The Mystery of Mysteries

It has occurred to me that I should occasionally blog about writing, since readers might be interested. I don’t like talking much of works on progress in fear on jinxing them, but I’m trying to overcome this superstition.

I’m currently doing preproduction on a paranormal short story. This consists of making up names for fictional people and places, inventing or repurposing terms for supernatural phenomena and such. Also, since this will be a mystery of sorts, making up the back story. 

I’ve written a few paranormal mysteries and romances with elements of mystery and suspense, but I’m reluctant to call myself a mystery writer. However, I believe I’ve figured out one of the tenets of the genre: know the crime before you start solving it. Who did what to whom, when, where, how, and most of all why? It’s like drawing the maze through which your detective will have to find his way through.

Okay, so it’s more of a no-brainer than a mystery, but there you have it.

Status Report: Demons on the Brain

I generally don't like to talk about a work in progress, especially in the early stage, because I'm afraid I'll jinx it. However, I'll take a chance this time. We'll see what happens.

Back in the Dead Man universe, I'm currently tinkering with spirits and demons. I'm almost done with a short story, and will move next to a longer story. The plot is not fully formed yet, but I went for a hike the other day and came back with some good ideas. Some of them sprung from things that happened or were said in Dead Man and the Restless Spirits. If I play my cards right, it'll seem like I always planned things just so.

Interestingly, certain illustrations I recently collected on Pinterest are also giving me inspiration. It's all very thrilling right now—wonderful possibilities abound. I also have a touch of fear, the possibility that I won't be able to pull it off in the end. This is the moment on the rollercoaster when the safety guards lock in place and you're about to take off.

Sunday Snippet

I've just finished the first draft of a trio of short stories about Denton Mills, a young man with fondness for body piercings, colorful socks, and an unfortunate connection to dead people. So now I'm editing, editing, and editing some more. So far this is what the first paragraph looks like:

Dying sucked hairy monkey balls. Even when you weren't the one doing it. Denton hated running into the final moments of strangers. Unfortunately, he couldn't always help it. This particular street corner had been safe a week before. The oversized man now clutching his chest must have died sometime since last Tuesday. Heart attack. Denton felt an echo of panic sweep through him and had to grab onto a lamppost to keep from tumbling onto the pavement too. He barely had 135 pounds for his 5' 9" frame, yet he could clearly feel the mass of flesh weighing him down, squeezing the life out of him. At least it was over fast. The man stopped breathing and his presence faded away, both from the street and Denton's mind. He shook himself and took a few deep breaths before getting on his way. As he hurried down the street, he took a mental note to avoid that corner for a few months at least--till the trace of fresh death had had a chance to dissipate.

I'm sure it'll change.

Sunday Snippet

From a WIP:

Harvey's lips twitched sideways. "I talk too much. You've never met a vampire you didn't want to kill, did you?"

"I've never met one that didn't try to kill me."

"Really, you must be exaggerating."

"No, I'm not. Is every undead around here like you?"

"No, of course not." Harvey rolled his eyes. "If you were a redneck alive, you'll be a redneck undead. You won't suddenly develop a fancy for velvet and puffy shirts. Not that anyone does--that stuff is strictly for the movies."

(Photo by Duniax)

Sunday Snippet

From a WIP:

The man opening the door radiated a presence more intense than a triple chocolate fudge cake. Seeing him up close, Denton decided B. Maurell couldn't be called traditionally handsome--all his features were too strongly drawn for it--yet the whole package together had Denton engrossed. Sharp cheekbones and a prominent nose contrasted with sensuously full lips. The heavy dark eyebrows and shoulder-length, lightly wavy hair lent him a saturnine air, but his eyes made the biggest impression on Denton. They were as dark as the deepest trenches of the ocean where the sun doesn't penetrate, and strange creatures dwell. They also seemed to accuse Denton of unspeakable crimes. Catnapping to begin with.

Eager to prove his innocence, Denton held Murry in front of him. "I have your cat. He must have jumped from your balcony to my fire escape. I found him sitting on my feet when I woke up."

Murry dangled between them like a furry peace offering for a couple of beats, before his owner reached out and took him. Those eyes focused on the cat for a moment, then back on Denton. "You fed him."

For absolutely no reason a shiver run through Denton, but he heroically ignored it. "It seemed like a polite thing to do, and it's daytime. I didn't let him get wet."

B. Maurell either hadn't seen Gremlins or had no sense of humor. "He's on a diet." The warm baritone of his voice undermined the gruffness of the words.

"What kind? If it's Atkins, all's fine--I only gave him tuna, no carbs." Denton meant it as a joke, and grinned like an idiot to bring the point home, but he only received a stony silence in exchange. Tough crowd.

Sunday Snippet

One of the underlying concepts of my vampire WIP is that when people are converted to undead they retain their original tastes personalities. They don't suddenly start brooding and wear velvet and puffy shirts.

Harvey, the nerdy vamp and his lover, Gabe, the reformed slayer, have a kink for role-playing games. It comes into focus most in the third novella, but there are hints of it in the second story, The Cheerful Corpse, as well.

"What's your sign, gorgeous, and don't say it's stop, because I don't think I can," a lewd voice whispered into Gabe's ear.

Gabe stifled a snort and looked sideways. Harvey leered back at him. That was new. Harvey the lusty seducer, and Gabe the prey. They were wrong for the roles, but what the heck. Gabe went along. "If you think you can take advantage of my inabbreviated…ineb…drunken state, mister, you're absolutely right."

Chuckling, Harvey fell straight out of character. "C'mon, you oaf. Time to go home." He nudged Gabe off the barstool.

Getting the Fang of It

I'm writing vampires. Yeah, I know, who doesn't? Of course, I can't even get this right. Instead of brooding, as he should, Harvey, my vampire, is rather snappish with the slayer who tried to stake him. Poor Gabe.

Anyway, here is a little snippet. It's nothing final, still in draft phase.

Gabe awoke with a start. Harvey was sitting up too, observing him intently. They stared at each other for a few tense seconds, before the vampire lowered his gaze -- all the way to Gabe's crotch. Gabe followed it to see a large wet spot there. Sometime during the night, his grip loosened over the plastic bag, and the melted ice soaked into his pants, creating the most embarrassing wet patch ever.

"I have a dryer you can use," Harvey said, snickering.

"It was ice. You have sharp knees."

"And you have sharp sticks."

Gabe felt uncharacteristically contrite. "Yeah, uhm, sorry for staking you. I might have been a little too hasty."

Harvey made a dismissive gesture. "Don't mention it. Good thing you're a lousy shot."

"You moved."

"Ah! My bad. Is that how hunters do it? Ask the deer to hold still?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure--" Gabe caught himself. "Are you always this mouthy?"

"Why? Anything wrong with my mouth?"

"Aside from always flapping?"

"Yes, aside."

Gabe's gaze was drawn to Harvey's pursed lips. No, there was nothing wrong with them. They were exceptionally fine. And it wasn't just those lips; for someone covered in dried blood Harvey looked…nice. Gabe remembered the stake he'd been holding when he'd fallen asleep -- it was gone. He patted his cargo pockets, but they were empty too.

"I put them away," Harvey explained. "In case you woke up in a homicidal mood. You seem very impulsive."

"Where--"

"They're safe, don't worry. May I suggest an official ceasefire? No slaying each other for a while. What do you say?"

Gabe screwed up his brows. "It's highly unorthodox. Why would I trust you?"

"Why would I trust you? I've abstained from killing you or even feeding on you twice so far. You on the other hand, have shown far less self-control. You really don't have the moral high ground here."

"But you are--"

"Don't start with that whole bloodsucker bit. It's getting old. You could try to be a little less dogmatic."

"Okay, fine," Gabe replied, gruffly.

He didn't like being told off on an empty stomach. What annoyed him even more was the fact he couldn't argue with anything Harvey had said. Uncle Miklos was probably spinning in his grave.