"Outside, the wind stirred. All was silent. In the house, the girl was lying on the sofa, one foot resting on the arm, the other flat on the floor. Her eyes were closed. But she was still dead.
She was young. She was special. She was rare. A “trainer”, they would have called her. Hers was a soul that could rival others. Hers was a soul that would have ferried others into the afterlife. Psychopomp. There could be only one. But, now, it belonged to him.
Her last breath had asked for death. Death because she was ridiculed, outcast from society – they’d said she was “weird”. In exchange for her soul, she wished to be eternally consumed.
No one would find her. He would make her body disappear in a lake or a forest. His hands had been stained with earth and blood before.
A pool of blood. Wide staring eyes. No, that was his death – the death of his body.
He flitted around the room, trying to decide his next move. A light flickered. His pulse leapt. He touched the light switch; nothing happened.
And yet, another soul.
No! He wouldn’t! Not again! Not anymore!
But that glimpse of a forgotten energy... The feeling of so much power coursing through him. He would add her soul to the ones he’d inherited already. Countless. Never-ending.
It was bittersweet. He wept. But the wondrous power overwhelmed him. Her screams would never subside. He would hear them always in his dreams.
Her soul was sweet. It sustained him for hours. And when hunger was satisfied, he retired to his loneliness. What had become of him? What he had been before, he was again.
That was the opening to my most recent project. I'm trying something new; a new style to dredge up the old. I personally think it's worth a gander, don't you?
Now, on to more important things.
I am a writer. When I tell people this, they say, "Oh, cool! A writer! Wow!"
Of course, I don't have the heart to tell them that writing isn't all fun and games. On a good day, I still sit in front of the computer for upwards of four hours without any human contact except the occasional quip from my husband about how I'm "spending too much damn time on that laptop".
Yes, I love writing. I love coming up with ideas, dialogue, characters that break and warm my heart. But this isn't something I merely want to do. I have to do it.
What comes to mind is a line from The Godfather. "This is the business we have chosen!"
Yeah, I chose it, and it makes me want to pull out my hair sometimes. I spend months and months writing, researching, and editing a book. Then, I spend several more months writing, tailoring, and editing a query. Then, I spend a year sending that query to agents, only to obtain "Dear Author" rejection letters from agents who are too busy to bother with another Young Adult Paranormal Fantasy. Puh.
Well, in the words of my Facebook friend, Jason Duke, "I can't wait for the day when a publisher makes me an offer I can't refuse."