It’s hard to stop once you get going — a fear in me that, if I do, I’ll lose whatever momentum I was riding on. Glimpse’ll be a year old in March and, in that mercurial year, I sent it to every publisher I could with little luck. Sure, I had offers from vanity presses, but that’s not the real thing, is it? No, it’s not, and to hand Glimpse over to one of them would be doing Violet a disservice. She can stand on her own two feet when the time comes, when publishers are ready for her. For now, at least, she’ll live on Amazon.
Faced with a loss of momentum such as the above, I found myself in darker waters, deeper waters, but with an ultimately tighter tale in my grasp. If Glimpse was a story about a woman coming to terms with who she is, Wolf (a working title for now) is about a woman forged in the fires of trauma. Set thirty-odd years before Glimpse (and in a different literary universe), we’re thrust into the shoes of Elke Wolf, a maid for the esteemed and venerable Reimstadts of Drachenzahn, a castle overlooking the mountain town of Berges. That’s all you’re getting for now (aside from a small teaser if you keep reading).
Wolf’s first draft is finished and I’m currently in the throes of editing it to be (somewhat) coherent. It’s clocked in at about 65k words and, to be perfectly honest, I’m ok with that. I feel, personally, that there’s undue pressure aspiring Authors put on themselves to write as much as the pros do; to fill a tome the size of a big chapel’s tabernacle. I learned from Glimpse not to concern myself with the length of my work, only its quality, as most readers will appreciate a finely-tuned, polished and well-written book far more than one that keeps them reading for (what feels like) a month. Instead, I prefer to let the story decide how long it wants to be; there’s little good that can come from me padding out 65k words with an extra 25k worth of bloat and meandering for meandering’s sake.
Let’s put that aside; AJ, where did Wolf come from?
Well, Voice in my Head, as I said, it came from a far darker, far deeper place than Glimpse. As a result it’s a darker and deeper story. I’ve been repressing a lot of anger and hiding a lot of grief over the last two years, so Wolf is a concoction, a distillation of those emotions that had been bubbling under the surface. I guess I wanted, I REALLY wanted to write an underdog, a person you could easily get behind, who’d grow over the course of the story before facing off against her big bad. It’s not a nice story by any stretch of the word; it hurt to write it, to torture a protagonist as much as I did (and one I love as much as I do). Regardless, it now exists outside of my head and so too do those emotions.
Before I let you have a read of it, there’s a song that played on repeat in my head during this bout of writing; God’s Away on Business by Tom Waits.
Enjoy:
Karl batted the rain from his eyes. “I can’t help thinking we’re gonna’ fall out over this.” It was good rain, good because it knew exactly when to fall. He pointed to Elke's bare soles. “She won’t be able to stand if this keeps up.”
“I know.”
He looked to me then, square and with venom. “Don’t. Don’t go too hard on her.”
“Why?”
His brows wobbled. “Because you don’t want to be like them.”
“I do, that’s the point.”
“She’s only a girl, Izzy.” Splodge went his boots as he turned to stand under a tree. “I’ll stop you if I think... it’s gettin’ outta’ hand.”
“You can try.” I latched onto her ankle and pulled her from beneath blanket and all, landing her in the muck under the caravan. She went for the gun, but a quick slap sent it flying, widening her eyes in fear. Next she swung, furiously and with no real target, missing me entirely. I replied with a punch to her gut, doubling her over with a whimper. Karl went to move but I flung a pointed finger at him. “No – get up, Elke.” She let go of her stomach and pushed herself straight, but she never expected me to hit her again in the same place, and I was right in thinking so; doubling her over again. “Get up, Elke.” As she went to, I kicked her onto her back. “Get up, Elke.”
“Alright Izzy, that’s-”
“Get up, Elke.” Again she went to rise and again I kicked her back, harder this time. What a waste of a bath...
“Izzy, stop!” Karl roared. “She can’t even fight back for fuck’s sake!” Now she was crying and doing her best to pretend that she wasn’t. He came to lift her up but I pushed him away, surprising him. “Izz-”
“Fuck the both of you.” I climbed on top of her and started wailing on her face, punching without holding back. With each hit I drove her head further and further into the mud and after each blow she cried and howled for me to stop; underscored by Karl’s repeated protests. Nearly there... Nearly. I raised a fist high behind my head and swung, but it never connected, not to her face at least, no. It had met her open palm halfway there and was stopped dead in its tracks – lucky it did, otherwise I’d have knocked her out.
Gone were her tears, gone the expression of panic and horror from her face, gone the trembling and shaking in her arms and legs. That palm, that palm of hers pressing against my fist, closed over and white-knuckle tight, there wasn’t so much as a jitter in it and, when I looked back to her, her eye was squinted, squinted and angry. That was probably why I never saw it coming – a singular strike on the back of a wild howl that tore me off of her. I fell aside, giggling to myself.
“Shit...” Karl whispered, stunned.
I pounded the mud and muck-covered leaves, still giggling. “Oh fuck. I haven’t been hit like that in a long, long time.” I turned to catch her climbing onto her knees and spreading her arms out to the crying sky above. Some steam or mist surrounded her, either from the dancing rain hitting her naked body or from her own skin exhaling its first true breath. Betwixt gritted teeth she screamed, but something in her throat had changed, making it guttural, cruel even – the same scream I could once do.
When her howl guttered out she sat back onto her calves with her head hung low; the soaked hair of her fringe draped over her face like heavy curtains. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” I chortled.
Between the strands of her veil I could see that eye burning bright. “For going for the gun.”
I waved. “Don’t be silly, you were right to.”
She spat again, sending another clump to spin and swirl in a small puddle between us. “I won’t tomorrow.” That almost made Karl gasp.
Auf Wiedersehen.
AJ Carney 