Each book I write, I make it a point to write differently than the previous books. My first two books were outlined together, and written as a unit. The third was rigidly plotted, outlined, and written to my detailed notes. Book four, I developed the main characters, did eight hours’ worth of world building (a century’s worth), then wrote the beginning and ending. Once done, I sat down, and allowed the movie to play out in my head as I wrote.
This book is more movie than book. It wants to be visual. It reeks of emotion – joy, love, passion, and heartache. It has a soundtrack, and it sings it to me. Rather, the female singers who form the emotional backbone of the story sing it to me. Theirs will be the emotive backbeat. The music will dance, and flow, sweat and sex, in harmony to the words. It is poetry, this book.
And, I fear, I am not up to the task, not yet.
The previous books, you see, have been naught but practice. This book needed a voice, and I could not sing. Now, though my song be weak, it can be heard. And these warm nights, as it sit in solitude, she begins to sing me her story. My D’ark, my heroine, my new love.
Tonight, the story of her tragic loss played out in exquisite detail before me. I write this, eyes closed, and I can see it still. The blood on her white, silk blouse; his head in her lap; her tears dripping on him quickly enough, that in his torpor, he fears he is dying in the rain. It is all there.
But there is joy, even in sorrow. This I know, and so shall you. If you will but dance to my song.
And so, it begins, and I fear it greatly. You see, I have a lifetime of pain. I have horrors shared with me, torments from those I’ve tried to save. And now, in a torrent, they wish to come out, and be freed by Jeanne Camille Dark. My pain will be hers.
She sings me her stories at night. And, when the book is finished, I shall begin to write it. May God have mercy on my soul.
To make you feel my love.