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Starting Sparks // Rewritten

Ahem, so this is all a little slapdash, but today I am once again joining the Starting Sparks linkup hosted by the ever-fabulous Emily @ Ink, Inc. and Ashley @ [insert title here].
This month’s prompt instantly jumped out at me as something I had to try. I’m not sure what exactly this is, but it’s kind of a parody/satire thingie, kind of metafiction, kind of breaking the fourth wall . . . I don’t even know. It was fun, regardless!
Le prompt is as follows:

Pretty great, right? Here’s the thingamabob I threw together today. Enjoy!

Rewritten

I sit up with a start, blinking in the light shining over my desk. Had I
fallen asleep? I rub my eyes and look around my bedroom. Everything looks the
same as it always has. The clock shows 1:47 p.m. in glaring red letters.

“Hello there, Tracey.” The voice, female, emanates from everywhere
and nowhere. Somehow it fills the room without being loud. “Nice to finally
meet you.”

I whirl around in my chair. “Who are you? Where are you?”

“I’m Author.”

“Excuse me?” I stand and begin poking around, first looking under the bed,
then opening the closet. I am alone.

“This is the first day of your existence. It’s very exciting, isn’t it?
Your story has been percolating inside my brain for months, and I’ve finally
discovered my main character. You.”

I scan the ceiling for some wispy ghost floating above me, but there is
nothing. A disembodied voice in my room? I must be dreaming. “I’m sorry, can we
start at the beginning, please? This is not the first day of my existence. I’m
twenty years old, thank you very much. I think you have me confused with
someone else.”

“Take a look at your journal.”

Cautiously, I retrieve the notebook from its shelf and flip it open. But
instead of the scribbles pouring out my thoughts, the pages are blank. Well,
not quite. Blurry smudges of blue ink are smeared across the pages, like fresh
writing soaked in a rainstorm. “Where did my journal entries go?”

“They never were.”

My furrowed brow and darting eyes must have shown my confusion.

“You have a history, but I haven’t exactly . . . written it yet. Hence
the mostly blank journal.”

I point to the page. “But I remember writing this! I remember what I
wrote! August eleventh, twenty-sixteen, four-something p.m. . . . I wrote down
a verse from Proverbs 18, and then some thoughts on—”

“That’s good to know about you. I’ll jot that down. But listen to me,
Tracey. You do have a vague history, the one I came up with. It feels real to
you, but in real life it never happened. I haven’t written it, see? Only what I
write exists. Today I just started writing about you.”
The voice gets
excited. “The story starts on a typical day to show the reader your life
situation. You have a day off work, so you’re writing . . .”

“Hold up.” I toss the journal onto my bed. “This is crazy. My life never
happened? I have crystal clear memories of that life! It’s a peaceful one. I
have a family—”

“Oh, thanks for reminding me. They died.”

The world shifts. My stomach lurches as if I just staggered off a spinning
carnival ride. It’s like the colors of the room change, and yet they don’t.
It’s like the furniture rearranges itself, but it doesn’t. My cheeks are wet—I’m
crying? Something has shattered inside me. I can feel the jagged shards of it
scattered throughout my bloodstream.

“What—” My voice catches. “What do you mean? They’re just upstairs, my
parents . . .”

“Died in the same explosion that killed your siblings.”

It doesn’t sound right, but as the girl—Author—speaks, images flash in my
memory. A man at the door, grim-faced, bearing the news. Footage on TV of the
hotel exploding in fire and smoke and debris. It’s not right, because I
remember what it used to be: my family, intact and happy. But now I also
remember the tragedy of one year ago. Which is true?

“Your backstory was too boring. I decided you needed a disaster to spur
you on and give you emotional depth.”

“You killed my family?” I whisper.

“No, the terrorists did. Oh, but they’re actually dragonriders. You just
don’t know that yet.”

“You killed my family!” I scream. “What is this? You rewrote my life?”

“Hmm. I’ve been thinking maybe your brother survived the blast, though.
You’ll discover him at the end of the book, and it will
look like a
happy reunion—until you find out he joined the evil dragonriders.”

I shout a word I’d never used on anybody. It tastes dirty on my tongue.

“Goodness, Tracey, that’s not in keeping with your character.”

“You don’t know me! I don’t know how you’re doing this, changing my history,
but I demand you change it back!”

“Calm down. I can’t get this story written if you insist on being
obstinate. Your grief means you have nothing to lose, so when the dragonslayers
rope you into their plan to send the riders packing—the dragons are all evil
monsters, by the way—there’s nothing to keep you from joining their cause.”

I pinch my lips together and swipe the tears from my eyes. This has to be a
sick joke. “If you know me so well, you know I’m a writer too.”

“Yes, that’s a particularly fun aspect of your character. It’s kind of
like a slice of me walking around in the story.”
Author giggles. “And
when you encounter dragons and otherworldly fighters, you’re enraptured because
it’s just like the books you write. And read. I wonder which way the back cover
blurb should go? ‘When dragons flame into Tracey’s life, just like the books
she’s always lost herself in . . .’ Or ‘When dragons flame into Tracey’s life,
just like the tales she pens . . .’ I can’t decide.”

“Shut up! I was going to say that as a writer, I can tell you that
making your main character an orphan is the most clichéd tool in the box.
Likewise with the just-like-the-books trope.” I cross my arms, sorrow quickly
hardening into rage.

The Author prattles on, apparently heedless of my words. “You know, I
wonder if maybe
you killed your family and you just don’t know it yet. Yes,
what a great idea! You used to be part of the riders, and you did something
that enabled them to blow up the hotel. Then you left. I don’t know why yet,
but I’ll figure it out. Oh, and they wiped your memory before you left them.
Ha! This is fabulous!”

The whole time she’s talking, the room does that spinning, shifting thing
again, and my insides heave. I double over. My head pounds as memories are
created and erased and pieced together—rewritten. “I hate you,” I gasp out.

“I’ve been told that before. I’m such an evil authoress, aren’t I? You know what they say. Drive your character up a tree and throw rocks at them.”

I can’t believe she sounds delighted. I almost expect her to break out in a
villainous mwahaha, but she doesn’t. I rub my temples, trying my utmost
to suspend my disbelief over this horrible turn of events. If I were Author,
wouldn’t I be gleefully torturing my main character too? Of course I would. The
thought sickens me, but it’s the truth. Maybe a more reasonable approach is best.

“It sounds like you have a cool story going, Author.”

A blatant lie. It sounds awful.

“But I’m not an interesting enough person to be your Main Character. I’ve
always thought I’d be a better Sidekick. Or even a Background Character.”

They had easier lives. The whole universe wasn’t conspiring against them.

Author seems to consider this. “No, I like you. I want you to be the
Main. But you may be right about being uninteresting.”

I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes.

“I know! You have dormant superpowers that you don’t know about yet!
Dragon telepathy, perhaps? That way you can discover your gift and help defeat
the dragons by convincing them to go away.”

Once again, the nauseating shift. I grab my head. “No, no, you’ve got it
all wrong! I don’t want superpowers, I don’t want amnesia. I just want to be
normal. Give all those things to someone else. Let me be a supporting character
instead. Please.” I gaze up at the ceiling, not sure where exactly Author was.
“They have far better mortality rates.”

“Not true. Sidekicks frequently die, and their deaths have the double
benefit of being a disadvantage to the Hero, while also driving their quest
forward at the same time. Mains seldom die, and when they do, they can often be
resurrected. Besides, you’re saving the world!”

“But life is an awful lot harder for Mains. I don’t think I can take that.”

Author laughs. “That’s what they all say until I prove them wrong. Just
wait till you reach your happy ending. Wait till your story becomes a
bestseller! Then you’ll thank me.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Author continues.

“I’ve also been thinking of adding a love interest. Gotta have a little
romance in this thing. I think he’ll be a dark, brooding dragonslayer. But he’s
a double agent, also working for the evil riders—who, by the way, are trying to
take over the world with brute force and flaming beasts.”

How does one girl manage to stuff this many clichés into one story? I grit
my teeth through another round of my world being rewritten at the whims of a
psychopath. As I do, I glance in the mirror, not at all shocked to see the
pallor of my skin. Having one’s life torn down and rebuilt within minutes would
have that affect.

The voice seems to hover over my shoulder. “You know, we’re going to
have to do something about that hair. It’s the wrong color.”

“What’s the matter with dirty blonde?”

“It sounds gross. Let’s make you simply blonde.”

My hair brightens a few shades, turning golden.

“Are you serious? Do you want me to have blue eyes too? There are too many
Barbie dolls in fiction.”

“You’re right. Black hair.”

Glossy black spreads from the roots to the tips. “I look like a vampire.”

“Now that’s an idea—”

“Wait, forget I said anything! Black is fine.”

“You need to be shorter. Petite. So it’s more adorable when your big,
buff love interest sweeps you away from danger.”

My bones grind painfully as I shrink several inches.

“What am I forgetting? Oh! A mysterious scar.”

A thin pink mark draws itself down my jawline, then vanishes only to
reappear on my forearm.

“There. That’s better. Facial scars are so overdone.”

I grab two fistfuls of hair. “Enough! Go bother someone else! Stop meddling
in my life. I’m no longer me anymore. You’ve changed my appearance, you’ve
given me superpowers, you’ve erased memories and added others, you killed my
family
. . .”

The lights dim. “Well . . . You have a point, I guess. You’re no longer
the girl who first popped into my head.”

This time the room seems to flip upside down. I fall to the floor—or is it
the ceiling? When everything finally stills and my stomach stops doing
somersaults, I sit up and look around. In the mirror, my reflection is back to
normal. I think back on my life. No tragedy, no explosion.

Upstairs, footsteps creak and muffled, familiar voices are talking. My
family is back.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe Author decided to abandon her story, or at
least to scrap my character and find someone else. I settle back into my desk
chair. My laptop is open, my work-in-progress novel staring back at me.
Suddenly I’m not in the mood to write. Just as I close my laptop, Author’s
voice returns.

“Okay, okay, but we’re keeping the telepathy. That part was awesome.”

My enraged shout is loud enough to rattle the window.

777 Writing Challenge Strikes Again

[source]

Deborah O’Carroll long ago (back in September 2015–yikes!) tagged me for the 777 Writing Challenge. And I’m finally getting around to participating. Some of you might be scratching your heads and thinking, “Wait, didn’t Tracey already do the 777? Like, twice?”

You are correct. The first time can be found here, the second time here. I just realized that Deborah was the one who tagged me the first time, too–and that it was my very first tag ever. All the warm, fuzzy memories . . .

Anyway. The rules are as follows:

The 777 challenge requires you go to Page 7 of your work-in-progress, scroll down to Line 7 and share the next 7 lines in a blog post. Once you have done this, you can tag 7 other bloggers to do the same with their work-in-progress.

Buuut it’s fun to play around with the rules. I’m changing lines to paragraphs, and rather than isolating paragraph seven of page seven, I’ll give you a couple paragraphs of context as well. Just because I’m sweet like that.

Oh, I nearly forgot to mention that this snippet is coming from book 2, The Prophet’s Key. None of this is edited, so you get behold the raw, uncut glory (or mess) before I take a chisel to it. In this scene, Josiah is supposed to be waiting while his family has a meeting with his psychiatrist, Dr. Teagan. You see, the events of the first book have had big ramifications on the home lives of the protagonists. Particularly Josiah’s.
Everyone thinks he’s schizophrenic with delusions of grandeur, let’s just put it that way.
Anyway, Josiah is listening in to this family meeting from outside Dr. Teagan’s office.

~*~
“I just want my son back,” Dad snapped. “If that means giving him his meds myself, I’ll do it.”
An image of Dad forcing his jaws open and shaking a pill bottle down his throat ramped up Josiah’s inner heat to boiling.
“Monitor him, yes, but don’t antagonize him. Patients fare best when home life is stable. If he refuses to take the pills, we may consider switching him to a daily injection.”
Josiah gripped the doorknob, then paused. What would it help to barge in? To protest? Resisting would only worsen the situation.
He spun on his heel and marched down the hallway and out the front door. A blast of early summer heat washed over him. Though the very thought rankled him down to his bones, the solution was clear: play along.



~*~

In keeping with my generous (ahem, lazy) method of leaving this particular tag open, I am again saying that if you want it, take it! Share your 777 snippet on your blog, here in the comments, whatever floats your boat. Or even just share a snippet of your work-in-progress, all tag rules aside. Give me all the yummy words!

p.s. On an unrelated note, keep an eye out for a very special bloggy happening coming later this month! It involves fantasy novels, an Oscar Awards sort of idea, and YOUR participation!


Starting Sparks // to fool the court

Surprise! It’s not a Saturday, but I’m posting anyway because why not? You might remember that back in January, I may have damaged a few hearts with a piece of flash fiction called Ann Marie. I’m participating in Starting Sparks again today, though I think your hearts will stay intact this time. Ann Marie was a rainy, emotional, grieving piece. This one is more wintery (seeing as I’m clinging fiercely to spring right now, I haven’t the foggiest idea why this thing insisted on snow) and feisty . . . but I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.

Starting Sparks is a monthly linkup hosted by Emily @ Ink, Inc. and Ashley G. @ [insert title here], in which they take turns providing writing prompts. If you’re in a writing slump, or just need to switch gears for a while, prompts are a fabulous solution. Trust me.

When I saw the May Edition, I thought it was too fun to pass up. Dialogue prompts might be some of my favorites, come to think of it. This is also one of my first conscious attempts at something like an omniscient POV. Or a more distant third-person. Or the much condemned head-hopping. I’m not really sure at this point. Anyhoozens, enough dithering. Here it is. Enjoy!

* * *
“No,
not you. Anyone but you.” Prince Tyrus—by all appearances thoroughly
overwhelmed by the sight before him—covered his eyes, then scrubbed his hand
down his face as if resigning himself to meet it head-on after all.

“And why,
pray tell, am I not suitable?” Voice prickling with ice, Evaleen shook a
fistful of her voluminous skirt. Tiny shards of crystal sewn into the
barely-blue fabric tinkled. “I certainly look the part, thanks to your staff.
No one will know that I’m a bridgekeeper.”

Prince
Tyrus waved a hand. “You could be a digger in the chasms for all I care.
Station has nothing to do with it. It’s just—” Again the hand waving. His
fingers whisked the air as if to thread words from it.

“It’s
just what?” Evaleen crossed her arms. Her toned biceps stretched the
long sleeves designed for the insipid girls of Wavening Court, and not for
sturdy women who shoveled snow off the bridges all day. The pale afternoon
light shining through the palace windows glinted in her defiant gaze.

Tyrus
gestured between them. “This. You and I. We don’t exactly get along. The
court’s not going to believe me for a minute if I walk in there with you on my
arm. They want me to choose a wife, not adopt a sister with whom to squabble.”

A beat
of silence passed, during which a sudden wind gusted over the palace turrets
and sent a flurry of snow crystals whirling past the windows and down, down,
down into the dark abyss surrounding the castle on all four sides.

Evaleen’s
ruddy, wind-burnt cheeks lifted in a smile. “But as long as they believe me,
things will be just fine.”

Tyrus
released a ragged noise that was half sigh, half groan. He turned to the window
and stared outside, hands gripping the stone sill. His floor-length fur mantle
bristled like it was still attached to the snow bear from which it came. “I
never thought I’d tell Wavening Court that I intend to marry the girl who cast
me out in the first place,” he muttered darkly.

[source] 
“Cast
you out, ha.” Evaleen plucked at her crystal-sewn bodice, wrapped tight around
her ribs. How ladies managed to breathe in such constricting garments, she
hadn’t the foggiest idea. But maybe the lack of oxygen was the cause of their
weak voices and limp smiles. The thought nearly made her snort, but she caught
herself just in time. “I sent you to safety. Curse the hinterwinds, I
practically saved the kingdom. You should be thanking me.”

Tyrus,
oblivious to her clothing hardships, let the abyss outside the window suck his
gaze downward into its blackness. “For throwing me into that wind glider and
launching me south? South, Evaleen. Did anyone ever tell you what kind of
people live there? What they do to northeners, especially young ones? I nearly
lost my life multiple times, and on top of that, I nearly lost my father’s
kingdom.” His fingers kneaded the stone windowsill. Memories a decade and a
half old throbbed in his mind . . .

Floating
for miles on the cold drafts rising from the network of chasms . . . Touching
down in a place green and sticky with heat . . . Clan men jabbering in a
foreign tongue, carrying him by his ankles and wrists.

Taking
him to the Purification Pit.

Pitch
blackness.

Fat
slugs crawling over his skin, his face, their acidic slime burning his young
flesh. His own screams echoing back to him.

Years
of slavery.

Weekly
trips to the Pit.

Evaleen
dropped her hands to her sides. The sound broke his reverie. “And if I had done
nothing, the invaders would have put you in the family plot next to your
father’s grave.”

Tyrus’s
shoulders stiffened. “’Ware how you speak of the dead, bridgekeeper.”

“My
soul is safe regardless of my manner of speech regarding decomposing flesh,
Prince. Didn’t the south cure you of such superstitions?”

Lips
pinched over a sharp retort, Tyrus finally turned from the window to face her
again. Better to scrap the whole conversation and return to the point. “I cannot
walk in there with you. Return to the regent and tell him to find a replacement
actress.”

“No.”
Evaleen tilted her chin up, daring him to a battle of the wills.

And if
there was one thing he’d learned long ago as a nine-year-old prince (back when
he was still innocent and un-orphaned) crossing the bridges from one massive
pillar of rock to the next, it was that the bridgekeepers possessed a will
stronger than anyone he’d met within Wavening Court. Hours of sun and
unforgiving wind, shoveling the snow constantly blown in, repairing cracks, and
salting the ice slicks—those conditions seemed to harden something in the
keepers.

Defying
Evaleen, commoner though she was, would be of little use.

Tyrus
shook his head, defeated before he’d begun. “They have to believe we’re betrothed.”

She
flashed her left wrist, bound in a silver strand of metal. “The regent provided
me with a betrothal band.”

“They
have to believe you’re of northern blood.”

She
pointed to her head of blonde curls. “This doesn’t get any more northern.”

“They
have to believe you’re of the Court.”

“I’ve
tended bridges crossed by hundreds of Wavening feet. I know the part better
than you do, long-lost prince.”

“They
have to believe I chose you.”

She
pointed at him. “That part is up to you. Get rid of that crease between your
eyebrows and smile a little. Keep me close when we walk into the ball, give me
all the dances, and pretend I’m the most interesting person in attendance.”

Tyrus
opened his mouth to protest that impossibly lofty order, but she marched on.

“And if
you so much as breathe a word of our, ahem, strained past, the act will
be over. You understand that, right? They don’t know I was the one who sent you
away. Your job is to keep them ignorant.”

He
grudgingly accepted the truth of her words, but then straightened with a gleam
in his eye. “Most importantly, though: they have to believe we’re in love. And
that is going to be impossible, so you may as well go talk to the regent now so
he has time to find a replacement before the ball begins in three hours.”

Evaleen
grinned now, teeth flashing in the slanted light. Wolfish. Cunning. “Not so
difficult if you take a little blood-blush wine.”

Tyrus
froze. He backed away, hands up. “No. No, I’m not taking anything of the sort.”

Blood-blush
wine was not really alcoholic, though its effects were undeniably strong. Made
from boiling water and ground up blood-blush flowers picked right before they
bloomed, some called it a love potion. It was reported to make the drinker
enraptured with whatever he or she looked at while swallowing the elixir, but
only for as long as the wine stayed in the digestive system. A sizable gulp
would swill around in his stomach all evening, long enough to convince the
court.

But no.
Being made subject to anything picked at the scabs of the past and
rankled Tyrus down to the soles of his boots. Offering his emotions up for tampering
was especially bad. Not to mention the blow the resulting behavior would be to
his dignity. Fawning in public over a girl he hated? It was too much to bear.

Evaleen
arched a brow. “The more you argue with me, the more you prove the point that
you do need a little helping along.” She withdrew a scarlet vial from the folds
of her skirt. “One night. That’s all. Suffer a little embarrassment, make the
court believe you’ll be marrying me within the fortnight, and on the morrow
they’ll crown you as king. Then the realm will be safely in your grasp, and the
invaders can be driven from our home for good. By your sword.” She came
closer, took his hand, and pressed the vial into it. “Your sword, and not Lord
Galoth’s.”

Galoth,
the uncle who’d been ruling in Tyrus’s absence, was as foolish as they came.
His thoughts seemed to zigzag like a hare’s tracks, and that was no way to run
a kingdom. Under his loose and silly reign, the invaders had settled in and
begun eroding the country with their brazen, thieving ways. Much longer of
this, and a puff of wind would cause Wavening Court to crumble into the
invaders’ waiting hands.

 “And then,” Evaleen continued, “once you’re
safely on the throne, you can quietly denounce me. You’ll never have to speak
to me again.”

Tyrus
stared at the bright red vial of liquid in his palm, then at Evaleen standing
so close her skirts brushed his boots. He fought down a rising tide of
bitterness that tasted like bile. “Fine,” he spat. “But just remember—any wild proclamations
of love I make tonight will be drug-induced and thereby as false as a northern summer.”

Evaleen
smirked. “I’ll remember.” Still she remained inches from his face. It appeared
she would not move until he ingested the vial’s contents.

With
the heavy sigh of a man who knows he’s signing away his pride—and perhaps his
life—Tyrus uncorked the vial and gulped the liquid back. It tingled on the way
down and tore a mighty cough from him.

He had
a moment of sinking dread before the world seemed to glow rosy bright and the
face before him became striking in its feminine glory. In that moment before
drowning, one thought crashed through his mind like a last breath of air to
desperate lungs. One solitary thought.

This tastes a lot more potent than a single
dose.


Beautiful People – Valentine’s Edition – Will + Emi

We interrupt the regular broadcast of Lovely Books
with another round of Beautiful People…

Valentine’s Day has come and gone, but it’s still not too late to join in with this month’s edition of Beautiful People! Our wizardly hosts Cait and Sky have mixed up a love potion series of questions aimed at character couples. If you’re a writer, and you haven’t yet checked out this linkup, dash off and do that now! BP has been such a fun and helpful tool for me, a way to get to know my characters better and give others a chance to meet them.



Sort of how Will looks.
Usually I like to feature characters from whatever I happen to be working on at the moment, but seeing as I’m not actively writing anything this month (it’s research and plans and quite a lot of thinking about research and plans right now . . .), I elected to dust off one of my favorite romantic pairs. Today you get to meet Will and Emi!
Long ago, in the distant history of 2014, before Adventure Awaits was born, I wrote a novella-sized retelling of Beauty and the Beast for the Rooglewood Press contest. Blood Rose is the tale of how Emi, a young scientist, finds herself stranded in the countryside, where the only refuge is an ancient manor belonging to the mysterious and charming William Thornburgh. Events conspire to keep her there, but with each passing day, Will’s behavior grows stranger. Secrets lurk in the manor’s dark corners. In desperate need of Emi’s knowledge and skill, Will locks her up. Escape is not an option. Can she fulfill his seemingly impossible demands? And can a broken, beastly man ever be made whole again?

Sort of how Will looks when a particularly beastly
side of him surfaces…



Kind of how I imagine Emi. (There’s too many sort
ofs and kind ofs when it comes to character models!)

I had such a blast writing this novella, so I’m excited to give you a glimpse of the protagonists! If I go crazy with snippets, I apologize.

1. How did they first meet?
Emi, recently graduated from university, was driving to her hometown in search of a meaningful job, when her car broke down.
Forty miles from the nearest hint of civilization.
Right in front of a creepy old manor.

That creepy old manor happened to be the home of Will, a reclusive but nonetheless well-mannered young man. (Well, he looks young, anyway.) He offered to give her a place to spend the night, which she warily declined, choosing to sleep in her car rather than in the house of some stranger. But then, you know, the next day she ends up injuring herself. With a twisted ankle and slight concussion, she has no choice but to let Will care for her.

As he stepped through the doorway, Emi turned her head toward him. “Will?”

He looked over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“Why did you run out into the woods?”

Although his gaze never wavered, layers of shadows seemed to shift in his eyes. “Lost something.” He gave her a slight smile, clapped a hand against the doorframe, and walked on.

Emi stared at the spot where he’d stood and listened to his footsteps fade down the hall.

2. What were their first impressions of each other?

He scared the living daylights out of her, but after that initial shock, she found him strange. Oddly dressed (old-fashioned breeches and a billowy shirt), for one thing. Rather kind and gentlemanly, for another. All this is shaded by her wariness, of course, because as a lone female miles from civilization, she’s in a vulnerable position. But Will’s actions seem to indicate he is entirely noble.

Will sees her as a beautiful young lady, deserving of respect, but a certain desperation reminds him that she may be just what he needs. It’s not long before he also realizes how smart and kind-hearted she is. There’s a lot of conflicting emotions on his part.

3. How long have they been a couple?
I never know how to answer this kind of question. What timeline am I supposed to use? At the beginning of the story, they’re not a couple at all. That doesn’t happen until the very end of the story. It’s hard to see your captor in a romantic light when he’s already come close to killing you. (Heh. Spoiler alert.)

4. How committed/loyal are they to each other? Would they break up over a secret or a disagreement? Could stress drive them apart? Would they die for each other?

Loaded question! And very spoilery, too, I might add! Their relationship is rife with secrets, particularly on Will’s part. Stress? There’s a whole whackload of that too. But commitment and loyalty do slowly grow between them. (I refuse to answer that last question about death. One day you may get a chance to read Blood Rose, and then you can see for yourself.)

5. List 5 “food quirks” they know about each other. (Ex: how they take their coffee, if they’re allergic to something, etc….and feel free to mention other non-food quirks!)
Will knows that she glows when she’s excited. He knows her well enough to realize at a certain point in the story that when she stops wearing the old-fashioned gowns he provided her, and instead wears the jeans and sweater in which she arrived, that she’s planning to leave. He’s good at reading her emotions and the underlying thoughts behind them. One thing he does not know is that she prefers her fried eggs hard, not runny.
Emi knows that he eats a lot. As she gets to know him better, she starts to read between the lines, picking up on the hurt and the secrets he doesn’t express. And as the story progresses, she learns the warning signs–the clues that he’s about to turn beastly.
I know that’s not five for either of them, but that’s all I could recall from their story at this point.

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6. Does anyone disapprove of their relationship?
There’s not really anyone around to disapprove. Emi is very much a loner, with practically no close friends. Her parents died in a fire. Will is a complete hermit, and his parents have passed away as well.
7. What would be an ideal date?
I’ll answer this one from the perspective of what happens after The End, because as I said earlier, they’re not a couple until then. An ideal date would be a long stroll through the woods, where Emi is far from her books and projects. Afterwards, they’d make a simple meal at home and cuddle by the fireplace.

8. What are their personality dynamics? Similar? Contrasting? Do they fight a lot or mesh perfectly?
Both are very intense people, but it manifests in different ways. Will is deeply loyal to those closest to him–though that includes very few. He carries the weight of past mistakes, and it is a heavy burden indeed. Emi is the kind of person who grasps at stars, a person who lives poised on the line between hope and discouragement. She is driven, but kind. She sees beauty where others see only ugly brokenness.

They have a number of fights–some actual, physical fights and some merely verbal–but I have a feeling that further down the road, their relationship will be largely peaceful. They will eventually mesh well, with Emi giving grace to Will, and Will helping Emi to relax and just be.

9. What have been their best and worst moments together as a couple?
To answer that definitively would be to spoil the entire story, but I will let these two snippets speak for themselves.

Here’s a good moment (not the best, mind you):

Will was grinning at her, shaking his head slowly.

She grinned back uncertainly. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s justyou glow when you are excited.”

Emi touched her warm cheeks. Drat, I’m blushing.

His smile softened, and he reached over to clasp her wrist. “There is no need to feel embarrassed. I think your ideas are brilliant. You have much to offer the world.”

Sitting there in the old kitchen, with crisp autumn air filtering through the barely open window and a low fire crackling at her back, Emi laid aside her doubts for the moment and simply let the next breath be her focus. “Thank you,” she said softly.



And a bad moment, though not the very worst:

He cut her off with a sweep of his hand. “Quiet!” he bellowed. “Ever since you arrived, you have defied me and stirred up things of which you have no part.”

Emi backed against the wall, putting as much space between her and Will’s hulking frame as possible. “You want me to keep my nose out of things? Fine, I’m leaving anyway. See?” She lifted the potato sack. “Now open those doors.”

Will’s dark eyes pinned her to the wall as effectively as manacles. “You will not leave,” he said between tight lips.

She uttered a short, incredulous laugh. “What?”

“You stay here until your purpose is accomplished.”

“Purpose? What purpose?” Emi swallowed, more acutely aware of her vulnerability now than she’d been on day one.

Will leaned in until his face was only inches from hers. He opened his mouth to speak, but winced instead as if struck. He clenched his eyes shut. When they opened, his dark brown irises flickered with red light. “You stay,” he growled, “as long as I need you.”


10. Where do they see themselves and their relationship in the next few years?
Will and Emi, as of the time of Blood Rose, wouldn’t really have an answer to this question. I would like to see them happily married, working together to advance medical science and heal people. In fact, I wanted to see that so much, that I once wrote a little piece of ‘fanfiction’ to get a glimpse of their lives a couple years down the road. (Can you write fanfiction of your own stories??)

Thanks for taking the time to meet my beastly Will and beautiful Emi!

What are your thoughts on Beauty and the Beast? Have you entered any of the Rooglewood Press contests? Speaking of which, the announcement of the winners is now two weeks away! *cue inner screaming*