Emboldened with my new resolve, I shower and get dressed and head to school to catch my back to back classes of Early American Literature and Journalism, even though I can’t concentrate on a goddamn thing. When they’re over, I’ve got two hours before I have to meet with Blake, and there’s really no point in going home and coming back, so I take the time to get to the library early and do some writing of my own, on something that actually counts.
The Land of Tears and Bone is my fantasy novel, the secret pride and joy of my life, and a world where I’d rather spend ninety-nine percent of my days. I say secret because even though my family knows I’m writing it, they don’t ask any questions about it and basically pretend it doesn’t exist. Well, that’s not true. The other day my mother asked if I was still writing about the occult. My mom goes a little nuts with her Christianity and thinks all fantasy novels must be derived from Satan somehow. Yeah, she’s one of those people who thinks Harry Potter should be banned.
My sister, Dahlia, has a little more interest, but she’s busy living on a farm somewhere in the British Columbian interior, rarely has access to the internet, and she doesn’t have a cell phone for various reasons, some of which I totally get. She’s a bit of a nomad and a hippie, and honestly always has been, but don’t think my parents weren’t disappointed in her when she announced she wasn’t going to university and instead running off with her tree-planting boyfriend I call “El Beardo.” I’m still not sure what his real name is, but he does have one hell of a beard.
It doesn’t really matter in the end. Most people I talk to don’t take writing seriously. If I tell them I’m an aspiring author, they get that “yeah right” look on their face, which is usually followed by “good luck with that.” Then there are the people I went to high school with, the kids I grew up with, family, friends, anyone from that crowd. Writing isn’t seen as something respectable, and that’s something they, and my parents, still firmly believe in. So, when I can, I don’t mention anything about my work-in-progress and I gloss over the creative writing part of my degree.
Thank god for the people in my program because I can talk to any of them about writing and they get it. Maybe our aspirations are all different—Rio thinks it will be a hobby for her and wants to teach English overseas when her degree is over—but our fears are all the same.
Except for Blake. Blake is the enigma, the person who doesn’t quite fit in. I feel comfortable baring my soul through the written word with anyone in that class except for him. It’s like he’s an intruder, someone to watch and spy and pass judgement without offering up anything of himself. That’s not to say he hasn’t written anything, but I truly doubt it comes from anywhere genuine. His work carries none of his soul.
The minute I step into the library, I exhale, closing my eyes for a moment to take in the familiar smell. There’s a twinge of regret in my gut, and I wish Blake hadn’t chosen one of my sacred writing places for our meeting, but I push on and ignore it. I go and find a table tucked away in the corner on the second level, and set myself up, opening my laptop, plus my one notebook for plotting and the other for world-building. The world-building one is a hell of a lot thicker than the plotting one. I get extremely carried away with the research aspect of the novel, and I have been filling up the tome for many years.
I haven’t written for the last week, and while I’m eager to get back into it, I also stopped at a difficult part. I’ve written forty percent of the book and have hit a bit of a block. My character, Luthwen, is in the middle of his quest, and his ragtag group of characters, including a beautiful half-bird woman named Phenolope, are becoming integral to his journey…but I’m bored. There’s a few scenes I have to go through before the first battle, and it’s lagging. I know it’s common for the middle of a book, but I haven’t figured out how to keep my interest or the readers’ that may one day read it, even though I’ve peppered the middle with exciting chapters.
Part of me thinks that maybe a romance between Phenelope and Luthwen could happen. It certainly feels natural, despite the characters butting heads. But I swore I wouldn’t inject romance into this novel. First of all, far too many fantasies have them and they feel poorly written and unnatural, like they’re thrown in there to keep the readers happy and not the author, or the authors think it will attract a whole new set of readers to their genre when it won’t. Romance readers want romance, they don’t want it with a plot about bird women and wizards and monsters that look like a giant ant crossed with a spider. They might not want it with a plot at all, so let’s not pretend.
So I do what I always do when I’m stuck—research. That’s probably why I’ve been writing this beast for two years. Every time I hit a road block I throw myself into something I can depend on. In this case, I get books about Greek mythology, the history of the Druids, and a Piers Anthony novel and bury my nose in them, getting as much inspiration and detail as possible while munching on garlicky kale chips and chocolate-covered espresso beans for sustenance (not at the same time).
I guess I’m so engrossed in reading rather than writing that time slips away from me. I don’t even notice Blake until it’s too late.
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CHAPTER FOUR
Blake
I wake up with a brain full of drying cement, completely hung over, every pore in my body smelling like beer. I blink into the dim light, relieved that I managed to pull my shades shut before I passed out. Beneath my sour mouth and pounding head, there’s this curious feeling, like a residue of guilt lingering deep inside me. This guilt is the manifestation of a hundred pins being stuck into a voodoo doll.