Tagdreams

Monologue

Snow!

Sorry, had to get that off my chest. I’d assumed I’d slipped into an alternate reality, something like Narnia under the White Witch in reverse, and winter would never come again.

Unfortunately, that does not seem to be the case. That white stuff was lying in wait this morning.

I often go to bed with my head full of whatever story I’m working on. Lately it’s been all Crossroads, all the time. It’s not the best bedtime story, as it involves being cold and broke and on the road, but I do what I can with it, tuck Blue in to some safe corner or under a big pile of leaves before I drift off. I always feel like I should dream about my characters–it seems only fair–but I never do. Instead, I dream abut other people’s characters. Last night, for example, I dreamed of Rupert and Istvan in The Mercury Waltz, a book that isn’t even out yet and one I know little about, aside from the fact that it’s a sequel to Under The Poppy. Either I’m really excited to read it or I’m the victim of an evil new dreamscape advertising scheme.

Snow and dreams aside, I’m mostly just busy. More time is needed, or more hands. Maybe more brains, though that sounds rather grim. I promise I’m not taking a turn down Frankenstein Lane.

No, I’m just doing the usual–writing, momming, living. Two days ago I wrote my first supernatural horror scene and realized just how subjective scary things are. Next up, I need to be thoroughly educated in hopping trains. I’ve also been writing lyrics for songs performed by multiple fictitious bands, because writing wouldn’t be writing if it didn’t hold the possibility of spectacular failure. We’ll see whether they make the final cut or end up in the Crossroads discard file.

That’s the extent of things here. The draw to hibernate is currently strong, but I’ve too much to do to succumb to it.

Introducing Crossroads

The other night I had a fabulous dream about what I should write next. Not the dream about the fuzzy caterpillars climbing all over my arm–that turned out to be the cat’s tail. No, this was one of those dreams where you wake up thinking THAT’S IT! Of course, it’s brilliant!

And then you wake up just a little more and go boy wizards…I think that’s already been done.

No, no boy wizards here. Instead, just Crossroads. I’ve been trying to come up with a good introduction to Blue Riley and her story. It’s hard because I maintain a certain level of superstition around talking about unfinished work, namely that if I say too much it will all flutter away in the breeze. The flip side, though, is that talking about it can also force me to stay the course, because who wants to be the person who doesn’t finish a book after publicly announcing she’s working on it? Not me. You’re a scary lot out there.

So…Crossroads. Let’s see what I can say.

On a cold October night, armed only with her dead mother’s guitar and her own pure heart, Blue Riley waits at the crossroads for the darkest of dealmakers. Two years ago, her older sister Cassie disappeared, leaving Blue in the care of her aunt in the middle of rural Maine. Blue’s ready to do whatever it takes to bring Cassie home.

But the devil in the red dress waiting for Blue at the intersection offers her a game, not a trade. One year and a pair of hiking boots that sense the paths Cassie traveled to bring her to her sister’s side. If she doesn’t make it, she forfeits her soul–and Cassie’s. Easy enough. After all, there’s only so many roads her sister could have taken. Right?

The devil rigs every game she plays, though, and the kiss that that seals the deal steals Blue’s voice with it. Penniless and mute, Blue hits the road with her boots and guitar, on a journey that will take her through diners and cults, underground cities and rundown roadhouses. Only the game Blue’s playing has nothing to do with the deal Cassie made, a deal with a force much more destructive than the antiquated collector of musicians’ souls who watches Blue’s every move. To find her way to Cassie and bring them both home again, Blue will have to confront both the devil she knows and the one she doesn’t.

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