Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Grave Alice


For many years I've struggled with what genre I'd like to write in. So, I experimented with several. With the Dark World Trilogy, I learned very quickly how hard it is to write fantasy. To create a whole new world with intricate characters and histories was, I found, very exhilarating and fun, but also exhausting. I've written science fiction with Inhuman, and spiritual adventure with Genesis. My mom wants me to write comedy, but frankly, I'm just not that funny on paper. Nightmara, while not my best work, was the funnest to write. 

When I was a kid, I was fascinated with the works of one author in particular, devouring nearly all his books before the age of sixteen. 

Stephen King.

I've always been fascinated with fear, and with being afraid. Perhaps it's twisted, but I love being afraid. I love a terrifying, psychologically warped plot that leaves you jumpy for weeks after you've read it. I love ghosts, monsters, and that feeling when you run up the stairs really fast because it feels like something is behind you. And, in turn, I love to scare people. 

Hence my choice to write in the Horror genre. I've chosen Gothic Horror particularly, as I love the Victorian era. I may not remain in that genre forever, but dark ideas seem to be the most prevalent on my list of 'novels to write'. 

For those of you who loved Dark World, don't worry, I plan to write more in that world in the future. :) 

But for now, here is a small taste of Grave Alice: (Warning: adult content)


The dream began. How I would come to loathe, despise, and yet yearn for the nightmarish world inside my mind. It always started the same way, always the girl, the ghostly girl standing beside a glorious, shining apple tree. The fruit weighs on the branches, burdening them with their delicious ripeness; brilliant red skin glittering despite a sun silenced by cloud and gloom. She watches me from beneath a canopy of emerald fronds, glowers at me, hates me with eyes of smoldering obsidian. She is naked but for a filthy, threadbare shift; right strap torn, exposing her breast. Her arms hang stiffly at her sides, hands clenched in apparent rage, bare toes curling and uncurling in the black loam beneath her feet. Long blonde hair drapes her shoulders, twisting like golden corkscrews; oddly immaculate despite the condition of her dress. I could not, however, make out her face; all but her eyes are disfigured with what appeared to be black ink, as though scribbled out with a quill gripped by an angry hand. Perhaps if I’d known who she was, I could have interpreted what she wanted.
Thick, silvery fog rolls in around her then, like the cold breath of some huge, imperceptible beast. The girl appears fearful of the anomaly, placing a protective hand upon the tree. Silvery miasma plays about her ankles, twisting as it rises, moving serpentine around her body, bringing a moan to her lips as it disappears beneath her gown. Bewitched, the girl closes her eyes, steals her hand from the bark and begins touching herself, loving herself. Then, as if sensing the girl’s erotic preoccupation, another arm is born of the fog, reaching for the tree, wrapping smoky, sinister fingers about its trunk. Instantly, as would the touch of death, the leaves turn brown and the apples begin to rot, blacken, spoiling inside their shriveled skin. One by one the fruit falls to the cold earth, shattering as though made of glass, exploding into a million sharp and shimmering pieces.
The girl, one moment enthralled in the raptures of some phantom lover, suddenly screams a scream that tears my soul in two as the apple shards are swept up in the air by an unseen force and begin to impale her, slice her, cutting her into tiny bits, cutting and cutting until she falls upon the ground amidst the remnants of apples, herself but a puzzle of silver pieces. All that is left of her is the reflection of one of her dark eyes, blinking bewilderedly, trapped within each of the mirror-like fragments.
And then, just as swiftly as it had come, the fog morphs from white to black and into a writhing tornado. The ruins of the girl are pulled up into the storm and whisked away, her cries but an echo on the wind. The apple tree, wizened, blackened, crumbles and blows away like dark ash.
But where the roots of the glorious tree once held firm, amid the sludge and decay, germinates a tiny seed. I look to the sky, searching for the sun, awaiting it to surrender but a sliver of light, to nourish this insignificant life form.
The clouds darken and swirl, wavering like hypnotic mists, sunlight struggling to break through the wall. I feel myself crying as I kneel before the sapling, its curled body frail and barely hanging on. Somehow I know it is the last, the very last of its kind. After this, there are no more. No more beauty, no more fruit.
I weep, my hands over my face, rocking, pleading, but instead of the sky opening up to heed my prayer, the black tornado returns, the sharp fragments that shredded the ghostly girl tears me into pieces, setting me adrift upon the dark wind.
I am no more.

While the nightmare continued to vary amid the duration of my stay, the essence remained the same: a shattering of innocence.


Saturday, July 12, 2014

Myth is Live On Amazon!!

Myth is live on the Kindle! Here are the links!



I will blog the links for Nook and Kobo as soon as they're live.  

:)



Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Slowly But Surely



After a round of weird bad luck, slicing my finger and getting five stitches, a sick husband (twice), and a flurry of competitions for rhythmic gymnastics (my daughter, not me), I think I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel for Dark World III. With just a few thousand words to go, and a lot of twists and turns not even I saw coming, the characters of Myth are finally coming full circle.

With fingers crossed (not the one with stitches) I hope to get Myth out by the end of May. I thank you so very much for your continuing patience. I know I take a long time to write, but I've become a bit of an obsessive perfectionist with writing and want to make sure its perfect for you. :)

I'd love to hear your comments below and any guesses on what you think might happen in this next installment of Dark World.

Hugs,
Danielle

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

On Writing...



Writing is frustrating. Some days my fingers fly around the keyboard like wildfire, unable to keep up with the story unfolding inside my head. Other days, like these past few, every word is like trying to pry gemstones from solid ice. I wonder why my muse picks and chooses to come and go as she pleases? I wonder why the story, after moving so swiftly through my imagination, has chosen to pause itself? Perhaps it is my human limitations that hinder progress?

It seems, occasionally, that when my writing goes into creative hibernation, that my reading becomes voracious; as though it's the one that's been starving and now needs immediate sustenance. It is difficult, however, to find the right foods to feed the need. Not all books are created equal. I often pick up three or four from the library only to return all of them unread but for a few chapters. Why is this? I'm picky. Very, very picky. I hate wasting precious time and energy on a book that I feel will not quench my creative thirst. 

The books I read have to have certain qualities, such as beautiful writing. You know the kind, the prose that flows like verbal silk, words wound together as though angels have inspired them. Second, a lovely cover. Yes, I know, that's a bit shallow, but it's true. I feel that the package should entice me, seducing me to peek between its pages. And lastly, a different story. Something unique, odd even. So often I find the same stories retold, rehashed and milked for every ounce it's worth. Example: Vampires. Need I say more?

So as I wait out yet another writing hiatus, I fill my head with the words and stories of those who inspire me. Perhaps they are my muses, or my own muse has flitted off to inspire another in order to feed my future literary addictions? 

Who knows?

Friday, February 14, 2014

Valentine's Sneak Peak at Dark World III



Dark World III
Myth

Prologue

The monster wandered the shadowy realm, his new home whether he liked it or not. Thick, hot, oppressive air held his lungs captive as blistering crimson sands branded the soles of his naked feet. Subterranean springs intermittently discharged scorching waters into the atmosphere whilst angry volcanoes raged endlessly in the distance, their garnet tributaries bleeding from earthly wounds that seemingly never healed.
This world, this dark land, seemed to embrace all things malignant, all things evil. What trace of humanity he had left lingering inside recoiled in fear and confusion, terrified of what might be waiting for him around every shadow-cloaked corner, but the dark passenger that now occupied the greater part his soul was elated, grinning, and pleased to be home again. This new malevolence twisted and crawled through the blackened web-like veins spread all over his body, owning him as though possessed. Relentless hunger pulled at his innards, thirst for blood clawed at his throat. Despite his weary, every creature he’d happened upon inevitably lost the battle, becoming his next meal. This thing inside of him, this beast, could lash out, summon any strengths needed when the time arose. In those moments, he’d become powerful, god-like—indestructible. He’d torn at their flesh with his teeth, greedily, uncontrollably, but never was he rewarded satiation or reprieve from the inhuman suffering. The hunger always remained. Always tormenting him, always controlling him.
Nevertheless, there was something else lurking amid the dark corners of his newfound Hell. Something stronger than the blood lust. Something that diluted the poison inside: revenge.
He vowed to find his way back from this dark world. He would make them pay for this. He would find the ones responsible and show them what true pain was.
But for now, he had to find food, had to feed this unappeasable monster within, had to silence the demons screaming inside. Then, he would search for the one he sensed nearby. The one he’d hurt first.
The one he’d sent here.
          Scarlet.



    

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Here it is!!!



Here it is! The cover for Dark World III!! Thank you to the amazing skills of S. Yordanova at http://morteque.deviantart.com/


Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Just the Way it Goes



So it happens on occasion where an author names their book with all the love and affection of a newborn baby. But, as it turns out, sometimes the book decides to switch personalities halfway through. This is what happened to Dark World II. I'd wanted to call it Ever, as it was supposed to be mostly about her, but as usual the characters decided how the book was going to go, hence I was forced to find a new name for the book.  To my surprise, however, the new name, The Devil Inside, seems to encompass the story far better than the previous name.
So here's so my new, adopted child: Dark World II: The Devil Inside.

:)