A Legend In The Making

     Before you look at me that way, no, I'm not talking about myself.
     I don't have nearly that much self-confidence.
     What I am talking about, I hope, is the story arc I've just "officially" begun with "Angels Would Fall."

     See, the inside of a writer's head is an awfully funny place. I don't mean Monte Python or the Swedish Chef funny. I mean, the men in white coats should be arriving in about ten minutes funny. And they're bringing a very special sport coat. It's unisex, in a very flattering off-white (used to be white, but ten thousand washings later, there's not enough bleach on the planet) and a unique design that fastens in the back.
     My own head is no different. Thanks to an article that a fellow Noble author linked to from "Scientific American," I can now take comfort in the fact that although yes, my mind is a sometimes-alarming place, it's really not my fault! But I digress.
     Inside my head, you could liken it to a carnival. There's the midway, with the rides and the games. There's the funhouse, the haunted house (in my own particular carnival, the haunted house is the biggest attraction-- go figure), the freak show, and, because my carnival's old-school, the peep-show. (Second biggest attraction. Um, wow. Is there a doctor in the house? I think I might need some meds. . .)
     This particular carnival also features a petting zoo. I wouldn't get too close to the llamas, though. And those cute little bunnies you're looking at? With their long lap-ears, twitchy little pink noses, and fluffy little tails?
     (Pardon me while I snicker.)
     Those little bastards are the reason that a writer's work is literally never done.
     You see, those aren't just any cute little fuzzy bunnies. They're PLOT bunnies. And, just like the more commonly known breeds. . . well, they breed. A lot.
      Some of them come up with sweet, dear little offspring that inspire poems about trees and lovely lyrical little vignettes about the perfect anniversary. When I got mine, though, I'm pretty sure that the guy who gave them to me had a telltale whiff of brimstone. Or really bad aftershave. Because my plot bunnies change after dark. Think Gremlins, only I didn't start out with Gizmo. I got Stripe right from Jump Street.
      Um. . .what?
      Okay. Moving right along. I wrote a sweet little short story called "Angels Would Fall." A couple of revisions later, I called it good and started hunting for a home for it. Enter Noble Romance (Thanks Jill, Bryl, Irene, Sara, and the rest of the crew!) and the official beginning of my career.
      Then the three-hundred ring circus (thank-you note to Dean Koontz; please don't sue me!) that I call my mind started revving up again. And to the slightly sinister sounds of the calliope, the plot bunnies started up. "Well, yeah, all's well for now. . .but you're not seriously going to leave it like that, are you?" My inner moron asked.
      "Why?" I snapped. "What's wrong with it?"
      "Oh, nothing," he said, scuffing his foot. "It's just--"
      I tapped my foot and looked pointedly at the clock.
      "Um, you left an awful big 'what if' at the end there."
      I read it over. I hate that guy. He's annoying when he's wrong, and infuriating when he's right.
      So I wrote another story. Kind of a follow-up, zooming away from Moradiel, my angel of death, and Ariel, his human paramour, to consider the ramifications of what he'd done to the Supernal and Infernal realms. (Heaven and Hell, in case I lost you there.) And lo. I wrote it. And beheld that it was good. And left the angels to their own devices with "Angel of the Morning," slated to be released May 16th. Time for another vampire story. . .
     Not so fast, Chuckles. Now here comes my inner moron again. Mumbling about, it's a good story, but. . . there's still something missing.
     I'm in the middle of a blog tour. Red Roses and Shattered Glass is about to debut any day now. I'm up to my ears in edits and don't have time for this. Never mind the "real" world drama. So I did what any stressed-out, caffeine-crazed writer would do.
     I took a baseball bat to him.
     He retaliated by throwing another plot bunny at me. This one was pregnant and ready to pop. Funny son of a bitch.
     Maybe they aren't plot bunnies at all. Maybe they're actually Tribbles. Furry vermin YiH'mey. (Pronounced YICK-may, that's the Klingon word for them. For the love of God, don't ask.)
     So I sat down to do another short. And I wrote. And rewrote. And facepalmed, headdesked, WTF!?ed, and generally, yes, whined. Because it wasn't working. I couldn't figure out what the problem was, but no matter how I tried, I couldn't make the thing mesh.
     Finally it hit me. I asked one person one question. The answer was what I expected, but confirmation from someone who knows is always good. I lit a cigarette and got to work.
     And now, honored readers, a full-length novel revolving around the events set in motion in "Angels Would Fall" is in the works. Whether it will ever see daylight is another matter entirely.
     But even if it's in my own head for now, I truly think I might be creating a legend in the making.
     Time will tell!
     Don't forget that Red Roses and Shattered Glass and "Angels Would Fall" are both available now from Noble Romance, and come see me and some of your favorites, and soon to become favorites, on the Noble Romance Authors' Blog Tour at http://www.nobleromanceauthorsblogtour.blogspot.com/! Win a few prizes and have some laughs with us!

      Until next time,

      Best,

     J.S. Wayne

     Writer: (n) A supernatural creature with the ability to alchemically transform caffeine, nicotine, and a dictionary into literature.