I am a Scorpio. I enjoy long walks on the beach, drinking copious amounts of alcohol, and men in hockey masks. In my spare time I work to foil the plans of my arch nemesis, utilize my eight finger discount, and lecture from my soapbox about social injustices. I do not tolerate fools or like people who make Walmart plural.
I judge people who are missing more teeth than they have, unless they are old. I would like to someday be the scary old woman in the neighborhood that all the children are afraid of, however I will be misunderstood and actually a sweet old lady turned bitter by the disappointments of this cruel, cruel life.
I will have made my vast wealth telling fortunes under the alias the Mad Madame Mim and selling t-shirts in tourist destinations that say “Life isn’t always flowers and sausages”.
I have been steadily working on edits for Dark Corners this week. After the slight annoyance of losing all the work I did on Tuesday and having to redo it I am finally starting to make some headway. Yay! I intend to send it to the editor no later than Monday. It is scary, but exciting.
One question that has been bothering me is do I keep the prologue or get rid of the it? I know there is a lot of debate about the effectiveness of prologues. When I originally wrote the story there wasn’t a prologue, then I added it later because it was suggested it might be a better hook for the beginning of the story. Now I like it, but I am hesitant because it is a prologue. So I am interested in everyone’s opinion. Prologues: Love them or Hate them?
A sticky, sweet smell veiled the house, making it hard to breathe. I should have known immediately. After all, how many times had I described it in my books? Yet it didn't even occur to me as possible. Never could I have imagined my fiction so brutally brought to life. And so close to home.
The odor stuck in my throat. I gagged. Fear caressed my skin with its clammy hands. In the pit of my stomach I knew something was wrong, dead wrong. The intense certainty propelled my feet forward despite my legs unwillingness to move. They felt sluggish and uncooperative as I entered the only place left to look, the kitchen. The odor grew stronger, burning the inside of my nose. Swallowing several times to force the lump in my throat down, my mouth went dry. I on not throwing up, instead of what I might find. My hand defensively reached out in front of me though it was shaking and fragile. Time slowed down. Every one of my senses assaulted by blood and death, I froze in place. The cold, blank, dead eyes of my husband met mine. Rocking back and forth, the room spinning, I couldn't process the whole of what I was seeing. All I could do was stare back into Danny eyes—eyes frozen open in horror and pain. The floor smacked against my body as my knees gave way. Everything went black.