I’m back on the futon tonight drinking spiked hot chocolate and contemplating my two WIPs. I started working on a trilogy at the beginning of the year. I know, big groan. Everyone is doing a trilogy. If I thought I could tell the story in less than three books I would, but I have no desire to write a thousand page book and I’m pretty sure there aren’t many people willing to read said book. I’m not George R.R. Martin. It’s going to have to be three books to do it justice.
I’m overwhelmed by the project. Writing a three book series is daunting. I have to give credit to people that do three, four, five book series and manage to hang onto their sanity. My writing buddy, Nina, very nicely persuaded me to try something smaller. That’s the thing about Nina. Instead of telling me that I’m an idiot for trying something so hard off the bat, she gently steers me toward something more manageable. She’s an awesome inspiration, a good friend and a great freelance editor.*
My small project is a short paranormal romance with a great big heaving dollop of sexy. It is super fun and I can use words you don’t find in main stream romances — you know, the dirty ones. I don’t know how romance writers pen entire novels without being in a constant state of arousal. Just saying. I’m having fun writing The Dark King’s Lover and I’m starting to get some confidence in my writing. I may someday think up a better title for it.
I’ve been chuckling to myself as I write. What would all those kids who called me Fluffy Buffy in school think of me writing romances? What did they think were in those Judith Krantz novels I read in high school? Hopscotch and knitting? There were scenes in those books that still make me blush.
I realized today that I foolishly didn’t explain the title of my blog in my first post. How silly of me! I’ve done a lot of research on faeries. I hate when I come across a mention of a pixie in a novel and the writer has attached wings to it. Pixies don’t have wings. I have to admit that I’ve helped perpetuate the misconception. My husband and I bought our niece a set of Disney pixie dolls for her birthday. I felt bad about it, but they were pretty.
I thought I’d let the MC of my trilogy tell you her feelings about faerie misconceptions. She’s better with words than I am. I don’t think this will appear anywhere in my finished novel. It was an exercise in developing my voice for this particular character.
If I could have a few moments with Walt Disney, J.M. Barrie or anyone else who believes the Victorian notion of faeries as ethereal creatures that be spell the world with sweetness and light, I’d kick them in the ass. They had no business writing about creatures they clearly knew nothing about. If they did, Tinkerbelle would have had mouth full of sharp, mauling teeth and the Blue Fairy would have demanded Pinocchio’s soul or first born or something equally as unpleasant for turning him into a real boy. Faeries do not do anything from the goodness of their own hearts.
And most importantly, pixies or piskies or whatever you want to call them don’t have wings. Pilliwiggins have wings. Piskies do not.
I should know this. Some people see dead people. I see faeries. I see freaking faeries every freaking day of my freaking life. Everywhere I turn there is a different faerie: dracae in the river, pilliwiggins in the gardens, piskies along the banks, trows under the bridge, abbey lubbers in my parents’ basement. I think you get the picture. The list just goes on and on. They are everywhere and to add insult to injury, I am the only one (well, almost only one) that can see them. Let’s just say that the girl who saw monsters in every corner wasn’t very popular at sleepovers. Faeries ruined my life.
So Walt Disney and J.M. Barrie, I have no idea what you are talking about.
*If you are looking for a great freelance editor, do yourself a favor and check out Nina Alvarez. Here’s her website:
Tell her Buffy sent you.