Deadly Ever After

Archive for the month “December, 2013”

60 Ways to Not Write Your Novel

TODAY’S BREW: Enough coffee that my heart may beat so fast it will finally just stop. You can’t even imagine the puke fest I have lived through last night.

By Julie

I am so in love with the reality of this post, I want to cross stitch it onto several pillows then cry into them. Coincidentally, I also love Gina Denny, who is an amazing writer, with a voice that will kick your ass off of your ass. She did an amazing piece for Josh Hewitt’s blog series “World’s End” called SERENITY. Go read it. http://hewittwcc.wordpress.com/2013/04/05/serenity-by-gina-denny/.

Okay, you’re back?  Okay, NOW go look at what she did for our little side project The Midnight Type, for our “SantaCLASH” series. http://themidnighttype.wordpress.com/2013/12/06/19-days-til-christmas-thriller-title-to-come-by-gina-denny/

Follow Gina on Twitter @ginad129 and check out her blog, http://t.co/uofYCtDzyG.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

60 Ways to Not Write Your Novel

1. Blog about writing.

2. Read a book about writing.

3. Join a fan forum.

4. Listen to Writing Excuses.

5. Make a snack.

6. Join Twitter.

7. Post “Twitter is confusing!” on facebook.

8. Read a book you’ve been meaning to read for a long time.

9. Write a review about that book.

10. Read all the other reviews about that book.

11. Get into a Goodreads war.

12. See the @ column on twitter.

13. “Ohhhhhh… THIS is why people love twitter!”

14. Join a blogging community.

15. Write your synopsis.

16. Write your query.

17. Write back cover blurbs. For the entire series of eight epic fantasies you plan on writing.

18. Have a “job” that pays you “money” for “doing stuff” that “isn’t” writing.

19. Remember Chris Farley did an SNL skit with extraneous sarcastic air quotes.

20. Look up the skit on YouTube.

21. Fall down the YouTube rabbit hole, emerging four hours later with a new-found appreciation for Nerdfighting.

22. Organize your desk.

23. Vlog.

24. Download the More Beaute2 app and edit a selfie.

25. Take way more selfies.

26. Research mundane details of your novel.

27. Fall down the Wikipedia rabbit hole, emerging five hours later with a working knowledge of pulley systems, Napoleon Bonaparte, and cheese.
28. Say it with me: NETFLIX.
29. Write your acknowledgments page.
30. Write your dedication. Make sure it’s so steeped in inside jokes that no one but the person it’s meant for can understand it.
31. Have a social life.
32. Fake a social life on Instagram.
33. Agonize over your first sentence. Minimum time spent on this task: three to four hours per day, for no fewer than nine days straight. 

34. Research agents.
35. Research editors.
36. Research movie options and rights and merchandising clauses.
37. Use imdb to cast your novel’s movie adaptation.
38. Design your own cover in Photoshop “just in case” you ever decide to self-publish.
39. Realize all the pre-installed fonts on photoshop are worthless.
40. Scour the web for the “perfect” font.
42. Worry a lot about your klout score.
43. Register for a conference.
44. Research conferences.
45. Create your own business cards to hand out at the conference.
46. Eat.
47. Exercise.
48. Sleep.
49. Be involved in your family’s life.
50. Write short stories to “break up the monotony”.
51. Create a short story event.
52. Pick a title for your book.
53. Google that title to make sure no one else has used it, or if they have, that their book sucks sufficiently for you to feel confident in outselling them someday.
54. Change your title.
55. Watch movies to “analyze” them
56. Analyze your favorite books. (Fan forums are really helpful for this)
57. Analyze your family. For research.
58. Create a Pinterest inspiration board for your book.
59. Fall down the Pinterest rabbit hole, emerging three hours later with a new commitment to health, wellness, and Nutella.
60. Make really long lists of pointless stuff.
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Julie Freaks Out About Freaking Out

TODAY’S BREW: I’ve filled a Santa hat with black coffee and I’m going to put it on and let it wash over me, Carrie-blood-style

By Julie

I’ve heard plenty of writers freaking the fuck out that because of the holidays, manic and near tears and dying inside, losing their shit like that girl in The Yellow Wallpaper.

They’re either have already lost traction on their manuscripts or are deathly afraid of doing so. I get it, you guys. I worry, too.

BUT CALM THE HELL DOWN.

I’m a sonofabitch with a self-imposed deadline. I ALWAYS meet them. Every time. And they’re pretty challenging. I never take a total break from either editing or writing fresh material, and always have a plan in the works. I know already what I’m working on for the first half of 2014.

This being said, I know I probably won’t do my duties with the RUNNING HOME sequel daily, and will probably barely touch it for a few days, and it will seem cool right now, but then I’ll come back to it on December 26th like this.

And I’ll scream like a burned-alive banshee, “FIRST I WROTE TOO MANY WORDS AND THEN NO WORDS AND THE WORDS I DID WRITE WERE STUPID AND WHAT IS THIS WHO IS THIS CHARACTER WHAT HAPPENED TO THAT PLOTLINE WHERE THE FUCK AM I OH MY GOD” *hack hack hack* until there’s nothing left but a pile of words that go together like my relatives at a cocktail party and like that party it will feel good for a few drunken moments until around 10 pm when this happens.

Then around New Year’s, I’m figuring, I’ll beat myself up about the stupid sequel I’ve finished on time, despite all the hoopla, and say it isn’t worth jack shit. I will cry at Kristen’s house over a beer or forty, kick her out of her bedroom so I can pass out there, wake up and puke around 4am, then go home and realize the sequel is actually really good. Plans continue as usual, but I will have forgotten that I did this same thing last year and everything worked out fine.

It is this way because as a writer, I don’t like fucking around with RULES all that much. I make my own, break them, get pissed at the results, cry over it, then remember that they were my rules to fuck up to begin with. I remember that there is no WRONG in art. That I can only create to destroy and do it all over again. I remember that a creative mind needs space and room to breathe, and that the two sides of the brain don’t play by each other’s rules.

Then I remember that the holidays are meant for enjoying, refueling, being a kid again, letting your self-imposed regulations go, embracing the world and letting it fill you with fresh new invigorating feelings and ideas. The time of renewal for me is not spring, never has been. Winter and fall, the death of things, the end of the year, this is my time to fall to ashes and rise again.

And those of you out there who suffer from seasonal depression, I feel you. I don’t have seasonal depression in the winter, mine comes in the summer. I loathe hot, bright and loud things, get really panicky with that much sensory overload, and basically spring and summer is my desert of the real. I have to deal with it for months. I understand that winter is the typical time for depression, and know what it feels like. I’m here to tell you that there is another side to the depression. It ends. And when it does, you’ll burst from it like a phoenix, ready to eat those emotions and spit blood all over the page with them. You’ll feel like this dude.

And a lot like this.

This time of year can be hard for many, but for a writer there can be a blackness of the soul that hides in winter, and when it comes out in the written word, it will be a glorious thing.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS, WRITERS!

I Won’t Apologize For Being A Girl

Today’s Brew: Julie’s on her way, and we better get some coffee, so help me God.

by Kristen

I consider myself a pretty strong woman. I run a business. I get things done. I’m not afraid to stand up for myself or loved ones when needed, and I’m also not afraid to ask for help. I take chances. I’ll admit when I’m wrong.

But I’m also extremely female. I love leopard print, pink, fishnets, fun boots, romance novels, cooking, and Zumba.

I’ve noticed that powerful women are expected to abandon their femininity. They wear suits, cut their hair or pull it back, don’t wear a lot of makeup, and have to forsake things that are associated with being girly.

When did being a female become equated with weakness?

This pisses me off.

There’s a huge trend towards “strong women” in literature, and I take offense with it. These are woman who are competing with the boys. They have to be unnaturally smart and are almost never sexy. They can outwit alpha males at every turn, save the day, and besides their names, you’d never know they were female.

Lucille Ball 1942,  check out that gown! Beautiful! :: Old Hollywood

Feminine and powerful.

Being sexy is powerful. It doesn’t mean being slutty. It means being comfortable in your own skin, and knowing you have something to offer. It doesn’t mean apologizing for being a woman.

Some people have bagged my heroines for not being strong. The don’t fit the current stereotype. They make mistakes, they cry. They’re not always the smartest person in the story. They get duped. But they are all strong willed and willing to fight for what they believe in.

Women love knocking each other down a peg. We aspire to standards that are impossible to achieve–either these super masculine brainy types or these sexy bombshells.  If we all want to be considered strong, we need to start with holding each other up, and recognizing being a girl doesn’t mean being weak.

 

How Not To Write Meaningless Stuff

TODAY’S BREW: Spiked Eggnog. Basically, I’ve been drinking it for a month

By Julie

I’m lucky enough to be reading THE SHADOW OF LIGHT by Summer Wier, a YA novel that I cannot wait to be published. We’re working on doing something you don’t hear much about—ADDING text, as she’s a sparse writer, something that I can identify with after writing THE HARPY and THE ANIMAL, and something I have to loosen up on in writing the sequel to RUNNING HOME, as that series is written with a bit more flourish.

Summer does a great job of still giving little details that tell you so much about  the characters without hitting you in the face with backstory and a lot of “she was this” and “she likes that.” Here’s the example that made me need to write this post:

“We brought your favorites—black olive and jalapeno pizza and strawberry cake.”  Faye was the only other person I knew who liked jalapenos on pizza.

I winked.  “You know me so well.”

This could have so easily been:

“We brought pizza and cake.” Faye loved pizza, and I didn’t care what I ate as long as it was edible.

“God, I’m starving.”

This is a tidbit that is absolutely meaningless in the long run. They got pizza and cake, whatever. But in Summer’s version, we see that our main character likes strong flavors, implying that she has strong opinions and probably isn’t a quiet onlooker about much of anything. I love the cheeky little wink. You also see that Faye is very close to her, that they know each other well without her having to say so.

In the two liner I wrote, it says nothing specific. It implies nothing, except that maybe this character is passive.

Take the interactions and transitions and seemingly unimportant lines in your work and make them actually say something. Remember the books you’ve read where you breeze over the more humdrum action, the cooking of things, the driving to places, the going to class or work or whatever. How could the author have made that part that probably bored them to write into a bit that has significance to the character?

An English literature major with a creative writing minor, I take this shit a little too seriously. It also means that I look to add depth where there could easily be none.

I do shit like this to keep me thinking. There’s a brown bowl on the table in front of me right now. I could say “I looked at the brown monkey bowl and lacked the initiative to put it in the sink again.” Or I could say, “the only reason I’d bother to put the bowl in the already sky-high sink was because the monkey on it looked at me like I was doing something wrong. Like my entire life revolved around what it thought, and like I should be doing something to wash the brown out of my life in general.”

Sure, not fucking Shakespeare, but I haven’t even had a second cup of coffee. You see what I mean, though? Of course you do, Smarty Pantalones.

Your work as an author is to write something that nobody else would have written. Not just could have written, but would have written. It’s your job to come up with stuff that makes us see inside the character’s minds and their hearts. There’s a level of thinking that you naturally let us in on, but what does the character feel without saying “it felt like I sucked at life.” You get it.

Thank you, Summer, for giving me inspiration again to write with more depth and complexity, and for learning about characters in the most obscure ways.

Here’s an idea. Try this with like, regular people. When you’re cashiering at Stop and Shop, what does the crappy Boba Fett Velcro wallet say about the guy in the suit who’s carrying it? That lady who never smiles no matter how many times you smile at her, what would make her smile? Who took it away from her?

Long story short, be active in your work and interactions. It’s more fun that way.


You can find Summer at http://t.co/MgTqtKYFe6 and follow her on Twitter @SummerWier.

Closing the Door: Finishing a Series

Today’s Brew: Pumpkin Spice. The girl at Bed Bath and Beyond told me peppermint K cups were coming and she lied to me. You can’t lie to me about peppermint anything, people.

by Kristen

***IMPORTANT UPDATE!*** I just got a call from the Friends of Plymouth Council on Aging buying presents for seniors who don’t have any family, like I had mentioned in my last post, and Radius Nursing Home, 123 South St, Plymouth, MA has a tree that you can take tags off of to buy gifts for seniors just like you would for needy kids. Even better, my phone call brought this tree to the attention of the FPCA so now they can help make sure everyone has something to open on Christmas.

***

I didn’t actually type the words “The End,” but on Tuesday night I finished writing We Own the Night, which is the last book in The Night Songs Collection.

Holy crap.

I just stared at the computer screen in shock. My writing journey began with Callie and Tristan, even before I started writing these books. I’ve had these characters with me for close to fifteen years. Some of you may know, I used versions of this story to make my mind stop racing about all the crap I had to do during the day so I could fall asleep.

It’s the strangest feeling to put these “people” away in a box under the bed and move on without them. We had all of our firsts together.

  • This was the story that I was compelled to write, and on the third try, I actually completed a manuscript.
  • I told other people I wrote a book and share these characters with people, even people I didn’t know.
  • We got representation!
  • We got rejected! I revised the story until it became the version that is available now.
  • We published together!

It’s been an incredible ride, and these characters have become a part of who I am. My life has changed in ways I never could have imagined since Julie and I  started working together towards this goal. When I read Because the Night, I can see exactly where I was when I wrote it. I was having a hard time making decisions, because I wanted something that no longer existed. As I move on the series, I see major themes that like looking in a mirror. Writing We Own the Night put me through the ringer, and I have to wonder if it was because I don’t want to say goodbye to these characters.

Unfortunately, there aren’t any hot vampire rock stars in my bed. I wish that part of the story would come true.

Of course, there’s still plenty of editing to do. I’m still doing promo on Seasons in the Sun and Because the Night. Night Moves, which will be available in March, is back from the editor. So I still have plenty of work to do with Callie, Tristan, and Blade.

I’m not going to lie. I left the door open a crack. The story is all wrapped up, but there are possibilities.  I also have a couple of stand alone books that fit in this word that star different main characters.

Even more remarkable–I managed a happy ending. If Callie can do it, we all can. 🙂

GIVEAWAY! The Darkness of Light – Advance Reader Copy

This is a killer chance to win an advanced reader copy of our good friend, Tammy Farrell’s debut novel which I am peeing my pants for a little bit. GO! Be warned: AWESOME WILL ENSUE.

Tammy Farrell

There’s a giveaway happening right now over on my facebook page Tammy Farrell, Author

Like the page, share the post, type “enter” in the comments section and BOOM! You’re entered to win a free ebook of The Darkness of Light.

The drawing will happen on Friday December 13th. It will be a lucky day for somebody! 😀

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Christmas for Everybody

Today’s brew: Still seltzer. Bubbles make me happy.

by Kristen

You might not know this about me, but I will cry over just about anything. When a song comes on my iPod that reminds me of something good or bad, and especially commercials. So when I saw this Kohl’s commercial, of course I bawled.

http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6z3yzbqjbM

It got me to thinking. Julie always adopts a kid off of a tree, and I’ve done it several times as well. Not only is someone getting presents who might not have otherwise, it feels damn good to do it. I always wind up going overboard. Last year, my little girl needed pajamas, but I wound up buying her an outfit as well. I’ve had a blast buying for little boys in the past, too.

Old people love me. It doesn’t matter how rocked out I am, senior citizens always seek me out and come talk to me. They’re fascinating. Look of pictures of people in the 60s, trailblazing, being free. Or those gorgeous 1950’s pinups.Those are today’s senior citizens. At one time, these people were just like us. I’ve spent more than my fair share of time visiting nursing homes, and I can never help but notice the people who never have anyone come and visit them. My heart breaks about it. So I thought, is there any program like the adopt a needy kid, but for seniors that didn’t have anyone?

I’m still in the middle of doing research, but in my area, so far, the answer seems to be no. This breaks my heart. I don’t care how old you are, not having anyone to celebrate Christmas with is the worst feeling in the world.

(There is an “adopt a senior” program, in which you send a check every month to cover the cost of meals on wheels and such. This upsets me, too. Could you imagine needing this program and not getting it because you can’t afford it?)

Kids believe in Santa, and it’s important to make sure they have something on that day. But Christmas is about goodwill towards others, no matter how old they are. We’re all going to get old someday, if we’re lucky. Hopefully we will be lucky enough not to be forgotten.

ConFusion, Here Comes Julie

TODAY’S BREW: Eggnog, filled with boozeahol.

By Julie

I should go to conventions. I don’t know how the rest of you folks know about all these magnificent gatherings of writerly folks from all over, what secret society you formed that you somehow think will be better without me, but I want to be the fucking treasurer of it, and I don’t want to do any math.

I LOVE CONVENTION-LIKE SETTINGS. When I became a manager for Victoria’s Secret, it was pretty much so I could go to the annual convention about all the Christmas stuff.I love it all, the milling of people, and the mingling, and the noise and the stuff. And if I don’t have to wear a suit, even better.

So, when I was asked along for the ride to ConFusion (http://confusionsf.org/) in January, I pretty instantly started with the “what will I wear” squealing and jumping up and down to talk about RUNNING HOME and be among grownups that will find me delightful. Or even these grownups.

NO. Kristen won’t be coming with me, I’m traveling by my lonesome, but meeting friends there. IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE THERE, PLEASE DO SAY SO. I WOULD LOVE TO LET YOU BUY ME SIX DRINKS.

Here’s how I get people I don’t know to buy me drinks:
*sidles up to bar*
“Oooooh, what are you drinking there? It looks good.” (Imply that it is actually the drinker that looks good if the odds are not in your favor.)
“Oh, I’m having a Willowisp Party Knocker. Can I get you one?”
*smiles charmingly* “That would be so nice.”

Use this foolproof formula as you wish. Be warned: If you don’t smile and touch the drinker’s arm, it may not work.

Anyhoo, ConFusion promises to be amazing. I greatly look forward to meeting other authors, seeing all their stuff, making a general menace of myself, and hopefully making some connections with which to ensure a lovely future for myself. This can happen in a number of ways, to small and large scale.

Though I am an animal, and the life of any party-like situation, I plan to work this crowd like a headhunter. I want to meet people, all kinds of people. I want your business cards and stuff. I want to make connections. This is showbiz, folks, and I want my name up in lights.

Questions writers get asked that drive them to drink

I cannot stress enough how I enjoyed this post.

Tammy Farrell

I’m sure any writer reading this might already know what I’m talking about. It’s those well intentioned questions non-writers ask us that turn our insides into puddles of flaming hot lava. I know those who ask me these kinds of questions mean well. And before I continue, let me say just how much I appreciate the support. I really do. But for the love of GOD! Please stop asking me these questions!

Question #1 – How is the book coming?

I’m never quite sure how to answer this one. I usually say, “Good,” and my stomach does a flip-flop. When writing a novel, it’s almost impossible to judge progress in the first draft phase. More than half of it could end up in the trash by the 2nd draft. So if I say, “Great!” Then I am setting myself up for disappointment.

The God’s honest truth is, I have no damn…

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Flash Fiction Friday: Excerpt from RUNNING AWAY, the RUNNING HOME sequel

TODAY’S BREW: Egg nog coffee! For all the best things in life.

By Julie

I’m trying to breathe here, but it isn’t really working.

I promised you all an excerpt from the Bethlem Royal Hospital scene in the sequel to RUNNING HOME, and here she is! I didn’t give you alllll of it, but hopefully enough to whet your appetite and not feel spoiled. You very briefly meet a new character who I’m inappropriately obsessed with, and see something monumental for Eliza, right when she needs it. I hope you all feel it like I do. Thanks so much for reading.

Excerpt from RUNNING AWAY

*work in progress*

“You’re a Stephen King book waiting to be written, woman,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, nodding at a matronly nurse who looked like she could use a little mental help herself. “But I have to say, I’m impressed with how you’re holding yourself together.”

I tore my eyes away from the doors at the end of the hall, suddenly curious about him. “What was it like for you the first time you fed?”

The scent of old smoke from him. I wondered if it was consuming him or giving him strength.

“Angry. Sad. I didn’t want to do it, but I had to, of course. And the man I killed wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to die.” He was quiet, but the fire in him blazed so much I thought it might singe me next to him. I couldn’t believe the expressionless people around us didn’t feel it.

We went through the set of double doors at the end of the hallway, and I saw the sign for the kitchen. It was all I could do not to run there, leaving every questioning staff member and Kieran behind. I wanted her more than anything in the world.

“You knew the man,” I said before I realized I’d said it. I was transfixed on the kitchen doors, my fangs impossible to retract.

“I did. But how did you know that?” Kieran said from next to me.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry you had to do that to your friend. It should never happen that way.”

The kitchen loomed ever closer.

“You’re creeping me out, Eliza Morgan,” he said, but I couldn’t look at him to see how much he was kidding.

We’d arrived at the kitchen doors. They were as foreboding as all the others we’d passed with droning buzz that opened them.

“Do you want me to go in there with you?” he whispered.

Clara was whistling from the other side of the dingy white doors. I put my hand on the door, and wanted to cry.

“Yes, please.”

I pushed open the door, Kieran at my side.

The hospital kitchen was a jail cell in itself. Water-stained walls brought shadows of metal pipes to life, industrial puppets clanking and banging from within. Cracks littered every ceramic tile on the walls over the sink and stove, discolored and rusty like the slop basins and trash barrels around them. The cabinets would never be white again, the window never quite clear. One wall was cement, blackened in spots with age and damage. Every corner underneath the rusty metal work surfaces was brown with leakage and dirt that could never be hidden. Nobody may be looking there, but the grunge seeped onto the floor, as old as the horror that lived here. It was vacant of scent, not like any kitchen should be; there was no soup boiling, or cooking meat wafting through the air, or even cleaning fluid. Empty. The huge window over the sink housed a sadly spinning fan at the top, high enough that an inmate couldn’t reach it to escape.

And under that streaked window that looked out to nowhere, a gleaming thing in the yellowing disease of this place. Clara stood with her back to us, humming sweetly as her body gently shook with the scrubbing of dishes. Stacks more waited for the same. Stacks had already been done. And still, she hummed, despite the relentless filth here.

“Clara,” I said, not with a whisper. There was nothing to hide from her.

She spun on us, the whites of her eyes the brightest thing I’d seen in London.

“Oh,” she said, her fear spreading to a welcoming smile. She dried her hands as she walked towards us, her shapeless skirt swishing around her, and wiped a tendril of orange-ish frizz out of her eye. “I wasn’t expecting any visitors.” She positively glowed with simple happiness that was too good for the hospital, and yet so desperately necessary.

I hated what I was going to do, and wanted it even still.

“We aren’t really here to visit, Clara,” I said, looking as hard into her eyes as I could while her heart still beat.

Her eyes slid between me and Kieran. Panic set in, making her back away. God only knew the kind of danger she’d found herself in this place. But I would be the last danger she faced.

“What do you want? I don’t have anything,” she pleaded. Kieran was shuffling his feet in my peripheral vision, rubbing his fingers together, wishing he had a cigarette I was sure.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, not knowing what else to say. She laughed at him. She may be sweet, but she wasn’t stupid.

But within a beat of her heart, her shoulders relaxed, and she stopped backing away. She looked at me, confused, but becoming less afraid, until there was no fear there at all. I made to walk slowly to her, but realized that was a human thing to do, a human thing that would frighten her again, make her think I was trying to diffuse the situation.

So I pictured myself next to her, and I was. She gasped, but her eyes remained unafraid as she met mine.

“That smell—“ she muttered.

“What do you smell?” I said. So, this was my first thrall. Designed especially for my victim.

She breathed in deep. “Peonies.”

I went cold at the mention of Kat’s favorite scent, the one she wore no matter what the season or event. Clara reminded me of her; the decided obliviousness to the cruelties around them. That light in them that created happiness wherever they went. Tears sprung to my eyes, and I touched Clara’s hair, remembering Kat’s red locks, and thought Clara’s might be that beautiful if she had the mind to bother with it.

“Clara, I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do.”

Her eyes welled with tears, and something in me responded.

“My mother had peony perfume,” she said quietly. It was hard to say who was more mesmerized, her or me. She gasped suddenly, a tiny noise. “And when she smelled just like that,” she said, pointing her finger at me, “a mix of lemon pie and peonies, I knew she had something bad to tell me. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, she put on a squirt of her perfume, and made me a lemon pie. She hated that pie, said it wasn’t sweet enough. I told her I had all the sweet I needed when I smelled her perfume and saw her smile. We were alone, you see. Always alone, and she was so sick. I loved her more than anything. Even when she had to tell me bad things.”

My throat was thick with tears I couldn’t bear to shed for her. I wanted to hold her, and kill her.

“You have bad things to tell me right now, don’t you?” she asked, entranced.

I closed my eyes ever so briefly, and hoped she had wonderful love in life. I hoped she wouldn’t remember how awful I was in her last breath. I wished it wasn’t all my fault. Kat, I wish it wasn’t all my fault.

“I forgive you,” she said.

And with a roar that deafened only me, I plunged my fangs into her neck.

 

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