Deadly Ever After

Archive for the tag “Jered meyer”

My Writing Process about Juuuuuulie

TODAY’S BREW: Margaritas. From the second I awake. I’m probably drunk now.

By Julie

I met the fantastically delicious Mary Lynne Gibbs, author of  JERICHO RISING, at Penguicon when we both exhibited the same bewildered and exhausted face that said we needed to be friends. She’s a kick ass vampire author and actor and I think I had a dream about us hanging out together at the end of the world. It was awesome. Go check out her stuff at http://t.co/nwzs2a2NiL and follow the young lady on the old Twitter machine at @MaryLGibbs. Aaaaanywho, she asked me to participate in this writing process blog, and you guys know me—happy to yap my flapper about my work, so here goes!
WHAT AM I WORKING ON?

I’m uber protective of the book I’m working on right now. Never felt like this about my books before. It even has secret Pinterest boards so I can hoard all the ideas for myself. But FINE, I AGREED, SO HERE. It’s a young adult novel called THE WIND BETWEEN WORLDS, about 5 witches from 5 warring families that are indebted to tether The Chains–the veil over the world that hides magic from humanity and prevents the demons of The Gone from invading Earth.  When the Demon Prince who’s the 7th son of a 7th son comes to power he shows the witches that oppression is in the eye of the beholder, and power takes many forms.

HOW DOES MY WORK DIFFER FROM OTHERS OF ITS GENRE?

This is my first YA novel and I’m looking forward to giving some complexity in the way the young witches think of their parents. There’s a fine line between the normal rules given to them as teenagers and the form of slavery they’re subjected to. It’s dark, but uplifting, hopefully thought provoking and very romantic, with a little bit of a Shakespearian prettiness thrown in there. I want it to be as layered as the teenage mind is, and isn’t always given credit for.

WHY DO I WRITE WHAT I DO?

I write urban fantasy because I love to see the ordinary made extraordinary. I love supernatural characters with very human choices to make. I love characters that don’t have black and white lives, and who never do exactly the right thing, because there is never a right thing for them or anyone else. I want to feel like there’s something more out there, while still being very grounded in reality. Urban fantasy for me is creating the most realistic superheroes ever.

HOW DOES YOUR WRITING PROCESS WORK?

This novel is different in that I’m actually OUTLINING. Though the novel will be in the point of view of the Witch of Stars, Celeste, I like to write books where the secondary characters think it’s about them, and this book is going to be a shining example of it because what teenager isn’t fighting for their voice to be heard? I need to know every one of these incredible witches/teenagers and the way they see the world in order to make the complete story perfect. I’m making a huge inspiration board that involves all of the witches and my Demon Prince, Lux, so that I can see all of them in one place, and how their characteristics work together. I have a monster 5 subject notebook to get every detail into. I have a separate (secret) Pinterest board for each character and one for the novel as a whole. I need this world to scream REAL and that can only be done with a lot of forethought and research. Then I dive into 1000 word a day diet.

The Witch of Stars, my MC

Celeste, The Witch of Stars

Next week I picked 3 gorgeous authors to tell us about their work. SO YOU GO FIND THEM:

Carey Torgensen, “The Torg,” is a long time friend, and the author of THE PRINCESS PARADOX, coming out in December. She loves writing kiss scenes a lot. Like a lot. And she’s always asking me to Jell-O  wrestle. I always say yes. @CareyTorg on Twitter.

seattletfiles.blogspot.com

 

Jered Meyer is probably the most hilarious person in Alaska, as exhibited by his live tweeting of Dora the Explorer and his terrible job. But he’s also brilliantly complex and sweet and has a helluva voice, and is just a wonderful friend. Go buy his books or I’ll hurt you. http://t.co/IznHZS93B3 and check out his blog which is better than ours a little. http://t.co/dCDa75nRTv @The_KJM on Twitter.

 

And I feel sorta awesome about making you check out Erik Hofstatter, whose MORIBUND TALES is getting killer reviews: “These tales of dark fiction have a true Gothic style tone to them, with influences from Poe and Stoker very much alive, mixed with the writer’s own unique twist.” – The Strange and the Curious 
He’s also a martial artist, making him better than most people, and I just plain like him very much. Go check out his blog http://t.co/9WPsxmmLGu and MORIBUND TALES http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00GACB9ZC?ie=UTF8&camp=213733&creative=393177&creativeASIN=B00GACB9ZC&linkCode=shr&tag=booofthedeapr-20&qid=1393108112&sr=8-1&keywords=Erik+Hofstatter+Moribund+Tales.

 

 

 

 

 

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Flash Fiction Friday: IN A PINCH by Jered Meyer

TODAY’S BREW: This peppermint mocha just might happen today.

By Julie

IT’S FLASH FICTION FRIDAY! Today’s author, Jered Meyer, is best known on Twitter for his rogueish handsomeness and his ability to say what we’re all thinking during his live tweets of Dora the Explorer. Underneath the hilarity is an introspective, thoughtful and complex, romantic guy that knows a thing or two about writing. His novel, WAYPOINT is in my filthy little clutches, and in honor of his alcoholism, so is a beer. NOW GO GET ONE OF HIS BOOKS YOUR DAMN SELF, SUPPORT AN AUTHOR. http://t.co/JV6f7EswK1. And follow him on Twitter because you can’t even picture how funny he is. @The_KJM.

Now, enjoy his first dive into horror! I GOT HIM TO DO IT.

IN A PINCH

 

His left hand gripped the edge of the porcelain sink, thumb tracing under the lip of the basin. His right wiped at the bathroom mirror. None of the spots disappeared. Pale pink drops of dried toothpaste that stood in stark contrast to the brown-red rust creeping along the metal frame. He should clean it soon. Would clean it soon, as soon as he got to it, another home project for the list that he never had enough time to attack.

He never had time for anything anymore, it seemed. Not even family.

His son had been asleep by the time he’d gotten home from work, worn out on chocolate milk and cartoon marathons about fantastic monsters and talking animals up to no good. After kissing him and making sure his blankets were tucked in tight around him, he had gone downstairs and paid Kimberly her hourly rate plus a few extra bucks for babysitting on such short notice.

She was a sweet thing. Eighteen, dark hair. Watching kids to help save for her upcoming freshman year of college. Filling out still, blossoming into a beautiful young woman. Maybe in a year or two, he could-

Tight. His eyes closed tight and he frowned hard enough to make the bridge of his nose throb. He never would have thought of Kim that way before Anna divorced him. She didn’t deserve to be considered like that. He made a note not to hire her again.

From the bathroom to the bedroom he went, closing both doors behind him. Tie loosened, hung from the rack he had next to the door. Dress shirt unbuttoned, tossed onto the closet floor. Slacks undone, dropped into a puddle by the nightstand. Socks…who knows where they went, thrown haphazardly as he climbed into the comfort of bed. The satin sheets were slick and cool under his skin. The matching pillowcase soothed his headache.

In moments, he was asleep.

Something pinched the back of his neck. His eyes fluttered open and he looked around blearily. He sat up, pulling the blankets around his hips and rubbed at the base of his skull.

A sliver of light crept into his room and he realized with a start that his door was cracked open. He had closed it, hadn’t he? He had. He always did. A cursory glance around his chambers revealed him to be alone. But then…

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. His fingers scratched at his stomach as a yawn escaped him, and then he journeyed out into the hallway.

Save for the two bulbs in the hall, the lights in the house were extinguished. No noises drifted from the darkness of the building. It seemed almost normal. Almost.

“Skyler?” he called out as he neared his son’s room. The boy’s bedroom door was closed. There were no sounds of stirring. No response to his voice. “Hey, buddy? You okay?”

His fingers touched the doorknob and a shock of cold caused him to jerk his hand back. He looked around, bemused. The rest of the house was warm, almost uncomfortably so. The thermostat was always set at a decent enough sixty degrees, but tonight it seemed closer to seventy.

He gripped the doorknob again, prepared this time for the chill. It never came. The metal in his palm felt perfectly normal. Slowly, he turned it and pushed the door in.

“Skyler?” he called again. “Are you awake?”

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and when they did, he found they could only take in one piece at a time. The room was quiet. The twin bed in the right corner was empty, the sheets made neatly. The thin curtains on the window were only partially drawn and a pale light shone through, casting a light blue patch to glow on the floor.

A chair was in the corner opposite the bed. A chair? He had never put a chair in the room. There had been no reason to. His gut filled with lead. A slender figure sat in the seat, holding his son. A woman. She had light hair that hung down to her shoulders with no direction.

“Anna,” he whispered. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night. You’re not supposed to pick Skyler up until this weekend.”

The woman didn’t respond. She sat, still, clutching the young boy to her chest.

He moved closer, concerned and more than a little angry. It was presumptuous of her to just show up in his home. It would confuse their son and it had scared the shit out of him. Five steps took him directly before her.

“Give him to me, Anna. Let me put Skyler back to bed.”

She looked up at him without a word. The noise that burst from his throat was technically a moan, but it registered at a decibel generally reserved for screams. Her face was no face at all, but a veiny,yellow slab of flesh. There was no protrusion that resembled a nose. Where her eyes and mouth should have been were instead perfectly round holes. The meat around them throbbed and they oozed some thick mixture of pus and blood.

With urgency, he yanked his son from the arms of the monster. He stepped quickly back, towards the center of the room. The creature in the chair stayed seated, silent, exhibiting no signs of distress at having the boy stolen from her.

He held his boy out from him, just enough to look him in the eyes and assure him they would be okay, that they were leaving, escaping the house. The eyes, sky blue, looked back and forth into his own, animated, meaty and with no sense of worry. The rest of the child was made from a material not unlike the porcelain of the bathroom sink. More durable. Lacquered wood, perhaps. It hung limply in his hands.

An anguished wail ripped through the room and he tossed the thing aside. It hit the floor near the bed, the doll-creature’s neck slapping against the frame holding the mattress in place. The head fumbled away and black ichor sprayed from the neck stump over his son’s bed and and the wall behind it.

Mind scrambling, he turned away from the whirlwind of evil that had consumed his child’s room. He darted for the door and slammed face-first into the wall. Frantically, he searched for the exit, but the same wallpaper – light green with wide-eyed Japanese cartoon characters plastered on it in repeating patterns – extended unbroken all around him.

He screamed in frustration and beat at the wall, the barrier separating him from the peace he had felt only moments before. He begged for an escape.

Something pinched his neck.

With a long, desperate gasp of air, his head raised from the bed. His eyes were open so wide it almost hurt. He looked both ways, chest pounding, searching and finding nothing. The walls were clean, soft and white. The floor was the same, but linoleum instead of wood. The door, closed, set at the foot of his bed. Normal. Perfectly normal.

His wrists were wet. He looked down and saw that he had rubbed them so raw against the restraints that a small amount of blood had begun to stream through. It stung, but it was not an unfamiliar occurrence.

He laid back on the sterile, rolling bed they had assigned to him and closed his eyes. His heart-beat began to even out. There would be someone to take care of him come morning.

Thank God, he thought. Just a nightmare.

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