Old Excerpts

Because I'm spending most of my time trying to write a novel (October PSOPH).

This month I read Dorothy Sayers’ Gaudy Night and am now on the waitlist for more Peter Wimsey mysteries at my local library. I’m also enjoying Eleanor Bourg Nicholson’s The Bloody Habit, which I think of as Dracula meets Father Brown. What have you been reading? Any recommendations?

Other Updates:

• I’m on track to finish another middle grade novel draft by the end of the year. I love this story so much. SO MUCH! I really, really can’t wait to share it with you. I’m still on the fence about self-publishing vs. traditional publishing (if you have strong opinions, let me know), but either way I hope it will be in your hands soon.

• I’m unfortunately having some health issues which means I’m spending a lot of time sitting down. (I say this as if I didn’t already spend a lot of time sitting down writing and reading and such, but one does have to keep up appearances). On the bright side, it’s been cold enough here in North Carolina to use the fireplace regularly (in the mornings, at least), and if Christmas lights already adorn the windows in the living room, well… a little extra cheer never hurt anyone.

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Here’s an old excerpt I wrote off the cuff several years ago. I reread it now and see how I’d do things differently. I love that. I love that I can see areas for improvement, because it means I’ve grown. Since I don’t have current plans to take it beyond this point, I thought I’d share it with you.

🎃

Gilly’s blue heels wobbled on the gravel walkway, a purse thumping against her hip with every step. It was almost empty. Three types of mascara were buried beneath a small, scratched compass and her wallet, which held only her Flyer ID and an iridescent bank card. Until ten minutes ago, there had also been a letter in the purse claiming her account was overdrawn. Again. That letter now smoldered in a trash can fire four blocks away.

The sky, which had been a threatening shade of purple-grey all day, rumbled. The first raindrops pricked her skin, staining her cheek like tears. A stash of paper napkins filled the remaining space of the purse, and she pulled one out, using it to dab her forehead. It came away tinged with makeup.

There was only a narrow window in which this would work. The invitations said the ball would begin at half past eight, which meant the others would leave around eight to arrive on time. If Gilly wanted Ella to arrive before nine, work a bit of magic on the poor girl’s dreadful fashion choices, and…

“What are we looking for today?” A stout man stood under the awning of a white house with a red roof. He looked like an oversized bird, his thumbs tucked into the armholes of a baggy vest. The Carriage House was painted above the door in curled black letters.

We are not looking for anything, Gilly griped silently.

“I’m here to help. The name’s Sal.” He held out his hand and smiled. People like Sal were the reason she liked to complete this sort of transaction online. She glanced at his hand, clutched her purse strap.

“I need a carriage.”

“You’ve come to the right place! When is the event?”

“Tonight.”

Sal’s smile tightened. “That will… er…unfortunately eliminate some of our options.” The scattered raindrops evolved into a drizzle, and Sal produced a large black umbrella.

“Right this way, please.” The crunch of gravel under their feet created a dissonant counterpoint to the rain that pelted Sal’s umbrella. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“That’s because I didn’t throw it.”

Sal stared at her and, for a moment, Gilly thought he would finally drop the cheerful salesman act. Instead his lips spread in another smile and he laughed so hard he elbowed her arm. “Good one! A little shy, that’s okay. Your privacy is important. We respect that, we respect that… But if you make a purchase, you know….”

Gilly stopped listening as the gravel gave way to dirt. A massive field stretched before them, capped by pine trees at the far end. Row upon row of pumpkins dotted the landscape: pristine pumpkins worthy of front porches, warty ones for witches, speckled, striped, colored, big, small. They were all there.

Sal led her to the first row where the most attractive pumpkins grew. “These are our elite fliers, of course. Capable of travel by air, land, or sea. Reach speeds of up to—”

“I’m looking for something a bit simpler.”

“No problem, no problem, we have something for every budget.”

“Spent too much on the spiced lattes, eh, Gilly?” A woman approached from the fields. She winked and tipped her hand as if holding an invisible drink. Lucy. They’d gone to school together, years ago. People like Lucy were the reason she didn’t attend reunions.

“That’s Gillian to you.”

“Right, okay. My apologies.” Lucy’s cold eyes narrowed. “I’ll be in the shop, Sal.”

As Lucy brushed past, Gilly marched ahead, inhaling large quantities of the country air. It was true. She’d spent most of her budget on lattes at the fairy bar in Amsterdam, which left precious little for Ella’s big night out. “Don’t you have anything… used?”

“The charm on this one is faulty.” Sal’s smile faltered. “It only lasts three hours. Surely that won’t be long enough for—”

“I’ll take it.” Gilly’s hand twitched toward her hair, where a wand kept her bun in place. She had always excelled in beautification illusions, but she had never taken on something this big. Would she be able to manage it by tonight?

“We can’t guarantee the comfort or safety of such a pumpkin, ma’am.”

“I said I’ll take it.”

🎃🎃

And a bonus excerpt (whether it’s a trick or a treat is up to you):

It’s never quiet here.

The birds scream.

It’s a raw, guttural sound that pierces, scratches at the skin on my palms. It echoes over and over again between the mountains as sea rasps against rock. I only find reprieve when sleep takes me, when the dreams drown out the dark birds which circle endlessly overhead.

Every day is filled with fog. It hugs the islands like a thick, wet blanket. Not unlike the thin grey one that clings to my body.

I turn now, toward a wall of stone, seeking liquid to soothe the burning in my neck. But instead of water I find words, smeared in blood against the stone:

No birds

Something itches in the back of my mind, something hungry to be heard.

And it’s then I realize:

There are no birds.

The screams are mine.

🎃🎃🎃

Until next time, may all your eves be hallowed,

Rianna