DL Link's Blog
October 30, 2020
Mack's Back!
Phantom Pains is here. The Day of the Dead is a great day to pick up a new spooky read. Follow Mack in his continuing misadventures as he heads to a small coastal town with a big secret, and a haunted house that's claimed two women's lives, and is eager for more.
At first, I thought it was a clever special effect, and I looked up to the broken window expecting to see a camera pointing down, but there was just a black mouth rimmed with jagged glass teeth. The body was so still, the face that looked out toward the lighthouse so peaceful, that you could easily make the mistake of thinking she was sleeping, if her
head wasn’t turned almost all the way around on her shoulders.
The people watching also seemed to wonder if it was a trick, like maybe the dead face would do a one-eighty and right itself, and the woman might stand up and walk back inside Pemberton House. No one spoke, but I did notice a
few cell phones out, capturing the moment for posterity. I broke the invisible line and squatted over the body. That snapped the tension and voices rose at once.
“Don’t touch her.”
“Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“Call the police. Call 911.”
“Did anyone see what happened?”
I checked her pulse. It seemed like the thing to do, even though she couldn’t be alive. She was still warm, warmer than my hand after my walk in the cold wind. I smoothed her hair back from her forehead and closed her eyes with my fingertips, those deep green eyes that had seemed so fierce and full of life hours ago. With those eyes closed, Dana Sinclair looked even more like she was sleeping, like at any moment she might wake and start terrorizing Manny
and the entire set again.
My hand on Dana’s skin began to tingle, and for a second, she didn’t feel warm but hot, too hot for a live woman, let alone a dead one. My ears rang and a violent shiver came over me. I snatched my hand away from her but
it didn’t subside.
My vision went white and I was there, blind, on my knees and paralyzed as fear flooded into me. My heart raced and the shivering became a full-body tremor. A knot formed in my throat and I realized it was a scream, a primal yell building in me, the knot growing all the way into my chest until the pressure was so much, too much, and I had to let it out. I opened my mouth, or the scream did, forcing its way out of me and… nothing. There was no scream, only
a puff of breath that crystalized in front of me and dissipated like smoke. That’s when I realized my vision had returned, and the knot inside me was gone, along with the
tremors.
“Are you all right, man?” The hand on my shoulder made me jump. I spun and saw it was Hank, his look equal parts curiosity and concern. “You kind of wigged out there for a second.”
“I’m good,” I said.
“You sure?” He pointed at my face and I knew what he was going to tell me before the words were out. “Your mouth is bleeding.”
From Chapter 1 - Phantom Pains
At first, I thought it was a clever special effect, and I looked up to the broken window expecting to see a camera pointing down, but there was just a black mouth rimmed with jagged glass teeth. The body was so still, the face that looked out toward the lighthouse so peaceful, that you could easily make the mistake of thinking she was sleeping, if her
head wasn’t turned almost all the way around on her shoulders.
The people watching also seemed to wonder if it was a trick, like maybe the dead face would do a one-eighty and right itself, and the woman might stand up and walk back inside Pemberton House. No one spoke, but I did notice a
few cell phones out, capturing the moment for posterity. I broke the invisible line and squatted over the body. That snapped the tension and voices rose at once.
“Don’t touch her.”
“Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“Call the police. Call 911.”
“Did anyone see what happened?”
I checked her pulse. It seemed like the thing to do, even though she couldn’t be alive. She was still warm, warmer than my hand after my walk in the cold wind. I smoothed her hair back from her forehead and closed her eyes with my fingertips, those deep green eyes that had seemed so fierce and full of life hours ago. With those eyes closed, Dana Sinclair looked even more like she was sleeping, like at any moment she might wake and start terrorizing Manny
and the entire set again.
My hand on Dana’s skin began to tingle, and for a second, she didn’t feel warm but hot, too hot for a live woman, let alone a dead one. My ears rang and a violent shiver came over me. I snatched my hand away from her but
it didn’t subside.
My vision went white and I was there, blind, on my knees and paralyzed as fear flooded into me. My heart raced and the shivering became a full-body tremor. A knot formed in my throat and I realized it was a scream, a primal yell building in me, the knot growing all the way into my chest until the pressure was so much, too much, and I had to let it out. I opened my mouth, or the scream did, forcing its way out of me and… nothing. There was no scream, only
a puff of breath that crystalized in front of me and dissipated like smoke. That’s when I realized my vision had returned, and the knot inside me was gone, along with the
tremors.
“Are you all right, man?” The hand on my shoulder made me jump. I spun and saw it was Hank, his look equal parts curiosity and concern. “You kind of wigged out there for a second.”
“I’m good,” I said.
“You sure?” He pointed at my face and I knew what he was going to tell me before the words were out. “Your mouth is bleeding.”
From Chapter 1 - Phantom Pains
September 23, 2020
Momentum
From the blog of the Dallas-Fort Worth Writers Workshop. They invited me to write about my experiences with their online read-and-critiques.
My first exposure to DFW Writers' Workshop was at the conference in 2018. Sitting in on a Read and Critique (the most underutilized sessions, in my opinion), I was taken with the level of detail in the critiques, and the professionalism of the panel. I left the conference wishing something like that was available near me. I returned to the conference in 2019, where I had a fabulous experience in the Read and Critiques and sat in on a handful of sessions. Again, I wanted regular access to that level of feedback. Enter 2020.
Like everyone else, my plans went to shit. I was booked to come to DFWCon, my first novel launches in October, and I had plans to attend BoucherCon to promote it. To say I was disappointed is an understatement. When I heard DFW Writers' Workshop would switch to Zoom meetings for a while, I was thrilled. I suppose something had to go right this year.
These days, staying connected is key to surviving, and I mean a real connection, not a like on Facebook or a Tweet about your political views. The Zoom meetings can't replace actual face-to-face contact, but to share a story, a laugh, a moment with another human, that's what we need right now. I live in Northern California, and I've seen people as far away as London on the meetings. I hope more people from outside commuting distance are taking advantage. It's a rare opportunity, and not to be squandered.
Writing is all about momentum. You hear the advice all the time, in endless variations: write everyday, or at least set a consistent schedule. It's the secret to productivity, to improvement, and to becoming a professional. Showing up to the keyboard, even if it's only for half an hour after your day job, is like dress rehearsal for your writing life. In this, as in so many ways, 2020 has been a momentum killer.
The malaise that hangs like a smoke cloud over the world has hit writers especially hard. Let's face it, in general, we're not the most confident lot. You'd think that the forced time at home would be a writer's dream, the retreat we're always threatening to run off to. Now, more than ever, we should be finding ways to get out of our heads and onto the page, to escape if only for a minute to a world of our choosing. Instead, this year has sapped many writers of their strength, infected them with doubt, and paralyzed their writing.
I can't say DFWWW is immune, but I log into the Zoom meetings and see forty writers a week committed to showing up and critiquing, if not reading. That's forty writers who refuse to let the world's unrest stop their momentum. That's forty writers that have the support they need to keep working and escaping. I'm grateful to have had the chance to join them this year, and to be a part of what they've built.
My first exposure to DFW Writers' Workshop was at the conference in 2018. Sitting in on a Read and Critique (the most underutilized sessions, in my opinion), I was taken with the level of detail in the critiques, and the professionalism of the panel. I left the conference wishing something like that was available near me. I returned to the conference in 2019, where I had a fabulous experience in the Read and Critiques and sat in on a handful of sessions. Again, I wanted regular access to that level of feedback. Enter 2020.
Like everyone else, my plans went to shit. I was booked to come to DFWCon, my first novel launches in October, and I had plans to attend BoucherCon to promote it. To say I was disappointed is an understatement. When I heard DFW Writers' Workshop would switch to Zoom meetings for a while, I was thrilled. I suppose something had to go right this year.
These days, staying connected is key to surviving, and I mean a real connection, not a like on Facebook or a Tweet about your political views. The Zoom meetings can't replace actual face-to-face contact, but to share a story, a laugh, a moment with another human, that's what we need right now. I live in Northern California, and I've seen people as far away as London on the meetings. I hope more people from outside commuting distance are taking advantage. It's a rare opportunity, and not to be squandered.
Writing is all about momentum. You hear the advice all the time, in endless variations: write everyday, or at least set a consistent schedule. It's the secret to productivity, to improvement, and to becoming a professional. Showing up to the keyboard, even if it's only for half an hour after your day job, is like dress rehearsal for your writing life. In this, as in so many ways, 2020 has been a momentum killer.
The malaise that hangs like a smoke cloud over the world has hit writers especially hard. Let's face it, in general, we're not the most confident lot. You'd think that the forced time at home would be a writer's dream, the retreat we're always threatening to run off to. Now, more than ever, we should be finding ways to get out of our heads and onto the page, to escape if only for a minute to a world of our choosing. Instead, this year has sapped many writers of their strength, infected them with doubt, and paralyzed their writing.
I can't say DFWWW is immune, but I log into the Zoom meetings and see forty writers a week committed to showing up and critiquing, if not reading. That's forty writers who refuse to let the world's unrest stop their momentum. That's forty writers that have the support they need to keep working and escaping. I'm grateful to have had the chance to join them this year, and to be a part of what they've built.
September 20, 2020
Cry Wolf Teaser
Cry Wolf debuts October 1st, and is available for pre-order through Amazon or through daniellinkauthor.com
Here's a sneak peek at Mack's first adventure from Fawkes Press.
Chapter 1
When my head went in the toilet, I thought about leaving the city. Arms the size of I-beams with about as much give held me under while I thrashed on the floor, and what popped into my head? Buffalo. I’ll bet Buffalo’s nice this time of year. Mind you, I was in San Francisco, and I had never been to New York City, let alone Buffalo. When it’s you getting dunked in your own crapper, though, you see if a vacation doesn’t seem like a good idea.
“Bring him up,” Ramon Alcala said, and my head jerked out of the bowl, water spraying off me in a shampoo-commercial arc.
Air. My body screamed for it, but it was hard to take it in. I gasped like a fish, drowning on dry land. Ramon was saying something else, looking at me like he wanted a response. He stood there in his khakis and his pristine white oxford, smiling as his jaw worked up and down with his words, but they were muffled, and I realized I’d heard him better with my face in the john.
As soon as my lungs started to adjust to breathing, Ramon said, “Again.”
“No,” I cried, but it was cut off by the chlorinated water filling my mouth.
The second time I went down I was still thinking about Buffalo, but my mind was starting to recreate the chain of events that led me to my predicament. Still at the top of my priorities was air, but a not too distant second was to stop the god-damned soul searching. That wouldn’t get me anywhere. So I fought the good fight to get air and forced myself not to remember better times, and think only of Buffalo, and how I’d like to be there instead.
Cry Wolf
Here's a sneak peek at Mack's first adventure from Fawkes Press.
Chapter 1
When my head went in the toilet, I thought about leaving the city. Arms the size of I-beams with about as much give held me under while I thrashed on the floor, and what popped into my head? Buffalo. I’ll bet Buffalo’s nice this time of year. Mind you, I was in San Francisco, and I had never been to New York City, let alone Buffalo. When it’s you getting dunked in your own crapper, though, you see if a vacation doesn’t seem like a good idea.
“Bring him up,” Ramon Alcala said, and my head jerked out of the bowl, water spraying off me in a shampoo-commercial arc.
Air. My body screamed for it, but it was hard to take it in. I gasped like a fish, drowning on dry land. Ramon was saying something else, looking at me like he wanted a response. He stood there in his khakis and his pristine white oxford, smiling as his jaw worked up and down with his words, but they were muffled, and I realized I’d heard him better with my face in the john.
As soon as my lungs started to adjust to breathing, Ramon said, “Again.”
“No,” I cried, but it was cut off by the chlorinated water filling my mouth.
The second time I went down I was still thinking about Buffalo, but my mind was starting to recreate the chain of events that led me to my predicament. Still at the top of my priorities was air, but a not too distant second was to stop the god-damned soul searching. That wouldn’t get me anywhere. So I fought the good fight to get air and forced myself not to remember better times, and think only of Buffalo, and how I’d like to be there instead.
Cry Wolf
