Blue...

She coaxes men in like a seductress, the bones of her victims lying fathoms underneath her folds. She never sleeps. Beguiling men for centuries into mastering her. She is the Lord of all Creation, nurturing mother and cruel mistress.

Salty and broken and weathered, the sailor's eyes never dim of the sea. For they know the truth: we live by the blue and we die by the blue...

© 2015 Angela Darling, Amontillado Publishing, All Rights Reserved.

Silent Repose

It wasn't the curve of her hips.  It wasn't the freckles sprinkling her nose and shoulders.  Nor the twist of her lips when something amused her, always a light laughter dancing within her mouth...  Or the strong nose that often wrinkled when she made a face, attempting to elicit a laugh from those around her, if at least a smile...

But it was the light in her eyes, at once that had been so vibrant in her youth, actively trying to break free from its blue prison. Within the reflection of her eyes...that's where she rested. Over the years the light had subdued, resting dormant and content like a sleeping lion.  Through the facade of the wit, no one observed the woman.  Sensual and succulent and passionate.

A sleeping lion is no less passionate than a waking lion.

But beware the man who arouses the lionness...

© 2015 Angela Darling, Amontillado Publishing, All Rights Reserved.

Writing on the Periphery....

"When writing, show, don't tell!"

I can't count how many times I've heard that.  Every school teacher that was trying to teach us the fine art of writing would always offer up that sound kernel of advice with no real explanation.  When asking a follow up question they would give a pat answer, but I would still be sitting there dumbfounded in terms of how to show someone what's happening in my story rather than telling them.

But no one could ever tell me how to conquer this beautifully masked game of showing versus telling.  At first I thought it was just because they didn't know.  Now I realize that it's a skill different for everybody.

I call it "Writing on the Periphery."  Sure, you're committed to your story, you're eager to write it down, you're scribbling down pages.  But you're kind of floating above the story, above the character, above the stressors and the drama within your tale.  You're not really feeling it, experiencing it.  Yes, all your basic story elements are there.  Characters with flaws, relatable to the audience, you have your plot, maybe even an outline. But no real depth.

I usually do my best writing when I'm down deep in the trenches.  When I've taken a few steps down, slowed down my mind and really put myself in the heroine's/hero's shoes; that's when my real potential comes through.  

Put yourself in a scene.  Instead of just writing the bare basics, sit down in the scene a little deeper.  What is your character hearing?  What is she smelling?  What is she doing?  The odd little quirks that you would find yourself thinking and doing if put in the same situation at that exact moment; include it!  Trust me; you will add a whole other dimension to your character if you create them as real as you.  Plus your audience won't think you odd.  If anything they'll bond closer to the character and be upset with you if you happen to kill them off.  ;)  Trust me on this one...

So step down from the balancing act.  No more writing on the periphery.  I feel that phrase is much easier to understand than that infernal, frustrating, "Show, don't tell!"  

My two main reasons for staying in the periphery are: laziness and fright.  Laziness is obvious; sometimes you don't want to immerse yourself that deeply.  Sometimes you just want to do the bare minimum.  But usually I go back to those parts and re-do them.  Because my story deserves better. 

And fright is pretty simple.  If I were writing romance stories, that would be one thing.  But when you're a gothic fiction writer, it's not easy subject material to just immerse yourself in on a daily basis.  This current project of mine is just dark.  Darker than anything I've ever done....  yet.  :)

So quit the balancing act.  Get your ass in the seat and write your story the way it deserves to be told.  Leave the periphery to the balance beam gymnasts and carnies...


Lots of love,
A

What Makes Someone a "Good" Person?

I was driving in the Hummer, music playing while running errands, and my mind wandered, as it often does, to my current project. 

For all my books, I love to create a protagonist that is flawed.  Someone that has had problems, isn't perfect, possibly has done bad things, but is basically what I call a "good" person.

Then I stopped my thoughts dead in their tracks and asked, "What is it that constitutes a 'good' person?"  In every book, movie and television show, you have a lead character that possibly had done some very bad things throughout their life.  They have a bit of a colorful past.  And yet they're so lovable, with these little moments of pure kindness or humor or compassion that go against their natural character so vividly that you start to connect with them in a way you wouldn't someone who "always does the right thing." 

I know for me, I always connect with those characters more so than I do the righteously "perfect" ones. 

Is it our actions that make us good?  Abstaining from doing drugs, hurting others, staying faithful; are these all attributes of being "good?"  Or are they societal constructs to simplify the unfathomable complexities of the human composition?  Something to easily define what is "good" and "bad" in a world driven by religion and judgment?

Is it our thoughts that make us good?  Our beliefs?  Our ideals?  Ethics?  Morals?

Are we all just imperfect little creations trying to find our own path, our own answers in the world, driven by our own ideas of what we should or shouldn't be or do?

Or is it possible, just possible, that there is no good or bad? 

Technology & The Modern Writer...

I'm a curmudgeon.  I'll admit.  Change is not my forte.  I am a stubborn creature of habit.  I'm only innovative when I absolutely have to be and I will ride something to the ground until it is a lost cause.  Then, and only then, will I find an alternative (usually that alternative is something that most people have "discovered" years before). 

In terms of technology, I haven't really embraced it until recently.  Not when it comes to my writing.  This is coming from a girl who used to write her novels when she was a teenager on a word processor (basically a microwave with a keyboard).  I think I even still have some old floppy disks around from the old Apple machines with green screens that I would escape to in between junior high classes to write.  (Yes, I was a nerd.  A giant word-loving, book-reading nerd).  Every spare moment I spent scribbling feverishly in a blank spiral notebook (for some weird reason the sight of a blank spiral notebook still sends a shiver of excitement down my spine) and pounding away on the keys of my dad's dinosaur of a computer.  Free time meant that I could escape into whatever world I was dreaming up. 

I think I became a writer because a part of me preferred that type of a world.  Where anything could happen.  The real world was far too bland.  I liked the ability to be and create anyone, in any time, in any setting.  I could time travel and visit fictional lands in my world.  It was like the joys of reading amplified by about 1000.

When it came to computers, however, the extent of my "knowledge" was often "turn it on, open my Microsoft Word or Works program (whatever spreadsheet program was available), save, and turn off." 

But in today's world, I had no idea the amount of technology and software that was out there to help writers create.  To help organize their thoughts, plot their storylines, escape into that wonderful world of "single-tasking," to borrow a phrase.  I think one of the things that I struggle with the most is "single-tasking."

We're a society now where multi-tasking, focusing on several different items at once, is expected.  Revered.  And frankly, it's easy to get caught up in that.  But when you need to focus and have a task that demands you to be 100% present, it can be difficult.  (Thanks, Facebook).  :)

But I've recently stumbled across a few programs that I've incorporated into my daily writing process.  One is free, and a few come at a nominal price (under $10).  I've listed three of them below and what part of the process they might help with.  Hopefully you might find them useful as well:

IF YOU'RE MORE OF A VISUAL PLOTTER/PLANNER:

Check out Scapple.  It's a program that is pretty simple to learn and create notes and also graph relationships between any two pieces of information.  I've used this to help with my family trees as well (you all know how sordid and tangled my character trees can get).  I believe I paid under $10 for the program but I will definitely be getting a lot of use out of it.  For someone that's more of a visual person (goodbye Post-it Notes on my office wall) this is a godsend.

IF YOU NEED SOMETHING TO ORGANIZE YOUR RESEARCH:

Check out Evernote.  It's an awesome FREE program that I downloaded where you can keep all your notes in one place.  It's kind of like OneNote but more.  Not only can you save screen clippings, articles, webpages, notes, you can also create and add audio and visual notes of any kind.  Any videos you come across or audio that you wanted to keep together with everything else while researching your topic.  I'm test-driving this with my new book The Dybbuk (there are a lot of articles and research that I'm doing on possession and the like) so I have a lot to add.  It's easy to get overwhelmed (for me, anyway) if I'm not organized, so this definitely fits the bill.

IF YOU'RE HAVING TROUBLE STAYING FOCUSED/SINGLE-TASKED:

Then check out OmmWriter.  It's basically a spreadsheet program which lets you change the backdrop to something calming and even plays ambient music for you.  It has about 7 different options for music.  Different fonts, sizes, almost anything that a basic spreadsheet program offers you.  It'll take you about two seconds to figure out how to use it.  This one has a suggested donation of $5.  One of the things I like best about it?  Once it's open, your bottom toolbar disappears.  Poof!

ALLELUIA! 

If you are typically hard to focus like I am, it's a welcome respite.  I'm not constantly glancing downward anymore to see if I have any new emails, any new "likes" on my Facebook page, etc.  It's just you, your writing, and your imagination.  Not a crowded party.  If you struggle with the same problems, check it out.

I hope this helps!  After spending forever railing against technology when it comes to my writing, I'm glad that I've finally decided to embrace it.  Oh, if only these programs existed a decade ago!  ;)

Lots of love,
A

The Sounds of The Last of the Delacroixs...

This book has been a favorite amongst my fans.  Most claim this is the best one yet.  And yet because of the content I had to be in a very special mindset for this book. 

In June of 2013, my cousin Andrea (always, ALWAYS my biggest supporter) and I flew down to New Orleans for about a week.  We walked around the French Quarter, meandered aimlessly amidst the crypts in the St. Louis Cemetery 1, wandered into Louis Armstrong Park and into Treme (the birthplace of jazz), and spoke with a wonderfully nice older gentleman about the area. 

  During the nights we had a few drinks on Bourbon Street, ate lots of fresh seafood and drank plenty of Hurricanes.  During the days we explored.  

I had been to NOLA only one time before and I didn't get to see much, let alone really spend some quality time there to get a feel for the place.  I had plenty of time to do that this trip, though.  And I fell in love with New Orleans.  

The trip gave me a lot of inspiration for my book, The Last of the Delacroixs.  But after I got back home and the magic of the French Quarter eventually withered away, I turned to music, yet again, for my inspiration.  

The artists that really got me in a Creole and voodoo kind of mood were Johnny Farmer's "Death Letter."  It's jazzy, moody and dark and I could just close my eyes and really see 18th century New Orleans.  

And when I was in the home stretch, writing the climax of my depressing little tome, Bathsheba's escape from Francois, I kept replaying the song "If I Had a Heart" by Fever Ray.

My brother, Derek, was actually the first person to "introduce" me to Fever Ray.  He heard it and thought it would be something that I would like; he was so right.  I don't think I would have been able to capture that desperate struggle to escape from the plantation had it not been for this song.   

It really is strange the music that speaks to you during a particular story.  And it always changes; I can't listen to the same song, the same music, for each novel that I write.  Simply because each song inspires a specific type of tone applicable to only the struggles and feelings rampant in any piece of writing.  

I'm writing a novel now about a vengeful spirit called The Dybbuk and will be following up with the music that inspired this tome as well.  

Typically the music takes me by surprise.  Imogen Heap, Loreena, Florence, Fever Ray, David Gray...  I happen upon a specific song or few songs that just grab my attention and I can't let them go.

Not until the characters have told their story...

  
~ Angela Darling

© 2015 Amontillado Publishing.  All Rights Reserved.

The Sounds of Aeterno...

 

I put a lot of love into Aeterno.  A lot. Of. Love.

It was the final chapter in a tormented family's epic story.  I wanted to make it as raw and as real as I possibly could.  

I spent an obscene amount of time researching the American Revolution.  The history of Concord, Lexington, Boston.  The side stories that were not in your average textbooks.  And the little "gray area" of history; hundreds of years after the "shot heard 'round the world" and still no clear answer of who fired it.

I have my own personal theories.  You put a bunch of inexperienced farmers in a field with loaded firearms and a blunder is bound to happen.  

That's what I believe did happen.  An accident.  And the ensuing chaos broke through the thick tensions that had begun to run high in New England since the first taxation was called to order.  The ball had begun to roll, and there was no stopping it.  

America was at war.

  But I wanted to take advantage of the "not knowing."  Use that moment in time as the catalyst to bring the Thornes to the brink of destruction.  

I spent the better part of my hours while writing Aeterno locked in the 18th century.  As such, I really needed a specific musical mood set.  There was one song that really stood out that I listened to over and over.  

Loreena McKennitt's "Skellig."  It tells the story of an old man lying on his death bed, telling the story of his life.  A long life lived through much history, salty voyages overseas, and haunting experiences.  Something about the lyrics really spoke to me, brought me back in time.

Another song of Loreena's "The Highwayman."  It was based off of a poem by Alfred Noyes and Loreena's delivery is exquisite...  It is a haunting tale of a rebellious thief and his true love, and the tragedy that befalls them.  

Loreena's album Book of Secrets is just chock full of inspiration; I highly, highly recommend checking out those to masterpieces.  Aeterno was definitely my favorite entry in the Thorne Family Saga; I hope that you enjoyed it too...

~ Angela Darling

© 2015 Amontillado Publishing.  All Rights Reserved.

The Dybbuk Teaser...

The stairwell was dark when she walked through the doorway.  Bree shifted the paper grocery bag uncomfortably on her hip as she shut the door with her foot.  

Groaning, she began her ascent in the dark, making a mental note to call Breyden in the morning to complain.  First the elevators, now the lights.  God forbid one of his tenants should fall down the staircase and hurt themselves.

It had been a long day at Riley & Wendt.  Deposition after deposition; a neverending stream of domestic abuse cases, homicides, manslaughters, child custody, divorce.  The world was going to hell in a handbasket, Bree thought to herself with a smug smile.  

She’d be the first in line.

Peru seemed like a distant memory now.  It had only been a few weeks since she returned but a demanding job with twelve hour days was again beginning to take its toll.  She knew that she had be patient.  That eventually all of her hard work and the long hours would pay off.

A few flights up, she stopped to catch her breath.

A door somewhere in the stairwell latched shut.  It echoed through the dark down to her.  

The building was 15 stories high in the middle of SoHo.  Her apartment wasn’t large and she was struggling to pay rent, but it was rent-controlled and she had no intention of moving.  She hadn’t met many of her neighbors, as work demanded the majority of her time.  The only time she spent at her apartment was on the weekends, staring mindlessly at the television decompressing from the previous week.

Only to get up early on Monday morning and continue the entire charade all over again.

She heard footsteps coming down the stairs and anticipated putting a smile on her tired face and saying hello to one of her fellow stranger/neighbors.  

But the footsteps stopped just as the person should have rounded the bend.  Bree waited a moment, and then called out, “Hello?”

She heard her voice echo throughout the stairwell and fall flat.

No answer.

Shrugging, she continued up the next flight of stairs and turned.

No one was there.

Old buildings were funny places, she told herself.  She often heard things, shifts and creaks, and was growing rather accustomed to them.  But she was pretty certain she had heard footsteps. 

She groaned as she glanced up and realized she still had another four flights to go.  Bree grumbled to herself quietly, cursing Breyden for being so cheap.    

She was reaching the 5^th floor landing when she heard it.

At first it sounded like the mere hissing of wind coming through the stairwell air duct.  But instead of maintaining a consistent tone, it began to crescendo.  

The hairs on Bree’s arm began to rise.

There was something in the stairwell with her.

She knew it immediately, instinctively.  There was a change in the air, a de minimis shift.  It became hard to breathe.  The air felt almost static, electric.

“BBBBRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE……” The sound began to change, forming a word.

Her name.

She glanced over the rail into the dark stairwell below her, her heart thudding loudly in her chest.  At first she saw nothing.  The building was abnormally quiet for an evening hour.  All of her neighbors’ doors were shut tightly and locked.  

Under the eave of the 4^th flight, she saw a movement in the shadows.  A gnarled hand, hidden mostly under the sleeve of a heavy, brown cloak, gripped the railing.  

Bree slowly backed away, but she could not divert her eyes from the figure that was gradually emerging from under the eave to glance upward towards her.

From out of the shadows it came, only to be momentarily awashed by the meager moonlight streaming in through the dinghy skylight high above.  A hooded head came out into the moonlight and began to turn upward towards her.

She first saw his smile.  Wide.  Abnormally wide.  His teeth were ancient, knobby and jutting out in awkward directions.  But they were sharp.  Bree could see that in the dark. 

Very sharp.

Saliva dripped from his mouth, coating his hand and the railing in a slippery dew.  And then his eyes rose to meet hers.  

Bree gasped.  Her eyes widened and she dropped the bag of groceries.  

“BRRRREEEEEEE…..” His horrid mouth opened and her name emitted into the stairwell, echoing up to her quickly.  He began to move.  He moved quickly up the stairs, surprisingly agile for however ancient an abomination he was.

Bree burst into a run, hearing him tripping over the rolling cans of Spaghetti O’s and refried beans that littered the staircase behind her.

How did he catch up to her so quickly?  Bree thought madly as she sprinted up the stairs.  She could hear her own rapid breathing, forced and difficult.  Beyond that, nothing.  The man wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

“BRRRRREEEEEEE….” He called out to her again, and she burst into tears.

His voice was suddenly different.

It wasn’t.

It couldn’t be.

Her heart felt like it was going to stop; her lungs felt like they were going to burst.  It became difficult to see through her tears.  

Any moment she waited to feel his gnarled grip on her shoulder, to pull her back and over the railing, to flail to her death below.  But it didn’t come.

She sensed he was right behind her.  

The call came again.

“BRRRREEEE…..” 

He was directly behind her.  But it was a woman’s voice now. 

If she wasn’t so terrified, her instinct likely would have been to stop and face the creature.  The voice was familiar.

Loving.

“No!  It can’t be!”  She sobbed into the dark stairwell and rounded the bend to the last flight.  Bree could see her apartment door; the letters 6A never seemed so inviting.

She shoved her hands into the pocket of her jeans as she bolted up the last set of stairs, fishing out her key.  Her legs felt like they were going to buckle underneath her.  She screamed loudly into the stairwell, hoping the sound would drive her neighbors out to help. 

…just in case she couldn’t get her door open in time…

She finally reached her door and fumbled with her key, suddenly forgetting which one it was.  Her eyes were foggy with tears and mascara; it was hard to see in the dark.

Fuck Breyden.

But she didn’t dare look back.  

She couldn’t look back.

She waited for the fingers. For the hand to grip her shoulder.

Finally the key slid easily into the hole and she twisted, opened the door, flew inside.

Just as she shut the door, she caught another glimpse.  The figure slowly stalked up the stairs, eyeing her.  That broad, demented, diabolical smile never faltering. 

She shut the door and immediately bolted it.  Chained.  

Grabbed her heavy oak console table and pushed it against the door, knocking her lamp and telephone off its ringer in the meantime.  

Bree flew over to her small living room, dove onto the floor and reached under the sofa.  She felt the cool metal and sighed softly. 

She always kept it loaded.  Bree flicked the safety off and waited.   Watching the door.  

She had little hope that this would help her at all against whatever it was that was waiting outside her door.  

Bree hunkered down behind her coffee table, her arms shaky and wavering yet steadily aiming her 9mm towards the quiet door.  Her mind began to process everything that had occurred in the last few minutes.

She had seen this man once before; once she saw his eyes she was positive of it.  And that voice… it turned into…

Bree shook her head, trying to clear the insane thought.  It couldn’t be.  

“Okay, Bree, get it together.  Get it together,” she said to herself softly, her cheeks still damp with tears, her forehead clammy with sweat.  Try as she might, she couldn’t stop shaking.  Her heart, she feared, might never beat normally again.

She wasn’t sure exactly what she was trying to get together, or even how to reconcile what she had experienced, because it was beyond the scope of normal.  

It was impossible.

What had just happened was impossible…

Suddenly the door to her apartment exploded, pieces of wood flying through the air.  

She screamed, closed her eyes, and squeezed four shots out towards the entrance.  

“Shit!!  Oh God, please help me….” She begged.  It had been a long time since she had prayed.  She wasn’t even moderately religious.  Yet she didn’t know what else to do.  

When she opened her eyes, there was no one there.  

The obliterated apartment door lie scattered around her apartment in pieces.  Beyond the threshold, the dark, black corridor.  

He was gone.

She sat there the rest of the night, her gun aimed towards the open maw of what used to be her apartment door, crying and growing ever more sure of one thing.  

Bree had seen the man before.  She was certain.

When she was in Peru, she had seen his corpse. 

 

And he had followed her home…

~ Angela Darling

© 2015 Amontillado Publishing.  All Rights Reserved.