In the Company of Darkness

I love this time of year, when the veil between this world and the afterlife thins, when bodiless voices mutter all through my house, when my body is alive with the energy that surrounds me. Samhain is magickal. It also begins the dark half of the year and, let me tell you, my writing takes a particularly morose turn when it comes to the winter months. It should be interesting to see what oozes out of the urn this year.

I made a promise the other day that I have to keep, my minions. I promised you a glimpse of my door, along with my fabulous wreath and new gargoyles. So without further ado...



Isn't it pertyful?? Of course, I'd like some larger gargoyles for either side of the bottom of the door, but for now, I'm quite pleased. I've always been a fan of black feathers. Well, black anything really...
And yes, before you ask, today is a bit of a procrastination day. I've been revisiting a lot of old ghosts (ie, old books I've written) and seeing the problems in them, the things I could change to make them better. The problem is that I'm also seeing the potential--as in A Whisper of Need's case. It's a good story. Hell, it's great, probably the best I've written. But apparently it's too dark for agents. So I've been mourning my would-be successes this week and dreaming about what might have been, what may be, what I really true want to happen.

What bugs me most is that they say you should write what you want to read, that you should be unique, that you can't expect your readers to shed a tear reading it if you didn't while writing it. Check, check and check. This book has all those things. It's dark, yes. It's dangerous, yes. It's about subjects that some deem taboo. But it's a damn good book. I can't really wrap my head around the idea that stuff like this is getting published (and snapped up like free diamonds in the street) but my book...this really incredible story about a gay man who struggles with addiction, lies, a seductress, friendships and romance...isn't even being shopped around. Too much good fiction isn't being published.

I'll write today, of course. (I've a promise to keep to Vlad) But first I'm going to lose myself here. And then, brushing away cobwebs and woe, I'm going to write another book that may never sell.

Remind me why I chose this profession, again?