D.L. Atha's Blog

Finally! For the Sake of Revenge is finally published via Foxboro press for paperback and Empress for Kindle copies. It's available now on Amazon and soon to be on BAM and Barnes and Noble.

I'll be honest, I was beginning to have my doubts if I would ever finish. A fellow writer had told me after my first novel, "Well, you've written one. That's great. Now write another." Her deadpan expression should have hinted to me that the second one might be even harder to bring to fruition.

How correct she was! In between marketing and all that jazz and, of course, working to actually pay the bills, I struggled to find the time to sit down and put fingers to keyboard. So when I finally sent the final manuscript, it was with unparalleled relief so far as my writing has been concerned.

This novel is based on the legends of the Russian vampires. These were unusual creatures to say the least and since their conversion was usually related to some type of schism with the church, the back stories were often fascinating.

I set the story in Sitka, Alaska which I visited three times to perform the research. (My husband claimed I was just making excuses to travel but I admit to nothing of hte sort.)
It's a beautiful town but the kind of place where no matter how hard you try, you just can't seem to blend in. Maybe it was my shoes or my coat, I'm not sure, but everyone seemed to recognize me for the tourist I was. Still they were gracious and kind and allowed me into their historical storage as if they did it everyday.

Southeast Alaska is definitely the type of place that can inspire you to think of vampires. In the winter, it's dark, dreary and in the summer, much the same.
A thick mist is always tumbling along the ground and twisting through the trees and the moss that covers everything is so green, so velvety that you just want to lie down and take a nap in it's softness.
The cemeteries are a rich mix of the old and the new and it's nearly impossible to tell which is which. It's a land where even the ground is alive. A wild place and easy to understand after being there why this state inspires normal, average people to sell everything they own and
move up there to homestead.

The story came to me while I was standing in the original Russian Orthodox cemetery and I wrote it, almost unchanged, from that original idea. It's a story of revenge and betrayal with a dollop of romance and I hope you will give it try.

The following is an excerpt from my second novel. Ignore the grammar please as it has not been to the editor. I would appreciate any comments or feedback. Thanks!


Tonight, I prepare for my journey to Russia. I had thought to make Alaska my permanent home but the events that followed the staking of the vampire some months back have made that an impossibility.
Even now, my three children set weeping in the small home they share with the native woman I have called wife for several years. They do not understand why I leave them and their sense of abandonment is acute. I cannot blame them for is it not the greatest betrayal a child can suffer? Worse yet is that I cannot even tell them my reasons and my children will forever believe that I left them for no other reason than a selfish desire to return to my homeland or out of shame at their dark skin.
How can I tell them that I leave to save them when I am unable to make them understand how I am saving them? How can I tell them that their father has dabbled in the dark arts? Even now, I question not only my sanity but also my purity before God. Let me explain.
On the night of the vampire’s capture, it was I who treated the body and prepared it for reburial. It was only I and the Archimandrite who were present with the body in close quarters. The Baranov had wanted to limit the number of men who came in contact with the aberration in hopes of controlling the aftermath. Thus, I was able to take much blood from the veins of the beast and in doing so was able to fill up several vials of the substance, which have remained hidden to all men, including the Baranov.
In the glow of the lamp each evening for these many days, I have stared at the contents of the vials, wondering what could be done with this unholy bounty. As a scientist, I recognized that the substance within these bottles should be studied, examined. As a devout member of the church, I knew I should cast it aside as it is cursed. The scientist in me won out and the bottles rest safely in my cabinet.
I am a heretic to be sure. The Church would most likely excommunicate me, as the vampire was, if they knew what power I possessed here in my small clinic. And it IS power, I am certain of that. For the substance inside these glass bottles has not decayed in any way. The liquid is as bright and free flowing as ever. No clots have as of yet began to form. It is as alive as the day six months back that I pulled it from his veins.
Because of this I know the legends are true. That the accursed Adrik lies waiting beneath the ground. While we sleep, he strains against his shackles and when we awake, his body goes lax as his mind burs with plans of his retribution. Awake, conscious, but bound by the power of the Cross and therefore, he thinks but cannot act. He burns with lust but cannot attain his desires. He hungers but cannot starve. Exhausted, he cannot sleep.
I am certain of this because I have done the most unconscionable thing. I have consumed his blood. Not much, only a few drops and yet what seemed an inconsequential amount now torments me in the greatest of ways!
It was an experiment of science and I have suffered no deleterious effects, save one. I can feel him. In my mind, Adrik’s presence hovers and he tugs at my soul. He calls to me, in screams at night and in whispers when the sun has dominion in the sky.
In my nightly dreams, I am with him in his casket. Inky blackness that not even his vampiric eyes can separate surrounds him with the stench of rotting wood. His clothes decompose and add to the filth that bathes his skin. The water, at first only a trickle, has filled the coffin and together we drown nightly. Insects slither across his bare skin. His every sensation is now mine. Our minds join in the abject horror of facing the eternity before us while we burn, literally afire with thirst.
The thirst for human blood to be sure but it is more. His soul begs for revenge. You see, Adrik was an innocent man. His soul is laid bare to my eyes and there are no dark shadows in which he can tuck away secrets.
Still, he is beyond my help. Beyond the help of any mortal, save the Archimandrite who could in a single act of mercy restore Adrik to the fold of the church and wipe his slate clean. But it this same man whose hands are surely stained as crimson as Adrik’s are now.
But I am only a physician. A writer at times when my hands can find time to spare a few words. So tonight before I seek to escape Adrik’s dominion over my mind, I will write the truth. I will put to paper how Adrik came to be in this state so that, at least, there is a written record of the terrible things that went on here. I will stand witness to the truth that this man was defiled.
To give his story justice, I must begin long before the curse of vampirism forever marked him. It seems Adrik was cursed from the moment his feet first touched the soil of New Archangel.
It was with his very birth that he was cursed. He was after all born into the wretched condition of serfdom. Simply put, his life was not his own. Now it seems, it shall never be. Being born an estate serf who worked the land, he was sent in lieu of monetary capital by his master as an investment in the Russian American Trading company of which I myself am a part. He was one of only a handful of serfs sent with the Russian American Tracing Company, this not being a common practice.
He arrived on board the Neva, the mighty warship sent from Russia to voyage around the world, under command of the proud Captain Lisianski whom I suspect was no easy man to work under. The voyage in and of itself was not an easy one. It was plagued with disease from time to time and lack of funding at others.
With no direct intentions, it happened that the Neva was in the vicinity of New Archangel when Alexander Baranov made to retake the site upon which New Archangel now sits. Fate tried to intervene for poor Adrik in this instance and caused the winds to die down such that the sails of the Neva hung limp and useless. An odd thing off the coast of Alaska to be sure. But Baranov, being stronger than fate itself, had the Neva pulled into the sound by canoes full of Aleutians Indians.
The Battle for New Archangel was not a particularly bloody battle but it was long. Unbearably long, actually. The Baranov found the Tlingit’s to be a surprisingly guileful group of fighters. It was their most favored fishing grounds they were protecting after all.
Knowing the Baranov was coming, the tribe had built a fort across the marsh and along the Indian River that wound through the forest to the sea. It was a heavily fortified encampment, quite suited for withstanding the heavy cannon fire of us, the Russians and fire we did for days.
Unable to blow them out, the Baranov sought to starve the Tlingit’s instead. As I said, they were heavily fortified and provisioned but as any city under siege, eventually hunger sets in. The Tlingit’s sent an envoy promising surrender and the Baranov’s forces waited patiently until one evening, a chanting began that lasted well into the night. It ended with hair raising screams that could have pierced the slumber of the dead.
The Russians, it was said, were a twisted lot of anxiety and those present say the screams delved straight to the soul. It raised the hair on the soldier’s arms, made them reach for the crosses strung round their necks with trembling hands.
Expecting the gates of the Tlingit encampment to open, our Russian troops waited until it became apparent that the gates would yet remain closed. Not a sound could be heard except the cries of scavenger birds circling above. The forest was quiet, as if the wind itself could not even find the energy to breathe through the trees.
Finally, exhausted and unwilling to wait any longer, the Baranov gave the order to take the encampment, bloodshed or not. What they found is difficult to describe. Captain Lisianski could scarcely detail the carnage. I have read his account and I daresay, it turns the stomach sour.
The fort was empty of the living, save two small children and one old woman. The Tlingit’s had long since escaped into the forest, knowing the mountain trails as no white man can, leaving behind only the bodies of their children. Or perhaps it was the slave children. We shall never know and does it really matter? We are hardly in a position to condemn them, having our own class of slaves that we treat as poorly.
I tell none of this to judge the Tlingit’s, only to set the scene for what happened to Adrik. You see, that wretched man was one of the first sent through the gate. It was he that stumbled upon the first of the two living children and by a wicked twist of fate took the life of one young child. The boy died in Adrik’s arms, his blood spilling onto the cursed dirt of the fort while Adrik desperately tried to staunch the wound with his hands. Needless to say, it did not work.
From that moment, Adrik’s demeanor changed. Melancholy became his constant companion. Nightmares became so frequent that he could never lay his head down without being brought from sleep by these visiting demons. Any other man would have recognized this terrible event for the accident it was but Adrik became nearly inconsolable with grief.
I treated him myself with a variety of potions and concoctions that helped none at all. The most comfort the man received came from the services of a quiet priest who prayed with him daily. During his free time from his serf duties (which was scarce), he accompanied the priest in the instruction of the native children and in visiting the sick and afflicted. I suppose it was Adrik’s way of paying penance, however unnecessary it may have been.
Returning from one evening with the priest, he had the bad luck to catch the eye of Irena, future Duchess of jfkdjfk. Her father, Duke of jfkdjfk, had brought her abroad with him, unusual for the nobility but not unheard of. She was betrothed to a nephew of the Tsar.
Perhaps her father sought to keep her pure by keeping her close to him but I fear he had lost that battle months ago. In his defense, I do not think he realized the deepness of his daughter’s depravity and so his sins against Adrik shall surely be forgiven him.
Adrik was uncommonly handsome, especially for one born of such low station. A base man would have used the beauty of his face to find favors and there would have been many in high stations whom would have enjoyed his attributes. Adrik’s interests, however, were towards no woman but to the Church alone.
Rebuffed despite her numerous advances, Irena’s anger was kindled against Adrik. I must assume when she missed her monthly cycle, she chose him to be her scapegoat to pay for her previous sins. Her father never doubted her claims of rape by the one man who was truly not capable of such a crime. Had it been anyone else, I would have had my doubts.
Knowing she could no longer marry into the royal family, the Duke was outraged and promptly strung Adrik up outside the cabin, delivering nearly twenty lashes with the knout, that whip so similar to the cat of nine tails.
Unable to obtain a confession from Adrik on pain of mortal death only, the Duke turned towards the afterlife instead. The Archimandrite, our highest priest, fared no better and so ignoring his divine calling of mercy, he promptly excommunicated poor Adrik. You see the Duke wanted a full confession that would secure his daughter a pension from the Tsar.
It seems the Archimandrite preferred a god made of gold. Wide and easy is the path that leadeth to destruction. I only hope it will lead that false prophet straight to hell.
Unable to confess a sin that he did not commit and unable to bear the future as a condemned man absent from God, Adrik developed a hunger for revenge that would last beyond his mortal life. Thus he turned to vampirism by the act of suicide. What a potent combination, excommunication and suicide! He became the undead, the stricken! Not worthy of burial on hallowed ground; not worthy of the great ceremonies that properly put the dead to rest.
The English have a saying that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I think they have forgotten the rest of that poem which is that Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned.
Never have I felt a rage so deep, so visceral as Adrik’s; his love for mankind has died and hatred has taken a firm root in the remains of his once quiet heart. His rage breeds a deep thirst.
It is daylight as I write this and so I am able to bear it, he becomes more subdued by the rising of the sun. It seems the power of his mind wanes during the light of day but I must not fool myself. His thoughts are ever present with him, he knows no rest. No peace.
For fear of what I might do with his thirst burning in my own breast, I locked myself in the block house night before last, the same cell in which the dejected Adrik took his own life and sealed his fate.
During the night, I cried aloud with his hunger, my hunger. I strained my arms through the bars, begging for release by anyone. Thankfully, the wind blew, the rains pelted and no one heard my cries until this morning. For I am certain, I would have gave into the hungers that filled me, his promises of immortality, and of a strength which I dare not think on too much. Especially now that age is robbing me of the strength that was once mine.
On rising the next morning, I smiled at the soldier who found me, telling him I was getting old, absentminded even, and had accidently let the cell door shut behind me. Why had I come here? He asked. I told him I must have dreamed I had a new patient here in the cell house.
For two nights hence, I have contained myself in the cell at dusk, asking my assistant, who is also my nephew, to free me once the sun is well positioned in the sky. He thinks it odd but does not say anything and does as he is told.
As for the blood I have collected, I am unsure of what to do. In my heart of hearts, I know I should pour the cursed fluids out upon the earth but with this same heart, I am afraid to do this very thing. For I cannot say with any certainty what unnatural thing will arise out of it. I know it will not decompose but instead will last for an eternity. And yet, I fear it will fall into the wrong hands as it would make a very powerful weapon indeed. I can scarce imagine the men that could be controlled with such a substance. What armies could be powered by this blood or what men might be capable just to obtain it.
Have I sold my soul for this knowledge? Will I rise vampire upon my death? No, I think it more difficult than that. I think it takes the vampire’s mark upon your skin or commitment of the sin of heresy or suicide. Neither of which I have.
And do not the old legends speak of consuming the vampire’s heart to regain your strength or to cure the disease of vampirism? Have I done anything different? At least, this is how I console myself in the dark of night when his cries are so loud in my head that in sheer desperation I clasp my hands over my ears, burying in head between my knees. It does no good; I hear him still. What pure hell is this! What have I done?
Of a few things, I am certain. I have tasted his power, his promises of immortality on this earth and I must leave. For I cannot bind myself each night and I am certain that one evening when the sun has sunk below the horizon, I will rise like my nocturnal companion begs and go to him. I will dig him from the earth and remove the stakes from his diseased heart. If only to release myself from the hell I have created by my own curiosity. And then how many people will die? How much blood will it take to satiate his thirst for revenge?
So while I still perform under my own power and my mind is more or less mine, I have booked passage away from here. I leave the fort clinic in the capable hands of my nephew whom I have personally trained in the arm of medicine. As for my children, I leave them only with the hope that by my very desertion of them, I will yet save them. May God forgive me all my sins.”

I've spent the last few days with Lord Byron. The end of the world was coming after all so why not spend it with that dark romanticist who has so inspired the world with the beauty of his poetry?

Perhaps this passage rings a bell.

"But first, on earth as Vampire sent,
Thy corpse shall from its tomb be rent:
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;"

The above verse is an excerpt written by Lord Byron after a visit to Turkey where he became enthralled by legends of the Turkish vampire.

My recent obscession stemmed from my reading a book called Lord of the Dead by Tom Holland. Actually, I'm only about half way through the novel but I became so entranced with the main character that I had to take a break to do some research.

Why, after all, had Tom Holland decided to transform Lord Byron, a very real man who died in 1824, into a vampire and Lord of the Underworld?
Am I the only person who did not know the connection?

Well if you were in the dark like me, let me explain. Start by doing a google image search of Lord Byron. Turns out he was quite beautiful. Women adored him. Men too. In fact, the world seemed to adore him despite his addictions to gambling and married women. Some say he really liked his half sister and possibly fathered her child. His mother had to hide from his creditors.

History says he had a temper and was likely bipolar and yet the people he pulled to him throughout his life were inexplicably loyal to him.
In fact, women were known to go completely mad, sometimes nearly starving themselves because they wanted him so badly.

Legend says he glided across a room yet he was born with a club foot. Legend also says a woman could not escape his gaze. He is rumored to have experienced severe mood swings with euphoria followed by profound sadness. Sound familiar? If you're a fan of vampires, it sounds oh so sweetly familiar!

Byron's personal physician, John Polidori was mesmerized with the man. That was back in the day when aristocrats tooks their doctor's on world tours. (why isn't this tradition carried on today?)

John Polidori was so inspired by Lord Byron and one of his unfinished short stories that he wrote his own novella based on Lord Byron himself. The name: The Vampyre. It was the inspiration for Bram Stoker's Dracula.

And who can argue that without Dracula, the western idea of the beautiful but deadly, brooding aristocratic vampire would have never came to be.

So the next time you pick up that wonderfully romantic vampire novel whose main character is that perfect combination of brooding and dangerous, you can thank Lord Byron.

I guess in a way, he's an immortal after all.

A fellow supernatural reading friend of mine called the other day to insist that I download Fifty Shades of Grey and begin reading it IMMEDIATELY.
"Are there vampires? Ghosts? Super sexy aliens? Shapeshifters?" I ask.

"No," she answers,"but the main man character is sexy like a vamp."

I'm not convinced (It's so nice to disappear into the supernatural) but this is one of my best friends. She's stood beside me through good reviews and bad. She's drove halfway across the state to keep me company in book signings. I have to read it!! My friend has spoken.

Which I did and I've just downloaded book two.

I entered my review on Goodreads and then I read a few posted by my fellow Goodreads friends. It was a mixed bag. Some good and some not so good.

For starters, I was interested to see if anyone else thought the novel had "twilighty" elements and as it turned out, alot of readers did. That was my first complaint. I loved Twilight; I do not want to reread it as an S&M.

Many readers commented on "bad writing."
A few said the main character was a "MarySue."

Myself, I did't notice the "bad writing." But then you have to remember that I spend every day reading my fellow physician's progress notes. Now that's some bad writing.
I'm guilty of some daily bad writing myself, having to reread my own daily rounding notes from time to time. Did I really write that in the patient's chart, I ask myself. Yes, Yes I did is invariably the answer.

So if I'm enjoying the story, I can easily overlook the small errors that routinely occur. And I did just that while I read Fifty Shades of Grey. The grammatical errors and the repeated words did not take much away from the story.

However, by the time I finished reading the first installment, I was Fifty Shades of Black, Blue and Confused.

I argued with myself the entire time that it's just entertainment but in the end, I couldn't convince what the author referred to as my "inner goddess" of this truth.

I mulled this over through the day and eventually stumbled onto what my problem is with this book. It is entertaining and I guess I felt guilty about it. Not the S&M. Everyone has a little of that in them, I think.
But the main male lead in this novel is disturbed, he really enjoys causing pain and part of me enjoyed it with him.

Two consenting adults who know what they are getting into. Fine.
One over the top control freak taking advantage of an admiring student sent to interview him for the student paper not so fine.

I don't know much about S&M. It's not really my thing but the scene where he whipped her made my skin crawl. I felt abused myself.

I kept thinking to myself how I dearly hoped my own daughter didn't meet such a troubled man. Nor do I want to produce any doms from my family tree.

And what was all the avoidance of food by the main character. Several times, she would "forget to eat" and often times, there was a power struggle regarding food between the two main characters.

Anorexia anyone?? When I look back across my medical career, thus far, two of the worst cases I remember were anorexics. It's a powerful disease and not one to be taken lightly. Many specialists believe the etiology of the condition to have stemmed from control issues between the patient and the world around them.

I'll begin the second installment of the series tonight. My hope is that the author is bringing to light the dangers of needing to be in control, that we'll learn more about the main character's need to not eat and how it plays into the main male character's need to control her.

I really hope that the not eating and accepting mega expensive gifts from a relative stranger is not written as routine behaviour but instead of as symtpoms of a serious problem.

I waited, inpatiently, for the package to arrive from Amazon. I'm embarrased to say I even fretted while at work hoping that the new Sookie book would make it to my rural home on Amazon's two day free shipping plan. What if Amazon didn't take my zip code into account, I questioned? Should I make a trip to Target and double buy the book for added security, I asked one of the ICU nurses?

Suprisingly her answer was "maybe." What? This normally frugal RN thought the next installment of Sookie so important that I couldn't wait one more day! Things were were worse than I realized!

I drove home on pins and needles to find a lovely brown package sitting on my doorstop. I breathed a sigh of relief, the neighborhood dogs hadn't sacrificed the box for their own chew therapy.

My husband eyed me strangely as I opened the package reverently; my children oohed and aahed over the cover which twinkled in the bright lights of the living room. Sookie had arrived!!

Oh the anticipation! as I waited for the kid's bedtime. I went to the bathroom more often, stealing a few moments of reading as I sat on the side of the tub. Little fingers sliding up under the door to wave at me brought on intense guilt. If only bedtime would come quicker!

Finally, the kids were in bed. My husband had drifted off watching some inane political show and I was alone with the book.

Four hours later and completely exhausted, I had ripped my way through the newest Sookie installment.
I realized, rubbing my blurred eyes, that I was now more anxious than ever! Another year to find out what finally happens. I had lied to myself again. I'll read it slowly I had told myself, a few pages a week. I'm so gullible.

It's going to be a long year.

I'm certain that I already know the ending. Sookie's going to end up with Sam. He's good for her, he can have babies, he's solid!! But I don't have to like it.

The capricious Eric is my favorite and while I love the series and the way Ms. Harris writes, I don't like what's happening to Eric's character.

In this book, he's little more than a remnant of his former self. Gone is the magic that made the man or the vampire. I want him back!

Well, ok. What I really want is for the series to end the way I want it to. Eric and Sookie together. Sookie somehow finding a way to live forever with some fairy magic. Eric remaining the vibrant, sexy, bigger than life character that he was. Then I could reread them for years to come.

I'm pretty sure I won't get everything I want. As an author (albeit a struggling one), I've written enough to know that I don't change characters based on reviews. I leave them as I see them in my head. I'm certain a writer of Charlaine Harris's magnitude won't either. But should we?

So that's one of the questions I asked myelf this week? Should I be a little more flexible with my characters? Should I write more towards my audience?
What's your opinion?

My next questions were more for myself. Should I preorder next time or make a trip to Target? And is this preoccupation healthy?

Writing has been a life long passion. It began many years back at the age of eight with a love story about Spock. My brother found it under my bed and read it to a couple of boys that were spending the night. They laughed till they cried.

I burned the book in Dad's burn barrel. It was only a few short pages, so it went up in smoke rather quickly. Next time, I vowed I would hide it better.

In seventh grade, I wrote a poem that a teacher found so disturbing she thought I was suicidal. I considered myself a happy, well adjusted teen. Eventually, the teacher calmed down. But she always watched me carefully when I was in her classroom.

In high school, it was an erotic story about a rock band and in college it was pirates. My boyfriend was shocked. Deeply shocked!

Shortly after finishing my medical residency, I completed a novel that I thought was good but it even scared me!

These days it's vampires and aliens that make up my characters of choice.

The first time I got a bad review, a friend said I should quit. That it wasn't worth the pain and rejection.

But it's obscession. I can't stop because I love to write.

I can't keep track of the number of books I've started or the number I've discarded as trash.

But one thing I have learned from writing is that thick skin is a requirement!

The premier of Breaking Dawn has come and gone. A couple of my friends said, "Thank God that's over with." The majority of my crowd happily stood in line for an hour just to get into the theater. They had bought the tickets well over a week before the big night. Thanks to a good friend, who had stood in line to buy the ticket for me, I only had to stand in the line to get into the theater. I wouldn't have done that if we hadn't met for maragaritas and mexican food. But who can pass up the camaraderie of good friends, lemon margaritas and mudslides.

So while all the Twilight naysayers are bemoaning it's lack of a good message or it's poor writing, I say what's wrong with it being nothing more than an entertaining story which brings women together for a good time.

Must everything have some deep, hidden message. I'd bet good money that most of the stuff I watch or read is for pure entertainment. I haven't heard anyone say, "Where is the message in True Blood?" or "What should we be getting out of The Walking Dead?"

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for good moral stories that teach a life lesson, for books that cause me to ponder the world and the people in it.

But I refuse to feel guilty for, every now and then, just wanting to read for fun!!

So here's to good entertaining books, good friends and the occasional really good margarita!

Apologies if this sounds like a rant!!

I continue down the path of the elusive second novel. After Blood Reaction was published, I requested advice from fellow writers on Bookblogs. One author immediately replied, "You've wrote a book. Great! Write another."
Great advice that I am trying to take to heart. Easier said than done and all that stuff too.
I've had the flu this week and as a physician and now personal expert in the flu, GET YOUR FLU SHOT!! It looks to be be bad this season.
Finally returning to the land of the living, I literally am buzzing with the need to write. (After the kids go to bed, of course.)

Hey you guys! I hope everything is going well. Things are still coming along nicely, if somewhat slowly, on my second novel. I appreciate the patience that everyone has shown. Today, thanks to a good friend, I got a couple thousand words written while waiting to pick up my kids from school. Tonya graciously provided me the use of a cabin that I will refer to as the "writer's retreat." She said I can use it anytime I want!!
My husband and I have spent the last week making tombstones for our annual Halloween party. I made one for Asa, one of the main characters in Blood Reaction. I can't wait to see if anyone on the haunted hayride notices.
My new main character's name is Adrik. I made him a stone as well.

It was close to 2 am a couple of days back and I had been drifting in and out of the earliest stages of sleep when out of the blue, the opening chapter for my second novel finally came together in my head. What is it about stage one sleep that is so helpful? Stage one sleep is also the most common stage for people to experience ghosts. If you believe in that sort of thing, that is. Are they hypnagogic/hypnopompic hallucinations or is our mind the most open then since we are somewhere between conscious and subconscious? Just wondering but thankful either way!