book, I pantsed the first half of it and outlined the second half. It took about 14 months from start to publication. Those time frames may seem quite drastic, but I had lots of time where I didn’t write anything. I put the first book away for 7 years after writing the first 70 pages. I loathe outlining, and I’m sure my wife loathes helping me with the process as well, but it’s a necessary evil. After outlining my third book, The Braille Killer, I wrote it in 2 months. That book went from start to publication in 6 months. So, outlining is both my kryptonite and my timeline shortcut.
Your Dark Heart Chronicles tell the tale of three unique characters: a family man, and twins bonded in magic. Do you find it difficult to shift between their points of view? What advice can you share with writers who struggle with writing multiple points of view?
I’ve gone back and forth through many ways of dealing with the character perspective changing over the years. Honestly, it just depends on the day. Sometimes it’s nice to switch between characters when I’m feeling blocked with one character. Other times, when I’m really in the flow of one character, I might just write multiple scenes from their perspective across the entire book. If a writer is struggling with multiple points of view, I suggest they take each character who has a unique POV from their novel and just write their story. Once they do that, weave those stories back together in editing. It sounds daunting, but it’s really not that bad. The most important thing is to get the story down, whatever the means. Piecing it together is far easier (at least for me).
Your mystery thriller The Braille Killer also carries a unique writing challenge: writing from the perspective of another gender. What was the writing logic that led you to share this story in first person from the perspective of Detective Alice instead of, say, Detective Alan?
Well, all of my novels have female POVs, so it wasn’t too difficult writing a novel strictly from a female POV. Stories come to me in a unique way. It always starts with a character’s name, like Alice Bergman. As I thought about her more, what she looked like, how old she was, etc., I began to get an idea of what her story might be. Initially, I never thought she’d be a homicide detective or have the challenges that she did, but it just felt right. Alice could never be an Alan. I have a friend who is blind, so I often talk to her about her challenges and fears, and that led me to Alice’s story.
What would you say has been the most difficult scene to write in your novels and novellas, and how did you overcome that challenge?
For me, there are two things that are difficult. The first is fighting/war scenes. I never served in the military, nor have I studied wars, so writing about them can be challenging. That’s what I’m working through in my current WIP, Rended Souls (Book 3 of The DarkHeart Chronicles). I’m also no fighter, so blocking fight scenes can be tricky. It’s best to literally act them out to get a feel for what makes sense and is physically possible for a given character. The other issue I struggle with, especially as a Christian, is how far to go with language, violence, and sexual encounters. I’ve learned to just write it all out in the first draft, no matter how vulgar, sexual, or violent, and then tone it down (if needed) in the editing phase. Because I’m writing dark fantasy and mystery thrillers about serial killers, my books can be quite violent and bloody at times. There is mild cussing in all of my books as well (depending on the reader’s view of what that means). Although not vulgar and explicit, there is also scenes of sexuality in all my books as well. Humans are…human. It’s difficult to have compelling characters without exposing their flaws as well. No one is perfect, and I hate reading books where all the characters are wooden and sinless.
To be honest, it goes both ways. There are times where the writing is flowing really well, and I’m excited to get the story down and discover what’s happening with my characters. But then there are the times where I feel writing constipated. The words are in my head, but I can’t seem to push them out no matter how hard I try. This third dark fantasy novel has been that way. I know the story and all the events that must take place, but I’m struggling to get the words out at a decent pace. Sometimes you just have to take a step back and focus on something else for awhile. I’ve done that, and I’ve finally started making progress again.
That’s wonderful news to hear, Daniel, and congratulations on the release of your latest!
An evil dragon. A powerful mage. An ancient realm on the verge of a devastating nightmareâŚ
Nardus is terrified he may have doomed his kingdom. Instead of resurrecting his beloved wife and children, he brought forth a malevolent winged-monster who is advancing on his people with a mind-controlled army. And now his last hope of redemption lies in discovering an age-old magical secret.
Twins Alderan and Ariaâs hostile history delivered them to opposite sides of a brewing war. And as Alderan struggles to master his abilities while torn between loyalties, Ariaâs growing powers could hold the key to the kingdomâs fate. But faced with an enemy that controls his sister, Alderan has no choice but to outsmart a manipulative wizard and a centuries-old dragon.
As the battle lines are drawn, can Nardus and Alderan claim their rightful place to rescue their world and save Aria from herself?
Rended Souls is the third book in the riveting The Dark Heart Chronicles epic dark fantasy series. If you like dangerous magic, page-turning adventures, and headstrong characters, then youâll love Daniel Kuhnleyâs spellbinding tale.
Buy Rended Souls to enter a clash of conjuring today!
How about we close this chat with some encouragement for those who are participating in National Novel Writing Month? I know I could use all the support I can get. đ
I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo three different years and have yet to “win” it. However, I encourage everyone to think of it as more of a launching point than a “gotta get it all done this month!” panic. Not winning hasn’t stopped me from finishing novels and getting them out to the world. In the last two years, I’ve released 4 novels and two novellas. The key to success is to keep going and finish the job, no matter how long it takes. So many people give up right in the middle. Don’t do that to yourself. Keep pushing forward, and best of luck with NaNoWriMo!
Thanks again for sharing your writing life with us, Daniel! Folks, you can connect with Daniel in all sorts of places. Why not stop by and say hello?
Good morning, friends! Snow falls gently outside my window now, but the storm of school work is not far behind. Let’s get right to it, and see what Chloe makes of the grandmother she never knew she had.
Writing Music: Kronos Quartet performing Philip Glass
Chloe finally relinquished her coat to the coat rack and followed the doctor to the steps, straightening her turtleneck sweater as she went.
âIs it not a pity, MissâŚ?â
âChloe.â
âIs it not a pity, Miss Chloe, that such a treasure of a place be treated so?â He gave the wooden crow carved into the bannister a light tap with his pointer finger. âEveryone ought to be allowed their eccentricities, but thisââ his eyes rolled at the dozens upon dozens of crow drawings. â–is a bit much, even for me.â He grimaced, reminding Chloe of an angry toad.
Good thing he started chuckling so she could laugh, even falling in step with him on the stairs. âGuess this explains why Mom never wanted a pet.â
âHa! Indeed. Your mother is a history teacher, correct?â
âThatâs right, DoctorâŚ?â
âArtair.â
âDr. Artair. Yes, sheâs even applying for tenure at the University in Milwaukee.â
âYou must be very proud.â
âMmm.â
Thomas appeared then. Chloe waved down to him, and he waved back with a cloth wrapped around ice. He continued on to the living room, quiet now but for hushed voices and crackling flames.
âI wonder, then, what she would make of these.â Dr. Artair used the stirring spoon to point at the crow pictures.
The second level was only half a dozen stairs away. Only one lamp seemed to be shining out of side onto dark green wallpaper. One door closed, who knew how many hid from sight. One of those doors led to her. The grandmother who made her children draw nothing but crows⌠âShe probably hated having to make so many,â Chloe said.
But Dr. Artair tisked Chloeâs words, and rapped a few of the pictures with the spoon. âLook a little closer.â
So Chloe leaned in, eyes squinting to see whatever it was she was meant to see. One drawing was just a series of hard, crude strokes with a black crayon. Another was more like pencil, a bit finer, with some shading. One had a peculiar smell to it, almost like sulfur.
âThe corners. Look to the corners,â Dr. Artair whispered.
And there, finally, Chloe saw numbers smaller than a fly, written with precise, perfect lines: 1893.
Chloe gasped. âThese arenât all Mom and her brothers. TheseâŚâ She thudded down the stairs and back up again, scanning row upon row of pictures, finding more and more dates. 1923. 1947. 1882. 1904. 1950. 1867. âShe had to make more. Someone was always making them…â
Floorboards near them creaked loudly. Thock. A shuffling sound. Thock. Another shuffle.
Chloe looked over Dr. Artairâs shoulders to the top of the stairs.
They were no longer alone.
An old woman, draped in black lace and bent as a question mark, hobbled to the top of the stairs with a knobby wooden cane clutched by a gloved hand. Knotted locks of silver hair peeked out from the thick veil covering her head and shoulders. âYes.â The womanâs voice seemed to claw at the very air between them. âA Perdido must make the sign to be protected. You.â She pointed the cane at Chloe. âYou will make the next sign.â
Word Count: 527 Total Count: 7961
Gah, I hate interrupting a story, but I’m afraid we have no choice this week. I do hope you’ll stay tuned anyway–I’ve a lovely author interview to share, and Blondie wants to talk about her current projects. (Oh yes–she’s got quite a few manuscripts flying around!)
For a complete list of installments for What Happened When Grandmother Failed to Die, click here.
Sorry, no time for introductions because I taught all day and my kids are driving me NUTSO right now. Just read the previous stuff, or read on, or just…oh, take some deep breaths and drink some cocoa like I clearly need to do.
Writing Music: Bruno Coulais (yes, again), Coraline
âMister, Iâm notââ Just getting those words out
was nigh impossible for Chloe. The man practically picked her up and ran into
the house, leaving Sumac and Chloeâs parents out in the snow.
âI told you sheâd come, Sal, see?â And just as
quickly as heâd grabbed her, the man released Chloe and left her spinning in
the foyer while he vanished into a neighboring room.
âHang on!â said an irritated voice behind a
closed door on Chloeâs right.
Chloe held her book bundle tight. A cold, lofty
spot, this foyer, with an old, hungry smell that pecked at Chloeâs nose. The
wooden staircase before her was losing its varnish, not to mention its red
carpet. It crooked to hug the fall wall halfway up before continuing to the
second level lit by a single lamp.
No need to go there yet.
Chloe took a few steps to the left, where
not-Sal had vanished. Sliding doors stood open enough for a fast body to slide
through; for now, out of them came more warmth, and the sounds of a crackling
fire. Pinned to the wooden doors were at least a dozen pictures of crows. The
paper looked faded, the lines and coloring like a childâs.
The pictures continued onto the wood-paneled
walls. The more Chloeâs eyes moved around the room, the more crows she saw:
carved into the bannister. Statues on a narrow table beneath the climbing
stairs. Feathers pinned behind glass with dates scrawled. Frames of wing bones
outspread as if they fly on in death. A lit curio full of stuffed crows stood
next to the closed door where the voice came from.
A toilet flushed, and the closed door opened to
a beanpole of a white man–no, white wasnât right. A speckled man, really, with
messy red hair to match. âSorry about the smell, Ang. You know how I am–â he
paused, staring hard at Chloe. âOh shit–I mean, crap–I mean, Iâm not talking
about the smell, in thereââ he waved at the toilet behind him. âI mean, the old
meat smell. Youâre not Angela.â He bowed his head, so flushed his freckles were
all but lost.
âSheâs my mom.â She held out her hand and kept
her chin up. âIâm Chloe.â
âSal.â He held out his hand–took it back,
glancing back at the toiletâ
Chloe took it anyway and shook it just as her
parents taught, quick and firm.
âThatâs it.â Sumac stomped his way in and set
the Watchman Familyâs luggage next to the curio. âIâm not waiting for them. We
may need a rescue operation for your mother, girl.â He hung his hat and coat
upon a coatrack with a nest on top. âIâll get the feed for the yard.â
Sal rolled his eyes. âYouâre going to attract
bears if you keep that up.â
âItâs your motherâs rule, not mine. Still…â
Sumac scratched the last of the snow out of his hair. âWouldnât mind some
bigger game than crows to wander our way.â With a wink to Chloe he vanished
intoâ
âThe kitchen.â Sal shuddered. âWouldnât make a
sandwich in there right now, if I were you.â
âMy stash of oatmeal pies might still be behind
the egg collection.â Chloeâs mom, finally in the doorway, the tips of her boots
just crossing the threshold. Chloeâs dad had his arm wrapped around her shoulders,
his hand on hers, his eyes on Sal and Chloe and crows and stairs and everything
all at once. Chloe watched him mouth Holy shit to himself while her
mother took one last clean breath of wintry air.
âThomas, this is the Crowâs Nest,â she said, and led him inside.â
Word Count: 616 Total Count: 3886
Here’s hoping I have a little more time to finish this family reunion tomorrow. x
Hi, friends! I wanted to give myself a little warm-up to the main story with a moment in the story’s history. Considering my recent enjoyment of Labyrinth of the Faun, I wanted to take an impromptu stab at the fairy tale structure. Enjoy!
Once upon a time, there was a girl who had two brothers: one elder, and one younger. They lived with their parents in a forest filled with wild things in a vast house built of secrets and fear. No window allowed a view into the house from the outside. The brick walls were so unpleasant no vine wanted to climb them. The house, named Crowâs Nest for reasons which will later be revealed to you, looked out upon the forest with its mirrors eyes as if it loathed its own surroundings, but had nowhere else to go.
It was the perfect place for to live if you were
an explorer, which is just what the girl and her brothers deemed themselves to
be.
Not that they could all explore at once. Being
that rarest of sorts known as sensible children, they knew it best to take
turns with each dangerous task involved with an explore. One was required to
distract the parents, be it helping poorly with chores, hiding the dayâs cooking
rations, orâthe riskiest optionâasking incessant questions about the world beyond
the trees.
Only the girl dared do this. Why must my hair be black? What are those
things that fly above us without flapping? Angel talks too much, can we eat
him? I want go riding into the forest like Papa does. What are those loud
noises outside the trees? Where does Papa go when he rides on Sean? When can I
read the big papers Papa brings home with the food?
Often the questions would drive the mother to tears in a hand towel, to screams with a spoon, or to both. The girl learned to run and hide in the Crowâs Nest, very well, and very fast.
After the Distractor came the Watcher. This
child must study the witchy trees and starved fingers for any signs of the
Devilâs eyes, for to be caught by the Devilâs servants is certain death. They
do not appear often in the day, but the children have seen them from their
bedroom window when the sun has not yet woken, and the world is violet and
sparkling with frost: small and yellow as the marbles they kept in their
playroom. But those eyes never turned away. Those eyes stared upon their house.
Those eyes stalked the innocent, flying down to strike any helpless rabbit or
mouse foolish enough to cross the bare yard. The childrenâs book called them âowls,â
but to their parents, they were nothing but servants to the worst Evil.
And no child wanted to be caught by the worst
Evil.
So the third wore a dark green blanket they
fashioned into a cloak and carried a knife. This was the Insider, crawling
among the trees to carve little arrows near the grass line. Every found hoof
print of Seanâs marked another clue to the living labyrinth around them, another
tree marked to help them uncover the mysteries of distant rumbles and
high-flying creatures, of where food came from, and clothes, and books, and maybe,
just maybe, other children.
Oh, to see other children! The girl and her
brothers often talked late into the night of their dreams of new friends, what
they might look like and the games they could play.
So when the Silver Man emerged from the forest one wintry morning, the children were very curious, indeed.
Word Count: 563. Woohoo!
While I know 50k won’t happen, my goal is to write 500+ words every day through the month of November–enough to have a solid start on my next novella. So, I’ll see you tomorrow! xxxxx
We keep in time with it as we dance to life’s obligations. We drum our fingers to it when all else slows to drudge, we unleash our feet to it when all else is quickens to thrill.
Writing, too, has its rhythms. They can be the water flowing through a setting, the heartbeats of two characters meeting, the dialogue where all that is important is left unsaid.
The narrative rhythm quickens and slows with every story, every writer.
And sometimes there is that rare, beautiful moment where the rhythm of one story inspires another.
While both the original 1970s Italian film and 2018 film take place in a dance studio, that is about all they have in common. (If interested, click on for Red Letter Media’s thorough dissection of both the originaland the remake.) As I am going to speak of the 2018 film’s soundtrack, let’s focus on the latter, where a young Mennonite American woman feels she must, she must, join a West German dance troupe that is secretly run by a coven of witches. As she grows more entwined with the magic of the school, the psychotherapist of a dancer missing from that same troupe investigates what he believes to be supernatural goings-on behind the studio’s doors.
(Oh, and that elderly psychotherapist gentleman is played by Tilda Swinton, who is also playing one of the teacher-witches. This was actually a controversial point in the press, as she didn’t admit to playing this role until after the film premiered. Just watch this little snippet of the character moving, and you just feel the age of him, the weight of this mystery upon him. Bloody amazing, that Swinton.)
And there is indeed magical goings-on behind the studio doors. The witches need to prepare a vessel for one who claims to be of the Three Mothers whom the coven worships. How do the witches prepare such a vessel? With dance.
All their magic is empowered by dance. Every choreographed movement of the female body, especially a group of female bodies, helps build their power to control, summon, bespell.
So what better way to bespell the audience than with a magical score? Thom Yorke of Radiohead weaves synth, piano, and dancing rhythms through much of the score. Sometimes we are given only sound, such as in“A Storm That Took Everything.”Like a storm outside, the world is noise, dissonant, clashing, overwhelming. (I wish I had more than an Amazon sample to give you, but Yorke limited which tracks could be on YouTube, dammit.)
Sometimes the dancing rhythm takes center stage even when characters are not dancing. “Belongings Thrown in a River” is an excellent example of this. You can just feel the 3/4 time, always used for waltzes, pull you into a hypnotic 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3. Even when no witches can be seen, even outside and away from the studio, there is a power reaching out to our characters from afar.
A longer sample I can share of magical rhythms comes in “Volk,” the song played when the dancers perform what they think is a recital while the teacher-witches prepare Mother Suspiriorum’s entry into their chosen vessel, the Mennonite Susie.
The tinkling high synth that sinks down takes us, the listeners, down to the rhythm. Feel the 5/4 time, otherwise known as quintuple meter. It’s unnatural, this rhythm. It’s not one to be walked to, to run to. It is its own…until just after two minutes, and then the rhythm changes. Constantly halted, that synth, pausing you, pulling you, pushing you, a jerking dramatic control so like a puppeteer with his marionettes.
So like these dancers and their bewitching teachers.
But no song bewitched me like Yorke’s own “Suspirium.”
Again, the 3/4 time, but here with piano, a distant organ, later a flute. The rhythm is the melody is the rhythm. One feels prone to dance a walk in silence as the lyrics invoke a haunted hope of an impossible waiting, just ahead.
This is a waltz thinking about our bodies What they mean for our salvation With only the clothes that we stand up in Just the ground on which we stand Is the darkness ours to take? Bathed in lightness, bathed in heat
All is well, as long as we keep spinning Here and now, dancing behind a wall When the old songs and laughter we do Are forgiven always and never been true
When I arrive, will you come and find me? Or in a crowd, be one of them? Wore the wrong sign back beside her Know tomorrow’s at peace
Songwriters: Thomas Edward YorkeŠ Warner Chappell Music, Inc. For non-commercial use only. Data from: LyricFind
It is through this song I found the rhythm of a story to another girl, one also drawn to a place she cannot yet understand, where her fate is entangled with past bloodied and forgotten in the snow.
It was 8:30 at night, and Grandmother still wasnât dead.
Chloe tapped her box of Winston cigarettes against her nyloned knees, cold and impatient. Sitting at the top of the stairs hurt made her ass hurt, but the stairs started near Grandmotherâs room, where Mom sat with the others. Chloe did not want to be too far from Mom, not when she sat so still and quiet in a room where Death was due to arrive at any time.
Chloe redid her headband to keep her black hair out of her eyes, and then leaned backwards to peer through the doorway again.
Nothing had changed. A heavy, ornate lamp sat on the bedside table with a thin orange shroud draped over its shade to dim the light. The bed stood high with wooden globes for feet, globes carved into precarious connections along the frame and headboard. The blankets on the bed looked like cast-off ball gowns, all bright colors in expensive fabric stitched with gold. Gold was everywhere in that room. No shroud could hinder the light from finding the gilded edges of crucifixes, mirrors, chairs, fireplace. Old family portraits of white people sitting stiffly cover walls papered in some sort of leafy green paper. The paper is cracked and peeling in places, just like Grandmother.
A portrait taken of this generation would be very, very different.
I’m still working out some of the history and time-frame for this story so that, God-willing, come November I can launch myself into Thirty Days and Nights of Literary Abandon.
I should also warn you all I may very well drag you into the forest around the Crow’s Nest during my month-long stay in this story-world. Stay tuned to upcoming posts about that. đ
Speaking of writing endeavors, Super-Proud Mom Me is getting out of the chair so Blondie can tell you all about her current writing project. Take it away, Blondie!
Thanks, Mom! I’ll take it from here. Hello, everyone! I’m Blondie, if you don’t know already. Now, my story is called Alley Heroes. A wolf named Thor needs to defeat the evil Loki. Where is it? Oh, it takes place in Milwaukee, and the magical land of Valhalla.
Methinks my daughter has been influenced somewhat by her Basher Mythology book. đ Here’s her introduction. Love this girl! xxxxx
INTRODUCTION
It was a typical day in Milwaukee, or what you call typical. Under a pretty rosebush, Thor was born. What?! No, No, not the Norse god Thor! Well, maybe, but any who, letâs continue, shall we? SO, then, Thorâs parents left him behind when humans came. Thor grew up in the city alleys where it was perfect camouflage. Then it happened. What?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN, âSO, WHAT HAPPENED?â WELL, TURN THE PAGE!
Speaking of books, indie author and reviewer Colin Garrow was kind enough to review my novella Night’s Tooth. I’m so honored!
A mix of classic western and fantasy, Jean Leeâs novella is set on the edges of her Princeborn universe (see Fallen Princeborn: Stolen). Her use of language is delightful, with an unusual writing style thatâs as clever as it is original. The characters are an interesting lot, too, (like the Sherriff with the squirrel-tails moustache). Drop them all into an atmospheric Clint Eastwood-type setting, and thereâs plenty of action to keep the reader guessing whatâs coming next.
*
*
*
*
I hope you’ll check out his site…and, well, my books, too. Night’s Toothis only 99 cents, after all!
~STAY TUNED NEXT WEEK!~
We’ve just enough time before All Hallow’s Eve to explore spaces lost and forgotten, frightening and small. I’ll share a peculiar corner of Wisconsin before we run for the small spaces, where we must hope the smiling man of the mist will not find us….
I Lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento: But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang: Perhaps turn out a sermon. - Robert Burns
