Jennifer Freitag's Blog, page 23

"When We Get To the End, We Shall Know More Than We Do Now"

pinterestOn Tuesday (10/8/13), I finished the first draft of Ethandune, having been working on it for roughly over two months, but only really seriously beginning to write it around the middle of August and wrapping up now here at the beginning of October.  It is roughly 87,000 words in length as a first draft - not a bad size for a novel!  I have accomplished my goal in not writing a monster.  Many delightful hours were spent with my Rarity headphones on, OC Supertones playing on the iPhone, and my fingers fairly vomiting words onto the document.

much tea was consumed in the making of this novel.

I have a full-on edit session to go before the manuscript is ready to be turned over to my beta-readers.  I have to say right now that I am not giving the document out to anyone outside my immediate family due to extreme spoiler aspects.  I am sorry to let you guys down, but I'm doing it for you own good! 

Well, I am back around to writing a hot, summery atmosphere in a chilling, wintery environment.  I am reading through Gingerune to get back into the novel, and soon I will be picking the pen back up on that.  Meanwhile, I'm pretty certain we have seen the last of the balmy days of Glasgow.  The unusual seventies and high sixties are gone: low to mid fifties are our highs now. 

words-putting-into-sentence doing.

Since I am reading back up on Gingerune I am not doing quite so much writing at this moment.  I have a few odds and ends to get out of my head for my ten billion other novels, which keeps the wheel greased, as it were.  Otherwise I am reading Bath Tangle by Georgette Heyer and Attila the Hun by Christopher Kelly.  Both of which, believe it or not, are pertinent to my interests.

a bit of scrawl
My foot made contact with the glass. Light flew in a crash of sound—I hurtled through the casement, head down, eyes shut tight: I felt glass shred my jawline. ethandune
Jennalaide stood staring down at the jewel for some time, fighting something that was trying to show in her face. But in the end, it seemed, she got the mastery of it, and something like a veil came over her countenance. ethandune
“Light of the sun,” said Fairfax with frank surprise.ethandune
She whirled, her eyes feverish with vengeance. “Let his house be made desolate, and his place given to another! He has done much to destroy the good name of the House of the Fabii. They have left only a woman to defend them, but she will serve them well.”ethandune
The bee skep is well and truly kicked over now.ethandune
I swayed, watched [the world] go tipping first one way and then the next, and finally found the stone which had knocked me unconscious as a means of support. I stood staring for a minute or two at a patch of bloody grass near my feet, my body shaking visibly with the effort of my breathing. God—oh, God—how much my body hurt! If I could only stop hurting for a moment, I could remember something. Something toweringly important…ethandune
“Sir,” I said long-sufferingly, “it is a boy.”“Is it?” he asked, vicious mockery not a whit abated. He began circling the boy, eyeing him up and down—and all the while the boy was trying desperately to keep watch on Goddgofang, in complete assurance that the man was going to do him permanent harm. “Yes,” Goddgofang admitted at length, coming back around to join me in perusing the St. Jermaine’s face. “I suppose it is. One does not notice that, at first.” -
Geoffrey shook his head over the paper—he folded back a sheet and tipped the Register toward the light. He seemed acutely interested in its columns. “He is a man much talked-of. Most of what I hear is—” he lifted his head and looked into the middle distance, searching for a word “—unorthodox.”talldogs
Raymond began to wonder what kind of fight Geoffrey wanted, and it amused him somewhere very deep inside that he should be proving such a stick in the mud with Geoffrey’s plans. “I am not interested in bringing you around to my way of thinking,” he remarked. “I never have been. Also, your description of [Goddgofang] is perfectly true in so far as your words extend. I saw no reason to engage them.”talldogs
"I have been accused of being many things, Avery. Sullen isn't one of them."talldogs
To the end of his days Raymond was not sure if it was a prayer or a blasphemy which he spoke, it broke out so sudden and impulsively.talldogs
"If I stop breathing, wake me up."talldogs

Our Changeful Northern Skies

Saturday morning, at dark thirty, Tim and I crashed out of the flat and took the bus to Queen Street Station.  Some shuffling with train tickets later, we boarded the train and settled in for a long ride up to Aberdeen.

Due to a diversion, the train took us across Scotland through Linlithgow, Perth, Dundee, Abroath ("Our next stop is Auh-bth"), Montrose, Stonehaven, and a host of other little stops.  By the time we reached Dundee, with the Firth of Tay on our right hand and the climbing hill country on our left, I was yanking my head back and forth so much I wished I were a chameleon. 


We saw the sea under an early morning sky, yellow and pale blue; we saw the lush green pastoral country and the forbidding hills.  We ran through tiny stations and pine woods, and took the steep shore track over sudden rocky drops into the ocean.  When we were not rubber-neckin' at the scenery, we were thrashing each other over rounds of Rummy on the train table between us.




Why buy a boyfriend sweater when I can borrow my husband's?








William Wallace, the Guardian of Scotland.


I don't know what this lion sees, but something is prodigiously disturbing it.

The impressive front of Marischal College.  The Marischal position (keepers of the Honours of Scotland) had been held by a member of the de Keith house since the twelfth century to the Jacobean Revolt, and they have quite a beautiful college to their name!




"Not for oneself, but for all."

King's College, University of Aberdeen.











William Elphinstone, born and educated in Glasgow, Bishop of Aberdeen, founder of the University of Aberdeen.







We went back home under a sea-cloud sky (all the clouds are sea-clouds here: long, sideways-driven things barring the landscape with shadow and light like a peregrine's wings).  So far in the north, the sun never got very high, but it was strong and beautiful after the stormy western coast.  I have always imagined the sentiments Kipling spoke of in "The Roman Centurion's Song."  Now I understand them.

for me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields suffice.
what purple southern pomp can match our changeful northern skies,
black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze -
the clanging arch of steel-grey March or June's long-lighted days?

Soon the Moon Will Smoulder

pinterestand the winds will driveyes, a man grows olderbut his soul remains aliveall those tremulous stars still glitterbut I will survivelet my heart grow colder and as bitteras a falcon in the dive

"It makes things seem a little more normal around here when you continue posting snippets."

Ethandune is now roughly 68,140 words in size and I think I am approaching the endgame.  Phew! My perception is so skewed: it feels like a tiny, baby creature and the thought of handing it off to my beta-readers for editing makes me feel shy and I want to yank it back, protesting that it isn't done yet because no story of mine can possibly be this brief.  But it is, and I think my beta-readers and prospective publishing houses are probably relieved for that!

some snippets
He rolled over so that his face was lost in the pillow: I could hear him muttering a malignant equation under the more unhappy patterns of the twelve houses.ethandune
God and Goddgofang alone knew where that man was headed. We heard a door bang, and the rest of us knew only that he was gone. ethandune
“Open or shut?” asked Goddgofang.“Shut,” said Golightly. He came back. “But he keeps pretty geraniums on the steps.”Goddgofang pushed back his long-coat and thrust his hands into his front pockets. “It salves my soul to know the High Sheriff of Ethandune is kindly toward his botany.” ethandune
“—And so I think he misses much which he might have sniffed out if only he had the knack of the hunt. He’s a tender of souls, by the twelve houses, not a carnivore such as ourselves. He hasn’t got the blood for it.”ethandune
I saw his profile gash with a smile, driving the deep lines back into his cheeks. Odd—for the first time, in that chancy electrum light, I noticed that he had silver colour winging in the dark brunet hair at his temples. Odd that I had never noticed that before.ethandune
Goddgofang lifted himself up in the stirrups to get the belt round his waist properly. “This is Kiss. She hasn’t seen a lot of wear yet: she is a pretty young thing. My father gave her to me on my entrance to the University.”ethandune
The day remained clear and warm; it was a shock urging our horses into the dark, damp close to Vergreen Street and feeling the ancient, bloodless shadows sift across our skin. We came out in a blustery flurry of windy sunlight and climbing hydrangea, turned south, and rode into Coeur de Leon’s yard to find Deborah in stall and Goddgofang just mounting the doorstep.ethandune
The young man laughed, white about the mouth. “Poor Mamma! She could make a dragon sit and stay and play dead.” ethandune
"I once bit Grimms when I was quite small. He still has the mark to prove it. I do not remember why, only I remember that I was furious and—hell!—it felt good to sink my teeth into his hand.”ethandune
I rubbed down, steaming like a horse, and rolled myself into my clothes; Goddgofang affixed my braces at the back, pulled the strap back, and let it go, sending a sharp crack through the room and a beautiful rage flooding through my brain.ethandune
The voice hardened. “Please do not coddle me, Simon.”ethandune
[His] face was a death-mask of white, freckled skin and the fine-boned construction of skull. Without that dashing smile, I came to see how terrible his countenance was: grim, rugged, unmerciful: like one of the ancient conquerors whose names still lived in...history and whose blood was draining from a head wound into his son’s lap.I saw the likeness of his brother in his face.ethandune
“Sophia? Sophia does not buck. Are we speaking on the same cousin? Tall, genteel girl—Helen of Troy.”-

"That man will kill us all."
"And we will let him."

Ethandune: the Narrator

Who is the narrator of Ethandune?

Allow me to introduce you to Simon.

Not in great depth, of course - because then where would the point of Ethandune be?  But after posting my read-aloud for Ethandune, which is written in the first person, I was asked who the narrator was - because it certainly wasn't me!  

The narrator of Ethandune is Simon, a lad of fourteen at this juncture.  He is Goddgofang's manservant, and in appearance is dramatically overshadowed by his master: he is prone to be tall (he may or may not have another growth spurt in him), mousy-haired and hazel-eyed, and since he has frequent opportunity to be in the sun he tends to stay tan, but his tan is usually of a dusty colour, never any kind of magnificent bronze.  He still has that long, leggy, coltish aspect common in almost all teenage boys, but since his voice has broken it has become remarkably deep for someone of his size, possessing a rich nutty tone that is very pleasant to listen to - although, he does not know this - and that is his greatest physical asset.  He is not ugly by any means, but he is not the sort of figure which would catch anyone's eye.  He is very quietly, contentedly plain.

"I am a gypsy by birth, sir.  I came into Goddgofang's service four years ago."

Simon began as Goddgofang's manservant at the competent but still pliable age of ten.  Goddgofang is the sort of young man that boys will practically worship, and Simon was no exception.  Thankfully for Simon, Goddgofang is no Steerforth (spoiler!), and over the course of four years Simon, still adoring Goddgofang, has developed into a young man in his own right, perfectly willing to cross opinions with his master for the sake of his master's betterment.  He's a very quiet-mannered young man, but he knows how to put back his ears and dig in his heels when he has to. 

Writing in the first person, and writing from Simon's point of view, has created a very different feel from such stories as my crowning three (Adamantine, Plenilune, and Gingerune) where are all written in the third person and from a woman's perspective.  Being a manservant, Simon has a critical eye for detail and has a naturally tender disposition, but he is still very different from any of the main characters of my other novels.  He lends a decidedly masculine aspect to the story, and being written in the first person I am also able to acknowledge the absurdities of life, which I am not always able to do in the third person. This also makes for an interesting exploration of his character.  In the third person, the reader is discovering the character while the story progresses: but in the first person, the character already knows what he is like and does not always feel the need to "discover himself" to the reader.  Simon's personality is shown up when juxtaposed to others', and his character is revealed in the circumstances of the story, which is a new and fun style for me to explore!

To be truthful, I absolutely adore Simon - he makes me laugh (and making me laugh is a great way to get me to like you) and he gives me the opportunity to explore a relationship which was prematurely terminated twenty-eight years earlier in the timeline. 

He smiled at me, and I think for some time afterward I wore that smile like a wreath of olive.

The Tycoons of the Past

I will now have the opportunity to express to you my family's neurotic delight in cemeteries.  The past three days have been absolutely fabulous for weather.  Clear skies, temperatures in the sixties - Saturday was perfectly balmy so Tim and I took the bus into town, hopped off at Castle Street, and wandered into the grounds of Glasgow Cathedral.



The leaves are turning here.  I will get a little autumn, after all!


The cathedral grounds are covered with old grave slabs; you can hardly take a step without tripping over a tussock of that thick, lush British grass or treading on someone's grave.  Some slabs are so old that they look like natural rock and you have to take it on faith that there was once writing on them.


At the foot of the cathedral grounds we looked up and discovered the Necropolis nearly on top of us.  You see it in pictures, but nothing prepares you for the grandeur of the real thing.  We backtracked to the entrance and went up, wending our way through some fabulous weather and the gravestones of the movers and shakers of Victorian Glasgow.






I wish I could have pictures of all the fantastic names of these people.  After awhile one began to notice cross-overs: sons and daughters from various tycoon families married into others.  These were serious folk!  Some inscriptions said things like JAMES BUCHANAN - MERCHANT - GLASGOW // CALCUTTA.  It's rather sad that what is left of Glasgow's golden days is the Necropolis, but I will say these families took steps to make sure their legacy lived on in rather impressive stonework.  


How does that sound, Dad?

Of Shaws?

My great delight in cemeteries is, in part, because they are so peaceful.  It felt like Sunday to walk through these terraces - crisp, cool air, surrounded by the bodies of the dead waiting (for good or ill) the coming of the Lord.  Everywhere I looked inscriptions of the hopeful passages of Scripture proclaiming that the dead in Christ will rise met my eye. 

"Could you spend hours here?"
"I don't know about hours.  There's time enough for that later."

The typical tourist pose.






WHY.  WHY is it unsafe!  You can't just leave something like that in a place like this ambiguous!

Wait for it...  Now you got it.

Ethandune Read-Aloud

I was asked some snippet sections ago to make an audio recording of a read-aloud for one of my works in progress.  It has taken me so long to get around to this because I was getting ready to come to Glasgow, I was having trouble deciding on a good section to read aloud, and I am extremely shy of my voice.  However, I have finally done it.

From Ethandune.

I just avoided recording this with an illness.  I am not sure what it is I am fighting.  It feels like the sickly bantling child of an ill-moral'd cold: the Mordred of influenzas.  It does not seem to be amounting to much at present, but it has sufficed to make me sluggish and surly and has effectively slowed Ethandune's progress for today.

I fear I will live, but not for long, to regret that allusion to medieval literature.

A Writer in Glasgow

pinterestSome of you get email updates on my life here in Glasgow, and are pretty well caught up on what I'm doing.  The rest of you probably don't care about college lectures and bus schedules.  I don't think many people do, but the funny thing is, they still ask.  People here ask me where I'm from and what I'm doing.  We always start in by explaining that my husband transferred for the semester from his college in the States, we talk about what he is studying, etc.  And then they turn to me.  "What are you taking?"  "I'm not in college," I reply, always with that slight twinge in my soul, hoping that they don't judge me - I look like a fresher, and most people go to college: I don't, and I'm content with that, but no one likes being judged.  I rush on: "I'm a writer, so my work is very portable.  I can take it anywhere!"  With the exception of the hairdresser on Bath Street, no one paid much mind to that.  I'm not sure which level of attention I appreciated more.

I say it is very portable.  It is less like a job I carry around the world and more like a kidnapper which springs me unawares and carts me off.  Those of you who get the email updates are aware that Ethandune is being a very good fellow and breezing along like a dream.  It helps that my husband is reading it as I go, which gives me incentive to write the next section.  It came up so suddenly, I wonder if anyone takes it very seriously: I'm reluctant to spill all the beans, so I can only tell you that you should take it seriously, because this particular idea packs a splendidly large punch.  That, too, makes me giddy while I work on it.  Between my husband's enjoyment of it, my own enjoyment of it, and the fact that my favourite place to write is at the kitchen table where there is no internet to distract me, Ethandune's manuscript is growing at a steady rate.  At some 39,000 words, I am rapidly nearing the size of an ordinary novel (not one of my monsters).

"It generally takes you an ordinary-sized novel to write your introduction."
tim freitag

For those of you who have asked for an audio recording of snippets, I am planning on trying that out this afternoon and then tinkering with it over the next day or so.  I make no guarantees (which means I am putting back my ears about the whole affair out of severe shyness) but I'll do my best.  Of course I appreciate your position: who wouldn't want to hear an author read her story aloud?  I know I would!

"If you want someone to do a nice deep baritone for your male characters, you'll have to find someone other than me."
tim freitag

Goddess Tithe Cover Reveal!

Goddess Tithe
Anne Elisabeth Stengl
November 12, 2013

A lot of you follow Anne Elisabeth Stengl's blog as well as my own: a lot of you have been keeping up with her award-winning series Tales of Goldstone Wood.  Remember her cover reveal here on The Penslayer for her latest published work Dragonwitch?  Here's the next reveal!

Goddess Tithea novella of the Tales of Goldstone Wooda vengeful goddess demands her titheWhen a stowaway is discovered aboard the merchant ship Kulap Kanya, Munny, a cabin boy on his first voyage, knows what must be done. All stowaways are sacrificed to Risafeth, the evil goddess of the sea. Such is her right, and the Kulap Kanya's only hope to return safely home.

Yet, to the horror of his crew, Captain Sunan vows to protect the stowaway, a foreigner in clown's garb. A curse falls upon the ship and all who sail with her, for Risafeth will stop at nothing to claim her tithe.

Will Munny find the courage to trust his captain and to protect the strange clown who has become his friend?

cover design - anne elisabethI had the fun of designing this cover—finding reference photos, inventing the composition, applying the text, etc.—but the actual artistic work was done by talented cover artist Phatpuppy, whose work I have admired for many years. It was such a thrill for me to contact and commission this artist to create a look for Goddess Tithe that is reminiscent of the original novels but has a style and drama all its own.

The boy on the front was quite a find. I hunted high and low for an image of a boy the right age, the right look, with the right expression on his face. Phatpuppy and I worked with a different model through most of the cover development stage. But then I happened upon this image, and both she and I were delighted with his blend of youth, stubbornness, and strength of character! It wasn’t difficult to switch the original boy for this young man. He simply is Munny, and this cover is a perfect window into the world of my story.

You can’t see it here, but the wrap-around back cover for the print copy contains some of the prettiest work . . . including quite a scary sea monster! Possibly my favorite detail is the inclusion of the ghostly white flowers framing the outer edge. These are an important symbol in the story itself, and when Phatpuppy sent me the first mock-up cover with these included, I nearly jumped out of my skin with excitement!

I am looking forward to getting a look at the back cover!

copyright anne elisabeth stenglillustrations - anne elisabethThere are eight full-page illustrations in Goddess Tithe featuring various characters and events from the story. This is the first one in the book. I decided to share it with all of you since it depicts my young hero, Munny the cabin boy, under the watchful eye of his mentor, the old sailor Tu Pich. Munny is on his first voyage, and he is determined to learn all there is to know about a life at sea as quickly as possible. Thus we see him utterly intent upon the knot he is learning to tie. Tu Pich is old enough to know that no sailor will ever learn all there is to know about the sea. Thus he looks on, grave, caring, and perhaps a little sad. He might be looking upon his own younger self of many years ago, fumbling through the hundreds of difficult knots his fingers must learn to tie with unconscious ease.

I enjoyed creating all the illustrations for Goddess Tithe, but this one was my favorite. I love the contrasts of light and dark, the contrasts of young and old . . . youthful intensity versus the perspective of age.

Poise, form, light-and-shadow: isn't it fantastic? And we have to wait until November 12th for the rest!

excerpt from goddess titheHere is an excerpt from the middle of the story. In this scene, Munny has been ordered to Captain Sunan’s cabin to clear away his breakfast . . . an unexpected task, for a lowly cabin boy would not ordinarily dare enter his captain’s private quarters! Munny hopes to slip in and out quietly without attracting the captain’s notice. But his hopes are dashed when Sunan addresses him, asking how their strange, foreign stowaway is faring:

“And what do you make of him yourself?”Munny dared glance his captain’s way and was relieved when his eyes met only a stern and rigid back. “I’m not sure, Captain,” he said. “I think he’s afraid. But not of . . .”“Not of the goddess?” the Captain finished for him. And with these words he turned upon Munny, his eyes so full of secrets it was nearly overwhelming. Munny froze, his fingers just touching but not daring to take up a small teapot of fragile work.The Captain looked at him, studying his small frame up and down. “No,” he said, “I believe you are right. Leonard the Clown does not fear Risafeth. I believe he is unaware of his near peril at her will, suffering as he does under a peril nearer still.” Munny made neither answer nor any move.“We will bring him safely to Lunthea Maly, won’t we, Munny?” the Captain said. But he did not speak as though he expected an answer, so again Munny offered none. “We will bring him safely to Lunthea Maly and there let him choose his own dark future.”“I hope—” Munny began.But he was interrupted by a sudden commotion on deck. First a rising murmur of voices, then many shouts, inarticulate in cacophony. But a pounding at the cabin door accompanied Sur Agung’s voice bellowing, “Captain, you’d best come see this!”The Captain’s eyes widened a moment and still did not break gaze with Munny’s. “We’ll keep him safe,” he repeated. Then he turned and was gone, leaving the door open.Munny put down the pot he held and scurried after. The deck was alive with hands, even those who were off watch, crawling up from the hatches and crowding the rails on the port side. They parted way for the Captain to pass through, but when Munny tried to follow, they closed in again, blocking him as solidly as a brick wall.“Look! Look!” Munny heard voices crying.“It’s a sign!”“She’s warning us!”“It’s a sign, I tell you!”Fearing he knew not what, Munny ran for the center mast and climbed partway up, using the handholds and footholds with unconscious confidence. Soon he was high enough to see over the heads of the gathered crew, out into the blue waters of the ocean. And he saw them. They were water birds. Big white albatrosses, smaller seagulls, heavy cormorants, even deep-throated pelicans and sleek, black-faced terns. These and many more, hundreds of them, none of which should be seen this far out to sea.They were all dead. Floating in a great mass.Munny clung to the mast, pressing his cheek against its wood. The shouts of the frightened sailors below faded away, drowned out by the desolation of that sight. Death, reeking death, a sad flotilla upon the waves.“I’ve never seen anything like that.”Munny looked down to where Leonard clung to the mast just beneath him, staring wide-eyed out at the waves. “How could this have happened? Were they sick? Caught in a sudden gale? Are they tangled in fishing nets?”There was no fear in his voice. Not like in the voices of the sailors. He did not understand. He did not realize. It wasn’t his fault, Munny told himself.But it was.

Well, that's chilling!  Have any of you missed Leonard?  It appears he is coming back!  Does he meet a wet doom or not?

grab and read!
giveaway of goddess titheAnne Elisabeth is offering two proof copies of Goddess Tithe as prizes! U.S. and Canada only, please. a Rafflecopter giveaway
are you new to anne elisabeth stengl?Anne Elisabeth Stengl makes her home in Raleigh, North Carolina, where she lives with her husband, Rohan, a kindle of kitties, and one long-suffering dog. When she’s not writing, she enjoys Shakespeare, opera, and tea, and practices piano, painting, and pastry baking. She studied illustration at Grace College and English literature at Campbell University. She is the author of the Tales of Goldstone Wood, including Heartless, Veiled Rose, Moonblood, Starflower, and Dragonwitch. Heartless and Veiled Rose have each been honored with a Christy Award, and Starflower was voted winner of the 2013 Clive Staples Award.

Purple Moon: A New Young Adult Release

purple moon by tessa emily hall24 september, 2013lighthouse publishing of the carolinas

You may or may not remember that years ago Abigail and I were interviewed on Christ is Write by Tessa Emily Hall just after the publication of our books The Shadow Things and The Soldier's Cross.  (There's a trip down memory-lane, oh my.)  I am now happy to return the favour!

for the reader (and the writer)

back cover  Selena's life isn't turning out to be the fairy tale she imagined as a kid. That hope seemed to vanish long ago when her dad kicked her and her mom out of the house. This summer might finally hold the chance of a new beginning for Selena ... but having to live with her snobby cousin in Lake Lure, NC while waiting for her mom to get out of rehab wasn't how Selena was planning on spending her summer. She soon begins to wonder why she committed to give up her "bad habits" for this.

Things don't seem too bad, though. Especially when Selena gains the attention of the cute neighbor next door. But when her best friend back home in Brooklyn desperately needs her, a secret that's been hidden from Selena for years is revealed, and when she becomes a target for one of her cousin's nasty pranks, she finds herself having to face the scars from her past and the memories that come along with them. Will she follow her mom's example in running away, or trust that God still has a fairy tale life written just for her?

purple moon on lighthouse publishing of the carolinas purple moon on amazon purple moon on goodreadspurple moon on facebook

for the writer (and the reader)

question & answerWhat inspired you to write “Purple Moon”?
I wanted to write a character-driven story about a teenager who has fallen way from the relationship she once had with God after her dad kicked her and her mom out of the house. In the story, Selena is forced to leave her apartment in NY and stay with her snobby cousin in Lake Lure, NC while waiting for her mom to get out of rehab. It was initially inspired by the song “By Your Side” by Tenth Avenue North, as well as the skit that many churches have performed to the song “Everything” by Lifehouse.

In what ways can you relate to your protagonist, Selena?
Even though Selena has a completely different past and family situation, I did incorporate a little bit of “me” in her. For example: she’s passionate, a dreamer, an artist, somewhat of an introvert, has the same style as I do, a romantic, and loves coffee a little too much. I've also given her some of my flaws. However, when I wrote “Purple Moon”, I mainly tried crafting Selena in a way that I hoped many teenagers would be able to relate with—whether they share the same backstory as she does, possess many of the same qualities, or are experiencing some of the same struggles that Selena deals with in “Purple Moon”.

When did you start writing Purple Moon, and how long did it take?
I started writing the first version of “Purple Moon” when I was fifteen. When I was sixteen, I completed the first draft and landed a publishing contract with Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. It’s difficult to pinpoint how long it took to complete “Purple Moon”—the more I learned about the writing craft, the more I continued wanting to go back and rewrite the story or add a few changes. However, I have finally reached a point where I am happy with the story and can’t wait to get it in the hands of my readers.

What are you working on now?
I just completed my second book, “Unwritten Melody”, which is going to be a stand-alone novel. As of now, I am brainstorming and beginning to write the first draft of “Fallen Leaves”, which will be the second book of the Purple Moon Series and a continuation of Selena’s journey throughout the next season of her life. I am also going on a blog tour this fall and will continue to write the teen column for Whole Magazine.

What do you hope to accomplish in your writing career?
I hope to never stop writing, whether or not that includes having my work published or seeing my name on the best seller list. I hope to never stop encouraging people—especially teenagers—to follow their dreams. But more than anything, I hope that my stories will represent the power of God’s unending love and His transforming grace. That’s my number one goal, my number one reason for wanting to pursue writing for the rest of my life.

are you new to tessa emily hall?

biographyTessa Emily Hall is a 19-year-old author of Purple Moon, her YA Christian fiction novel to be published September 2013 by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. She is also the editor over the faith department for Temperance Magazine, a column writer for Whole Magazine, a contributing writer for More To Be, as well as the PR for God of Moses Entertainment. Other than writing, Tessa enjoys acting, music, Starbucks, and her Teacup Shih Tzu—who is named Brewer after a character in her book, as well as her love for coffee.

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Through the Eyes of a Ghost

pinterestAfter reading beauty's testimony by Bree, I remembered a feature of the writing life which I have been slowly coming aware of, and that is that, as writers, we tend to talk to writers about writing, confined in our writing clique, and generally fail to look at it from the reader's point of view.

The fact is, the readership doesn't really care a lot about the writer.

I know that sounds harsh, and it isn't as if they couldn't care less about us, but the truth is that they want the stories, not the authors.  Think about yourself when you pick up a book off a shelf at Barnes & Noble.  While you scan the cover and read the back synopsis, you don't think, "That is excellent composition on the cover: I can see how the design artist pulled in many of the author's highlights from the story.  And that synopsis is really well done: I wish I could compress my story into such a succinct few lines."  No, you think, "That is a totally awesome cover and I like the sound of this plot.  There go my college savings."

There is nothing wrong with discussing the former remarks, especially with other writers.  There are some readers who don't mind engaging in some of the fringe elements of our work, and when you come across those sorts of people, it's a lot of fun!  At least they don't back away from you carefully, after gingerly setting down a cup of tea as a sort of peace-offering in the hopes that you don't hurt them...  But there are a lot of readers in the world who aren't writers, and that's okay!  We need to be as sensible of their point of view as they are tender and patient with ours.

Personally, I love getting into the nitty-gritty with other authors about their work: not merely their plots, but how they go about executing the process of writing and design.  But there is a place for that, and its place isn't usually in interaction with the readership.  The readership wants to know if your book is any good, any fun, at all edifying, worth their while, worth their money.  I know that talking about my writing is one of the hardest things about my job, and a comfortable fall-back is to talk about it in my own terms.  But that isn't what people want to hear.  We talk endlessly about criticism and being ready to receive what others have to say about our writing, but it's high time we as writers took into account what the readers think, and speak their language from time to time.