It’s been awhile since my last post – a long while.
So I thought I’d give an update as to why.
And when I write, I need to separate from everything outside the story except my job and my family. Everything else—my horses, my friends, my blog, facebook—only get minimal attention. I just don’t multitask well.
Unfortunately, mastering the skill of multitasking is a requirement for writers these days, especially those of us who indie-publish. Editor, book designer, publisher, marketer, social networker—these are all hats we must wear in addition to writer. I’ve found that whenever I change hats, though, it takes me a little while to get the new one to fit. Once it does, I’m reluctant to take it off.
And right now, I’m wearing my writer hat.
Runner, the sequel to Watcher, is nearing completion. Currently at 80,000 words, the story is moving into its third and final act.
I realize this novel is way behind schedule. Without going into details, 2012 was a very difficult year for me and my family, as well as a few others close to me. A number of events, some quite tragic, made working on this story nearly impossible, and rather than have it suffer from the constant turmoil of my personal life, I elected to set it aside until I felt ready to return to Sunny’s world.
But I’m deep in it now. Sunny faces many challenges in this book, some old, some new, and like my readers, I am just along for the ride and never quite sure what might be around the next bend. Rest assured, though—even if the details of what, why, and when are a little blurry, I can see the end of the road and I know exactly where it’s going.
Unless, of course, The Chosen have other ideas . . .
As a token of my appreciation for your patience, here is an excerpt from Runner: Book II of The Chosen:
It’s Halloween night. The streets and clubs are filled with witches and zombies and vampires, but no Chosen. If there’s any night they’d prowl among the humans, this would be it.
I’ve spent hours drifting from club to club, searching for the real monsters beneath the elaborate costumes. A silver-sequined mask is my only concession to the holiday, though my hunting blacks and black leather jacket seem to blend in well enough.
Disgusted with my fruitless quest, I walk back to the Cat Club for one last look before heading out of the city to hunt.
The place is packed. Fortunately the music is loud enough to cover the constant growl rumbling deep in my chest. My aversion to being touched by humans has increased since I returned from the wild, and it’s taking everything I have not to clear a space around me.
I spot a gap next to the wall and work my way through the crowd to lay claim to it. A couple to my right dressed as Raggedy Ann and Andy ease back to give me a little more room and I settle in against the cracked paint.
A black-caped figure to my left turns and regards me with eyes as dark as night. He flashes me a leering grin, his yellowish fangs in sharp contrast to the white of his teeth.
My breath catches, then slowly escapes.
Fake. His fangs are fake. Plastic.
Rolling my eyes, I turn away and stare out at the masquerade madness convulsing through the club.
The feel of the air surrounding us abruptly changes. I look toward the door and stop breathing all together.
A stir ripples through the masses as four costumed figures enter, drawing every gaze in the club. Their elegant 17th-century garments appear to be the real thing, with details that only my eyes are likely to pick out in the dim light.
Two stately females, blonde and brunette curls tumbling to their shoulders beneath broad-brimmed hats, glide into the room, their brocaded gold and ruby gowns sweeping the floor. Two males follow, sporting doublets and matching breeches in indigo and ivory. Their pale faces are bordered with shoulder-length hair, pointed goatees, and wide mustaches, no doubt the fashion of that time.
But it’s not the costumes that have stolen my breath.
The air shimmers around them, their auras pulsating in a tapestry of burgundy and black and grey. I’ve felt Chosen auras before, but this is the first I’ve seen them. I recognize the feel of Nicolas in them—these Chosen are of his lineage.
I push off from the wall and move toward my quarry.
As one, their haughty gazes shift in my direction and appraise me from across the room. Several lips curl, and the shorter male smiles, and with no further expression, they turn about-face and stroll out of the club.
Elbowing my way through the crowd, I reach the door and shove it open. As I step outside, I run into a broad, black t-shirted chest.
“Excuse me.” I start to push past him, but he steps in front of me again.
I look up into golden eyes perched above a hawklike nose and wide cheekbones. Full lips part and tug to one side, allowing me a glimpse of the fang behind them. Crimson flashes in his pupils and I ease back, hands up in surrender.
“Hey, I don’t want any trouble.” Instantly on guard, I yank off my mask and let it fall to the sidewalk.
The costumed Chosen behind him slip into a waiting limousine.
But they’re no longer necessary—not with this one standing barely three feet away.
I just hope he isn’t going to kill me.