Teaser: Parabellum

In a few days, I will be releasing book two in the Thirty Minutes to Heartbreak books. I am very excited about this one, and thought I would share this teaser from the beginning of the novel. Just to warn you... things may get a little steamy. ;) Literally.

Chapter 1: Between Mountain and Metropolis

        In the dip of the crater on Mount St. Helens, massive cracks began to appear in the solidified magma. Soft molten rock began to lift and swell, becoming engorged like living flesh. The pressure from the hot liquid rising below provoked undulations in the once motionless, solid surface. What had been flat and lifeless landscape now ballooned upward, a breast expanding with quivering breaths. To an onlooker, if anyone had been unfortunate or blessed enough to be looking on, the pulsations in the growing dome might have resembled the mountain’s heartbeat—racing with the excitement of approaching release.

        With a sound like a sigh, a thin white plume was released from the crest of swollen rock, sending ribbons of hot ash billowing up into the air. A growing fracture began to form in the apex, from which more and more steam was emitted, spurting thousands of feet into the atmosphere. The rupture rapidly expanded, allowing the first drops of bubbling lava to trickle from its creases.

        A woman’s hand abruptly broke through the crack in the rock. More steam immediately surrounded the lime green fingernails which just barely poked out of the seam. The fingers began to flex and writhe as they clawed at the crevice. A second hand smashed through the fissure, feeling around tentatively. If one could have seen through the thick steam, they would have noted the woman’s dark copper skin, slender fingers, and several eclectic rings with multicolored gemstones. The hands thrashed around in distress as lava bubbled up around small wrists, hot enough to boil rock, but apparently not the tender skin of this human being.

        Finally, emitting an ethereal silvery glow, the two hands paused—they firmly gripped the sides of the gap and worked in unison to forcibly rip the rock apart. A forearm followed, elbow resting on the surface to help push the woman’s torso through the crack, and when her head was above the surface she gasped for oxygen hungrily. Crawling along the surface away from the crevice, she panted as she rested gratefully on a firmer portion of the crater—the bright light surrounding her entire body intensified. When the mountain continued to hiss, teeming with pressure from below, she struggled to rise to her feet.

        Stumbling as she limped to the edge of the mountain, the woman leaned weakly against a jagged portion of rock that jutted out along the rim of the crater. The translucent white blaze which hugged her curves like an outline began to fade. She coughed as she inhaled some of the hot grey ash that was spewing out of the volcano’s mouth. She glanced up at the steamy plume with dismay, and looked down at her damaged lime-green jumpsuit. She began hastily brushing ash and clumps of drying lava from her bizarre garment. 

        “I am never doing that again,” she vowed.

        Jumping off the edge of the crater, the woman began to levitate slowly toward the ground. She interlocked her arms across her chest and frowned at the skyline of a city visible to the north. In the blink of an eye, she propelled her body across the dozens of miles between the mountain and the metropolis. She now hovered above a busy intersection, staring down in confusion.

        “Is this Seattle?” she whispered as she lowered herself to the sidewalk. “Looks different without piles of dead bodies in the streets.” She ignored the judgmental looks as pedestrians strolling by examined her oddly vibrant, neon-green outfit. When a grandmother pulled her small child away protectively, and the young boy stared up at her with his mouth in a little O-shape of surprise, the woman growled. She reached up to touch her curly black hair to check if it was out of place. Finding nothing wrong with her appearance, she made her way to a payphone.

        Staring at the machine in bewilderment for a moment, she seemed to be trying to remember how to use it. Mumbling a few numbers under her breath, she lifted a hand. Her fingers paused slightly in front of the phone, not making contact, but causing the receiver to float toward her ear and mouth. Numbers on the keypad began to depress automatically, and the payphone reacted as though coins had been inserted, beginning the call. After a few rings, a polite, professional voice filtered through the receiver.

        “Kalgren Technological Enterprises, CEO’s office. Nina speaking. How may I help you?”

        “I was supposed to meet with Thorn Kalgren an hour ago!” The young woman in the green bodysuit acted convincingly annoyed. “God, he still hasn’t shown up and I can’t sit here all day—I have other appointments!”

        “The CEO is a busy man and he seems to be occupied with some sort of emergency. I apologize—I’ve been cancelling his meetings for the day, but I must have missed yours—who is calling, please?”

        “It insults me that you even have to ask,” she told the secretary. “Never mind—is Thorn’s sister available? Amara should be able to help me.”

        “I’m afraid Miss Kalgren isn’t in the office today either. Is this about one of her inventions? I could forward you to her department manager…”

        “No, no.” The dark-skinned woman chewed on her lip thoughtfully. “This is a matter of some delicacy, Nina. I need to speak to a Kalgren directly—is Rose available?”

        Nina seemed to hesitate. “Thorn’s mother is retired. Sorry, ma’am, who did you say you were? If you’re from the tax office, I can forward you to the financial…”

        “No! Is Pax Burnson there?”

        “Why, no.” The secretary paused. “In fact, I don’t believe she’s involved in any current projects. Thornton recently broke up with his girlfriend, you see.”

        “What?” the young girl shouted. This seemed to bother her more than the volcanic lava. She tried to regain composure after slipping out of character. “Well, what about Asher Burnson? Any of the Burnsons really.”

        “I highly doubt the Burnsons would be able to assist you with Kalgren Tech company issues. If you just call back tomorrow, I am sure we can schedule you another appointment. I’ll mention to the CEO that you called.”

        “No!” the woman in the lime jumpsuit hissed. “Where the hell is he? I’m going to kill your boss.”

        “Uh… excuse me?” Nina’s voice faltered.

        “All of them. I’m going to kill all of them.” The woman turned her back on the payphone and it promptly exploded behind her. People traversing the Seattle sidewalks began to shriek when she levitated several meters off the pavement. The girl ignored the attention and swept her body up into the air, moving away from onlookers in a fraction of a second. Her slender silhouette barreled through the air so briskly that she was just a kiwi-colored blur. Finally, she landed in the middle of a forest clearing before a massive Victorian manor.

        “Burnson Grove,” she muttered. She had been hoping to see several cars in the driveway, signifying that the Kalgrens were visiting. Instead, she could tell without entering that the house was empty. She could not detect any formidable life forces within the walls of the mansion, and the Burnsons and Kalgrens were all strong enough that they would have been easy to detect. “Damnation,” she swore, glancing to the west. Her eyes narrowed angrily. “They’re in India. I should have known.”

        Before the final word had left her mouth, her toned body exploded into the sky—a sleek missile launched to a distant destination, sure to wreak carnage upon arrival. 

Aazuria's Dance

This is a piece of writing I did several months ago and tucked away in a folder to gather dust. I am rather fond of the concept, so I've decided to share it with my readers. In my first novel, Drowning Mermaids, we begin by looking inside the mind of Captain Trevain Murphy as he watches a mysterious woman dance on stage. I thought it might be fascinating to take a peek backstage, and see the same scene from the mind of the dancer. I considered including this in the main story, since it's "canon" and could have actually happened, but I realized that it might reveal too much about the characters far too soon, disrupting the whole element of mystery in the beginning of the story.
So, this is solely for your enjoyment. Hope you like it!
~Nadia       

---

 Aazuria's Dance

      Her cheek grazed her knee as she waited backstage, doing simple stretches. A woman with large fake breasts tottered by shakily on towering heels, sending her a suspicious glare. Aazuria was stricken by the disproportionate size of the woman's breasts with respect to the rest of her emaciated body; she remembered something Sionna had told her about new procedures which augmented certain physical attributes. It was fascinating, but not really of much significance to her, and she returned to pressing her forehead flush against her leg.
       The carpet under her bare legs was rough and abrasive. She imagined that it was already leaving ugly scratches on her newly-tanned skin. As she straightened slowly from the stretch, she stared at the unfamiliar color of her knee. She missed being underwater. More women strolled by, sending her more suspicious and disdainful looks. Aazuria sighed to herself, and continued stretching. A redheaded woman burst into the room, strutting buoyantly on her shoes as though she hardly noticed she was wearing them. Her whole body was finely muscled, and her height was intimidating; at six feet tall she towered over the other women in the room who barely came up to her chin. Her pleasant laughter rang out loudly in the dressing room.
       "For Sedna's sake! Zuri, you really don't need to stretch. Don't bother giving this any effort! It's supposed to be a low-class, inferior form of entertainment." The redhead turned to the women who had been watching Aazuria with airs of superiority and glared at them. She flung her hand towards the exit as she barked an order, "Skedaddle, bitches."
       The women quickly complied. Aazuria smiled at her protectress. "It is not worth doing unless it is done properly, Visola."
       "Then show me how it's done, Princess," Visola said with a wink. "I'll be watching."
       "You have always been watching," Aazuria said fondly. She heard the first few notes of her song begin, and she bolted to her feet nervously. "Well, here I go."
       "Break a le—"
       "I would much rather not." When Aazuria pushed past the beaded curtains, she felt the music seeping into her bones. Her eyes were downcast as she ascended the stairs, feeling a strange sense of simultaneous nervousness and excitement. She had always been confident in her dancing technique—she had studied various styles on various continents, and she had practiced for hundreds of years. She usually trained in water, and it was far more difficult to dance in water than it was on land. By all accounts, this should be a cinch.
       The familiar vocals began, and Aazuria plunged her limbs into motion. Indescribable sensations of loveliness washed over her, as they always did when she began dancing, reaching her lips to settle there in a smile. Finally, she turned to gauge the reaction of her onlookers.
       The audience was a sea of eyes. Adoring eyes of those seeking something from her dance which she would never be able to give them. They were seeking the things which they did not really need. They sought sex and excitement or momentary stimulation, but her every gesture and expression, her every step, was dancing in homage to something transcendent and everlasting.
       Slowly, the audience was pulled out of the realm of their own expectations and into the realm of her creation. Yes, she could hold them spellbound with a little help from the haunting sound of her sister's recorded voice. Aazuria was strong enough to guide them all—she had always been in a position of leadership, and this was no different. She created the atmosphere, she poured her personality and her principles into it, and she invited them inside for a moment to glimpse the décor of her soul. She felt like she was challenging their roughness with her grace, and ultimately, she was winning. She was overpowering them.
       She spun, and spun, and felt windborne. There was an impossible fire within her which seemed to radiate forth from her limbs. All of the elements coalesced in her emotions; as always, she felt far greater than herself when she danced.
       She was in complete control. The stage was hers, the audience was hers, and time was hers. She could bend it and make the moment last an instant or a lifetime, depending on her whim. She was in complete control until he looked up from his drink. She was thrown by unmistakable shine of intelligence she saw glinting at her from across the room in a pair of sad green eyes. Her chest constricted at the sight which hit her like a tidal wave and nearly knocked her off her feet. All she could do was hang on for dear life, as she pushed her body onto automatic mode. At the same time, she became doubly conscious of her motions. She tried a little harder, knowing that there was at least one person in the room who could discern the quality of her movements.
       The rest of her dance flew by in a blur that she could barely remember. Her heart was beating unusually quickly under the fine scrutiny. Every moment she could justifiably spare was spent glancing at or staring into the green eyes of the man at the other end of the room. He was probably the person sitting farthest away from her, concealed in an extremely dark-lit corner. Luckily, her vision, especially in the dark, was better than most. There were dozens of men, probably handsome young admirers, clustered around the stage; she was not sure why her attention was held rapt by the pair of distant, shining eyes.
       As the world spun, those green eyes were a solid island. How sweetly they shone, and how firmly they were grounded. She could not resist being drawn to them as a windswept ship eagerly seeks a harbor. She could not resist the immediate intimacy that was provoked in her chest, completely unbidden and unanticipated.
       When she had finished her dance and retreated backstage, she stood naked against a wall, trying to calm her racing heart. Excitement flowed through her with a huge burst of energy, somehow laced with triumph. The audience had loved her; she had sensed it. She felt strangely affirmed by this; she was by no means a young woman anymore, despite her smooth skin and outward appearance.
       But that man! She closed her eyes as she leaned against the wall, remembering his gaze.
       "How was it?" came a soft voice from the shadows. It was Visola, of course. The red-haired warrior never strayed far from Aazuria's side.
       "Oh, Viso," she said, her chest heaving with exhilarated breaths. "It was divine. There was a man…"
       "There were many men, darling."
       "Yes, but this one… his eyes were shining."
       "Be careful. Minimal interaction, remember? We make our money and get out," Visola said sternly. She paused, studying her friend. "What did this man look like?"
       Aazuria tried to picture his face, and she frowned as her mind faltered. She could not remember a single attribute of the man—not his skin, his height, his hair, or clothing. Nothing came to mind. But burned into her memory was his peculiar pair of emerald eyes, and the strange feeling which they had stirred in her breast.
       "I do not know," she said in confusion.
       "Well, go find out," Visola encouraged, nudging Aazuria playfully. "Remember, the most important part of a man's appearance is the girth of his…"
       "Visola!"
       "…wallet."

Novels Poop Too

Sometimes I feel like I should have a cool job description similar to "Biosolids Management Specialist."

One of the most important writing strategies I've developed is a simple and easy trick, but it has been essential to my progress. I learned to let go of chunks of the story that aren't working, while still preserving them in case they're needed later, by saving them in a file marked "crap." This wasn't a meticulously chosen file name, (more of an instantaneous, first-thing-that-came-to-mind choice I quickly typed before returning to writing) but upon reflection it was actually quite apt. When you've poured your time, energy, and emotion into a few paragraphs, it can hurt like hell to dispose of them-- despite the fact that you recognize that they stink. I mean, they "exceed the odor threshold."

I used to spend copious amounts of time feeling awful, guilty, and foreboding about selecting several lines and pressing backspace. I would try to memorize the words in case I changed my mind and wanted to revert to them later. Often times I would try to get back to the previous version, and I would not be able to remember what I had lost. Sometimes I've made so many changes that desperately slamming CTRL + Z (Undo) does not help in the least.

The trick to writing is preserving everything. I am a compulsive chronicler with neatly-organized archives of just about everything important in my life. If you asked me to find a photograph I took of my best friend in 2002, or any other year, I could find it in seconds. The same goes for letters we wrote to each other. Everything I've ever received has been scanned and tucked away neatly in my gigabytes. Documents, photographs, letters, mementos.

Angry, vicious breakups with internet boyfriends are stored away in files with cool names like "LastConvoWithHim," or "LetterofResignation." I believe the urge to archive is a librarian-type mindset that readers and writers have. This is why I was finding that every time I needed to delete something I froze up and felt like I hit a roadblock. I didn't know what to do, and I panicked, trying to hold on to my words before I lost them permanently. It was definitely interfering with moving forward.

Once I realized what I was doing, I began to keep a second file open beside my main writing file. I copied and pasted everything significant I decided to delete in the "crap" file. It seems like such a basic step, but it has been a huge help in speeding up my writing and allowing me focus. I often tend to go back to sift through passages I "dumped" in the "crap" file and have managed to work them into the story at more appropriate parts. I occasionally manage to recycle a certain phrasing here and there, turning my crap into "regulated organic nutrients," sprinkling the story with fertilizing manure created from its own excretions.

Sorry, I'll stop. It's just such a fun metaphor, yanno? Like any living thing, novels poop too.


Each story I write generates a new "crap" file which usually has about 10% of the volume of the entire story. For a 100K-word novel, I usually have 10K words that I could have used instead, but chose not to. That's a lot of crap. But that's the point of writing, isn't it? We spend our time pulling out the weeds to make the lawn perfectly manicured. We cut the rough stone of the diamond down into the polished, faceted gem. (Except we do that while submerged in our stories, letting our actual lawns grow wild and diamonds go unpolished.)


There are a few other tiny technical writing strategies I use. For example, I have updated the Autosave feature on Word so that it saves my writing once a minute. That way, I'm never worried about losing anything if my computer crashes, or an evil villain shows up and presses the power button. Also, I back up all my writing in a Dropbox folder, so that if the evil villain uses a hammer to smash my computer into pieces, or breathes dragonfire onto the machine and melts my hard drive, it doesn't matter. I'll just raise an eyebrow and tell him that his efforts to defeat me were weak and unsuccessful. (If he gets angry at this and decides to kill me, and if for some reason I can't defend myself while simultaneously cracking puns like Buffy, I generally have one "writing heir" appointed at all times. He or she will know the password to my Dropbox and will be able to retrieve my files and finish and publish my stories. Once they finish avenging me, of course.)

So, dear writers, may you engage in waste disposal with finesse. And, dear readers, be assured that you will only ever get to see the good stuff! Unless you're the kinky type. Then feel free to contact me and I can send you the raw, filthy, novel-poop for you to enjoy in any way you like. Just don't tell me the details, please. 

Thirty Minutes to Heartbreak: The Beginning

It was about 1.5 years ago that I began Thirty Minutes to Heartbreak, and at first, it was not one of my more carefully planned projects. It was January 2011 and I had recently gone through a tough time. I had not been able to go to work, leave my apartment for any reason, see friends, or do much of anything for several months. I spent all my timing reading and writing to escape. I imagine this isn't too special, and many people have episodes like this. A contributing factor may have been that my boyfriend of 4 years had just left me under unpleasant circumstances.

The first three chapters began gushing out without my permission, even somewhat to my dismay. I was surprised (and fascinated) with how much the story was focused on revenge, and how petty and vindictive the characters seemed-- but the story had three unusual qualities for my writing: it was fun, sexy, and twisted. I sat on the chapters for a while, nervous and uncertain about whether anyone would like them. Finally, I released them on my usual writing website, and the response was incredibly positive. I was encouraged to continue, and only then did I allow myself to begin consciously making long-term plans for the rest of the story.

I was insanely relieved-- the fact that others were already enjoying the story I desperately wanted to write gave me the permission and excuse I needed to keep going. I had no money, and I had just moved out of home and begun renting an apartment. I had just graduated and I was in huge debt to student loans and credit cards. The circumstances were not ideal for writing, but nonetheless, I could not stop. So, in my little basement apartment in High Park (a rather pretty, forested area of Toronto) I worked for countless hours, completely immersed in this story. It was dark underground, and I had heavy curtains, so I lost track of time and never knew whether it was day or night. It was exactly what I needed to temporarily forget while simultaneously rubbing my face directly in what ailed me; a healing balm and self-punishment all wrapped up in one.

From January to April I did nothing but working on Thirty Minutes. I paid my rent with my credit cards and tried to ignore my mounting debt. Nothing else was important but that story and doing everything in my power to entertain and impress the readers. They gave me much-needed validation and I literally lived for good reviews; I couldn't find happiness or self-worth in anything else. Hours were spent just chatting with fans and trying to determine the mechanics of the story. What portion was science and what portion was magic? Hours were spent addressing how to redeem the characters. But most of all, readers told me that it made them feel. I was obsessed.

Here's the thing: it was merely fanfiction. It was a story I NEVER intended to publish. I wrote it because I physically could not make myself do anything else. Readers began to shower me with kudos, suggesting that I publish. I can't tell you how many people sent me articles about Amanda Hocking, and how many people told me that I had surpassed their previous favorite authors and they enjoyed my work more than "real books." This stunned me. I had been writing incessantly since I was a kid, but the level of praise I was receiving was new. I always knew I would need to be a writer someday, but was I finally good enough? Maybe someday was finally here.

I was 22, miserable and dirt poor, but a spark of confidence was ignited in me. Just like the woman I was writing about, Para, I began to change and grow. When I began writing Thirty Minutes I was broken and unsure, but after a three-month marathon, my mind had been completely sharpened and refreshed. I felt like anything was possible-- I felt capable of conquering the world. So I did.

After a period of withdrawal, I often feel the need to come out swinging harder than ever to compensate. That's how I work-- I'm not consistent, but I'm lethal in brief spurts of productivity. I made a goal to fix my financial troubles, and over the course of the summer I completely turned my life around. I told myself that once I was able to fix my living situation and save up a few dollars, I could return to writing with peace of mind. And I did. By November I was able to buy my first house, and I achieved this while being disciplined enough to write consistently. Throughout all I did, the story was my priority.

There was one line I happened to write in Thirty Minutes that inspired all of the Sacred Breath Series. It was a scene where one of my male characters is observing his ex-girlfriend through a viscose green liquid, and he imagines that she looks like a drowned mermaid. He's a bit of a silly character, and he dwells on the thought for some time, imagining the details of whether a mermaid could drown and whether it had gills or lungs like other aquatic mammals.

I spent so much time thinking about this story. I drove from Toronto to Chicago and back three times last year (9 hours each way) and each trip was filled with visions of the characters unfolding in my mind. I played out scenes hundreds of times, sometimes tweaking the tiniest details. It was never redundant, and it was always pleasurable.

I had often considered re-writing TMTH so that it could be enjoyed by a larger audience, but I had always dismissed the idea. So much of the world was built on the ideas of others that I felt guilty. I thought it would be dishonorable to stand on the pillars of someone else's creation and chose to publish only the ideas which were completely original-- if even there is such a thing. I considered my tail-less, biologically plausible mermaids to be as original as I could manage.

However, this year with the recent success of Fifty Shades of Grey, which as we all know, used to be Twilight fanfiction, I seriously reconsidered my preconceived notions of honor. I realized that all ideas are built on the creations of others, and if I could find a way to completely change the the mythology of my beloved story, maybe I could regurgitate it in a new and improved form. The idea rattled around in my head for several months before I thought of making my characters witches.

I considered this for a while before deciding it would never work; I created Thirty Minutes as a virtual playground for superpowers. When you're feeling powerless, what could be better than reading about characters who can do practically anything? Eventually, I decided that my characters could not fit the mold of just any mythical creature-- they needed to be gods.

Para needed to be a vengeful goddess. It should have been clear to me long ago! I researched Buddhist mythology and found that the concept of demigods called "devas" were precisely what I needed. I grew so, so excited about this! I was eager to spend time with my characters again--and created a few new characters, in fact. The original Thirty Minutes was 310K words-- to perform the adaptation, I took the first 60K words and re-wrote them with an additional 40K words. The novel is 100K words in length, which works out to being... long. Even after the events of Paramount, I have the material already written for about 3-4 more novels in this series, and the plans to easily write six in total. I am only a teensy bit older and wiser, but I believe I have grown as a writer since the story first hit the internet. The new version truly is better; it's more polished, and more riveting.

I have three full-length novels completed, but for some reason I cannot wait to receive the paperback copy of Thirty Minutes in the mail! The cover is just gorgeous, and I have never wanted anything more than to sit down and just read my own paperback book. Although I wrote it, and I've read this story over and over dozens of times, I still want to live in that world. I suppose that's what love is-- not being bored of something, even when it is no longer new. Although, technically, rewriting it has injected new life into the story and made it new again.

It might be the fire. I feel so much closer to the fire of Thirty Minutes than the water of the Sacred Breath Series. It's definitely my favorite element; I'd much rather go out in a burning blaze than by drowning!

I chatted with a few readers about this, and had my spirits totally lifted to hear them speak about how much they care for the story. It literally brought tears to my eyes. I can't explain the allure of Thirty Minutes or why it is so beloved. The story is a pretty simple concept of two loyal friends helping each other out. It's rather down-to-earth (once you look past the arrogant omnipotent characters) and oftentimes the characters are foolish. But I know one thing for certain; there's something special about this one.

Writing this story has already changed my life for the better.

Oh, Trevain! What a mighty complex fella you are...

I have fragments of half-written novels scrawled in every notebook and saved in every folder of every computer I have ever owned. There must be some reason why Drowning Mermaids was the first novel I ever actually managed to complete--a reason more profound than it just being the correct time in my life to facilitate such a project. Now, it certainly was the correct time: I had just graduated, and for the first time, money wasn't tight to the point of being a noose around my neck. But I really believe that the main reason that I was compelled to write the Sacred Breath Series can be summed up in one word:

Trevain.

Yes, my middle-aged crabber, Captain Trevain Murphy. I'm not saying that I'm rabidly in love with the man (he's not quite my type--too nice) but more than any character I've ever created, he has the ability to constantly surprise me. Everything he says and does feels so real. When I was writing Boundless Sea, I often had to pause and throw my hands up in the hair, and shout at my computer:

"What are you doing, Trevain? What the hell are you DOING? This isn't like you!"

I would send chunks of the story to my beta-readers as I completed it, just so I could complain, "Do you see? I can't believe he did that!" They would respond, in confusion, "Um, but didn't you write it?" It's hard to explain how detached and distant I felt from the work while being completely immersed at the same time. Trevain really seemed to just reach out of the laptop and force my fingers to do his bidding. He forced my whole brain to coexist with his for a few minutes. This character is strong.

An annoyingly common experience I have is for someone I knew in my previous life (a non-reader) to try and make the effort to read my stories to impress me or be kind. But non-readers have very strange ideas about novels. The most irksome question I generally receive is: "Are you Aazuria?"

For heaven's sake! People can be so superficial. First of all, no one is any single character precisely. Even if my novel was an autobiography (which it is not, sadly--I could drown in my bathtub if I intended to) I would expect the portrayal to be distorted. Secondly, just because she has long dark hair (above water) and generally looks similar to me, does not mean she is me. Especially in the beginning when we have not yet really met her-- the whole narrative is from Trevain's point of view. If I'm writing someone's thoughts from their perspective, I am trying my darned hardest to get into that person's brain and be him for a moment. Male or female. Whether he or she looks like me or not.

And when I'm being Trevain, I sometimes feel challenged to the point of being uncomfortable. I love that feeling! I have so much respect for this character and his continuous effort to do things the right way. Why is it that good intentions always seem to sabotage a person? Vachlan doesn't care either way about doing the right thing, but life seems somehow easier for him...

If you're reading Drowning Mermaids, here are a few questions you might want to consider:

• Does Trevain seem more influenced by sound or sight?
• What are his ideas on the limitations of the body?
• Do the women in his life comfort him or cause conflict?
• What is the real reason Trevain wants to learn sign language?
• At his lowest moments, who or what guides him back to strength?
• Is his world based more on physical or mental power?

If you've already read the story, and especially if you've completed the series, you probably understand the reason for many of the hints and subtle undertones that are present in Book #1. At this point, as I write Book #4, I find myself reflecting a lot and trying to figure out how to climb my way out of the deep hole I've dug for myself. =) But it's a rather lovely hole.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on any of the stories.
Happy reading!

Boundless Sea: A Novel Written in Two Months

Having completed the third novel in my series in sixty days, I thought I would share a few brief notes from the frustrating yet rewarding experience. This is less about the content of the novel itself and more about its physical and emotional toll.

Day 1: Way ahead of the game. I made so many notes while writing Fathoms of Forgiveness that this is going to be super easy. I'll keep going so I don't lose momentum. I love these characters, and I can't wait to be living with them again!

Day 4: Still haven't recovered from the last book. My character is acting like everything is fine, but she can't stay this strong forever. She needs to fall apart. I originally intended for her to never show any weakness, but she's been through so much. I'm falling apart just witnessing her pain.

Day 6: I'm stuck. I need a change of scenery and city--maybe I'll write better at my mom's.

Day 8: For heaven's sake! There has been hardly any feedback on the second book after all that work. I can't stop refreshing and waiting for reviews. I need to market this thing. I'll just spend a little time and a lot of money marketing before I get back to work...

Day 10: My birthday! Nothing I'd rather do than spend all day writing. Writing, writing, wait-- phone call? From a friend who hasn't called me in months? Damn. Looks like I'm going out for my birthday. It's just one day... I'll start writing again tomorrow.

Day 12: Okay, back to my house. I can't stay in one place for too long or I get antsy.

Day 14: I'm stuck. I'm completely stuck on this story. I've hit a wall... how can I smash through it? The only way is headfirst.

Day 16: I'm broke. I spent all my money on marketing. Driving to the casino. Won lots of cash. Back to writing.

Day 18: I need carbs. I'm going to eat 5 bowls of rice and that will make me magically write better. And maybe I'll watch an episode of Supernatural.

Day 21: So many people are bugging me to work on my fanfiction. Well, I did say about two months, and it has been about two months. I suppose I should update that... but I just hope it won't get me out of the Sacred Breath series mode.

Day 28: Wow, well that's finally over... a whole week wasted. 20K words that weren't even for the book I'm trying to complete. That chapter was the steamiest thing I have ever written. I never want to write a sex scene again. How do erotica writers do it? How do you get anything done when you have to stop writing every ten minutes to take a shower? Don't their bodies react to this material? They must not be single. Anyway, back to Book #3...

Day 30: Dammit. It's so hard to get back into the rhythm. I shouldn't have paused to do something else. Leaping back and forth from one fictional world to another is too difficult. It's hard enough leaping back and forth between the real world and the story!

Day 34: Title doesn't feel right. I think I'm going to change the working title from Submarine Superpower to Boundless Sea. My readers agree. It's done.

Day 36: My back is killing me. I am going to need to visit a chiropractor after I finish this book.

Day 38: Sick of being at my house. Driving to mom's; maybe the juices will flow better there.

Day 45: Everyone is recommending this "5 hour energy" drink. Does it work? Conclusion: Disgusting. Exponentially increases the need to pee. Four different tests, all with negative results. After the final test, I fell asleep one hour after consuming the beverage. This is bogus. It was, however, effective in getting me to do a few dozen push ups.

Day 47: My mom's apartment is so tiny and I cannot deal with this horrible single bed! Driving back to my house. The drive itself is relaxing.

Day 48: I need meat. Meat will magically help me keep writing. And maybe an episode of Smash to help me relax.

Day 50: Screw my spine. I should move to a desk and chair, but I like having a blanket over my legs and pillows all around me. I think I'm more productive writing in this position. I'm 24, my back will fix itself.

Day 52: Maybe I can live on chocolate. Is chocolate the answer? Lemonade?

Day 54: Can I feed off energy from music? I'm going to put this Linkin Park CD on repeat as I write. Conclusion: Wow, music really is an all-natural booster. Best results so far!

Day 55: Final stretch. Here it is. Time to focus. Fuck the world. Fuck eating, fuck sleeping, and fuck breathing. I'm going to go hardcore and just write. I don't exist outside of the story. I am the characters, and I don't need any form of human sustenance. I eat when they eat, I sleep when they sleep, I bathe when they bathe.

Day 56: I really need a bath. My characters live underwater, so they don't need to bathe as much as I do. Brief break.

Day 57: I should be editing by now. But instead I'm still writing. I'm not going to finish in time at this rate, but I have to keep going. Why do I keep falling asleep so early? Sleeping for a full eight hours? I don't need this much sleep. I need to pretend I'm in university and this is due in the morning. I would do it if I had to do it. Why can't I be disciplined?

Day 58: The pressure is on. I'm writing 10K words in a day, and I've already had three people read and edit up to the latest completed chapter. I'm so close to the end, I just have to push it, push it, push it...

Day 59: I'm living on turkey-bacon club sandwiches from Tim Horton's and coffee. This seems to be working. One sandwich fuels me for five hours, along with the appropriate music for each chapter... I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

Day 60: Super-mega-extreme writing marathon. 40 hours nonstop. So much coffee I feel nauseous. I have two friends staying up all night with me on the internet and cheering me on, and reading the updates as I write them. Cecilia is being slave-driver strict and demanding updates from me every half an hour. Melody is being sweet and encouraging, and helping me make decisions about the story. I need this combination of strictness and sweetness.
I'm even managing to make edits between chapters. This is crazy. This is inhuman.

Melody says my writing is better now that I'm exhausted. How is that possible? All of these scenes were mostly outlined and heavily noted, but I imagine my prose is much less complex and symbolic now that I am in a zombie-like state. It's direct and to the point. Bare-bones-essential writing, since I am too dead to do anything else.

Finished. Unconscious.

Waking up after a 3 hour power nap, I go directly back to editing. I edit, and edit, and edit some more. Time to add the complex and symbolic prose I could not manage earlier! I fix up the ending perfectly, then send it to a few readers for their feedback.

It's good. Tearful and emotional responses. =) My work here is done!

Now to edit a few more times and begin formatting for Kindle and Print before I start marketing...

And repeat.

Writer Craziness: How Ants Inspired my Fight Scenes

Many people ask about my writing process, so here is a bit of insight into the eerie way my mind works.

I found ants in my house. Ants may be common enough, but since I bought my house these are the first critters I've come upon, and they unleashed murderous rage in me. You know the feeling, right? "This is my territory. Begone, unclean fiends!"


Anyway, when I first discovered the ants in my master ensuite bathroom, I watched them with bafflement for a few minutes to see where they came from and where they were going. Scouting. Reconnaissance. An important element of any battle.

Mental Note #1: In my current novel I forgot to have my general character delegate recon before going in full-force with her attack. 

Before long, I grew rather impatient with watching, and grabbed the nearest implement (a piece of tissue, in this instance) and began slaughtering. The first kill was emotionally the hardest. I didn't press hard enough with my Kleenex-axe and I saw the insect writhing and thrashing its little legs about in pain. I felt guilt and remorse as I watched, transfixed.

Mental Note #2: It's impossible for a person to kill without contemplating death. Especially if it's the first time, or the first time in a while. I should have my character (spoiler) who's killing for the first time really feel it. Dwell on that for a bit.

This tiny ant was a real live creature. I was killing something alive. I thought about it for a moment, and felt how innocent and undeserving it was before I swung my double-edged, er, I mean double-ply weapon and thoroughly crushed the creature. Then, came the tiny rush of adrenaline and excitement.

Mental Note #3: Killing gives a sense of power. It's addictive. Once you get the first one out of the way, the next several kills are exhilarating. 

So, laughing hysterically, I used my tissue to kill several of the ant's brothers and comrades, a bit more viciously this time. Yes, I enjoyed it. Yes, I grew skilled enough through practice to kill in once swift cottony blow. Then eventually, I tossed the tissue in the trash and began using my bare hands. I could feel the insects crunching under my knuckles. This renewed the sense that I was really killing something, the physical contact. Getting a little dirty. Up close and personal.

Mental Note #4: Fighting at long-range with a rifle, shuriken, or javelin is obviously much less personal than being engaged in hand to hand, and feeling the warm skin of the other person underneath every blow. 

Then, having cleared out the offending insects, I went back to writing and eventually fell asleep. Upon waking up from my nap, I was horrified to see that the ants had gained ground. Yes, they had pushed their front steadily forward during my period of vulnerability and were now crawling around in my master bedroom! Enraged, I grabbed my heavy-duty vacuum cleaner and sucked them all up rapidly and fiercely. It was satisfying. Way better than tissue.

Mental Note #5: The type of weapon used is essential to establishing the mood of the fight and the emotions of the warrior.

And yet more came. Recognizing that my killing spree was futile considering my estimations of the numbers of this tiny army emerging from beneath my baseboard, I contemplated a long-term solution. More and more ants emerged in waves, and the more I killed, the more they sent. It was time for strategy. It was time to call my mom.

Mental Note #6: Meetings with council members and other military officials before taking drastic action. Risks and sacrifices must be considered and measured against the potential size of the threat.

I marched through the grocery store with determination on my face, and my hair flowing behind me, and my heels clinking, and I asked an associate boldly, "Where do you keep your ant traps?"

"In the housewares aisle. I think."

Upon finding the trove of weaponry, I smiled maniacally as I chose two different ant-traps and a spray. It was overkill, sure. But what if ants appeared in another section of the house? I needed to take preventative measures.

Mental Note #7: Effective strategical planning includes several different options to be prepared on all fronts. 

I spent the $15 on advanced weaponry, scoffing at my prior naive, desperate use of tissue-paper. Returning to my house, I ripped open the ant traps and placed them strategically around the hole from which the ants were emerging and along their general projected path of foraging. Namely, I placed some on either side of my door to stop them from entering my bedroom, and to force them back and "hold the line."

Mental Note #8: Location and terrain of both defensive and offensive posts are essential to understand and describe. My characters have to sound like they've not only read the Art of War, but developed their own signature strategies from experience. 

After the two types of ant-traps were deployed like explosive mines, and my special spray was kept secreted away in case of emergency. (Always have a last resort!) I nodded to myself in satisfaction.

Now we wait.

I confess it was difficult to watch the little ants slowly carrying the poison back to their little hole. It would have been so much easier just to crush them. I have so many other things nearby which I could use to crush them, like alcohol bottles, clock radios, hairbrushes, and even a hammer. It would be fun. But alas, I must stick to the strategy.

Mental Note #9: The vengeful whims of one person cannot sabotage the safety of the whole nation. Rebellious and rogue warriors must be disciplined by their general. 

I must allow the ants to carry my special poison home to their queen. There, she will die along with all of their hopes and dreams of conquest, and then they will all hopefully die in massive numbers. My country will be preserved. This is all I can do for now with respect to defense, and I must return to writing and my other affairs. But of course, my other affairs have been affected by this war. My writing has been inspired and tainted by my first-hand experience in battle, and my sleep will be fitful-- I will be keeping one eye open.

Mental Note #10: Do not neglect the political aspects of the war, and all the side effects that the struggles will have on civilian life in the Adlivun. The country is like a body-- you can't harm one part of it without affecting all the others. The parts are all connected. The people are all connected. Describe and establish an atmosphere of tension, fear, and anger. Certain people will be unified by the conflict and thrive on it, and others will be alienated and destroyed. 

I am not sure whether I will be successful in my fight against the ants since it is my first springtime in this house, but I am optimistic. I was renting a basement apartment in a pretty section of downtown Toronto last year around this time when I was similarly attacked by thousands of flying ants with wings that oozed forth from the laundry room floor. I went nuts, Wikipedia-ing them and jumping on them, and since they were flying, I gained ample exercise from kicking the laundry room walls to crush them. My current enemies seem much less powerful and skilled, and I believe they are unprepared to deal with an enemy such as the likes of me. Nevertheless, I will not underestimate them.

Mental Note #11: Historical evidence suggests optimism is acceptable. The nation must be filled with a sense of hope no matter how bleak the situation. And even if victory seems imminent, the nation must be cautious and prudent. 

In conclusion, if you're a reader, you may raise your eyebrows, laugh at me, and consider me crazy.

If you're a writer, you needn't go to extreme lengths for research. You don't have to kill people to know what it feels like-- just kill something small in your garden, and extrapolate. You don't need to fight a massive war to understand what it's like to save the world. Just spend some time by yourself doing silly exercises like this. Go and destroy a colony of ants or better yet, a hive of bees. Do it with a sense of purpose. Technically, you're killing a queen, and tons of civilians and warriors. They might be small, but they are real, living creatures. There might be a small degree of danger, especially if you're allergic to bees. You'll feel it. You'll think about it.

Extrapolate from anything. Cheers!



P.S. If I find an ant on my bed, there will be hell to pay. I'm getting out my butane lighter and having me a fiery massacre.