A friend, Shaunda Kennedy Wenger, had me visit as a guest on her blog today http://www.shaundawenger.blogspot.ca/ and her topic was about two new genres that are now available to the public— Spirit Travel and the New Adult.
Today, for the first time ever, because of the beauty of Indie Publishing, we can write what we want…the stories from our hearts, the ones rejected in the past.
For years the editors from big publishing houses fiercely controlled the books that were acceptable to receive contracts. This restraint squelched some of the adventure from traditional authors who were very much forced to stay within certain guidelines.
If a writer came up with an intriguing idea about a completely new genre, because of financial reasons, they were usually rejected. Only so many dollars were available to be spent on so many books, and the safe choices were usually taken. Let's face it…this was purely a good business practise.
But things are different now…the public gets to decide.
A few years ago I started a series called The Vicarage Bench series. I based every story on the idea of a person spirit travelling out of his/her own body and invading another's. To make the premise even more interesting, the host had to put up with sharing. It was a different concept, one I'd never seen or read about before, but I had a lot of fun with the idea. It's amazing how complicated life can get when two people have to get along sharing the same senses and a physical self also.
My heroes and heroines tend to complicate their lives a great deal before they find their way to Dr. Tobias Andrews who helps solve their dilemma's by showing them how the magic works. I've found that the dialogue flows beautifully. And let's face it, there's always conflict. Plus these characters have to be more intense and layered, both singularly and as a pair.
The large, oval mirror reflected what the top magazine photographers captured in every front-page sensation featuring Jenna. Beauty might be skin deep as told to plain, hopeful little girls, but Jenna had never heard those words. All her life there had been comments about her “natural chestnut glory” or her “intense blue eyes with diamond-like highlights.” Even her figure, slender and tall, was unproblematic, as her system tended to wear off whatever she chose to eat, although since she chose the healthiest of foods she glowed with fitness.
As Jenna sauntered past the mirror she slowed to check herself out, as she was apt to do when passing any reflecting surface, and she spied her secretary’s grinning image behind her.
“Marnie, wipe it.”
The grin disappeared, but Marnie’s eyes remained full of merriment.
“Has Harvey called?” Harvey was the favoured man of the month, taller than Jenna, with eyes of a similar cobalt tone, hair silvered with distinguishing highlights and more money than many banks.
Marnie’s answer was tinged with disdain, which was not lost on Jenna. “Yes, he’ll be there to pick you up at the airport tomorrow evening. His exact words were, ‘Tell her to doll up, because I want to show her off to some college buddies who’ll be joining us for a late dinner. They don’t believe me when I tell them she’s a female version of myself—eye candy.’”
Jenna’s laugh was fake and forced as she stepped outside the famous vicarage where her last shoot had taken place three days ago. She was burnt out from the many assignments she’d crammed in over the past few months. It seemed as though every manufacturer in the world wanted to have her face represent their products. Enough was enough. She needed to veg and catch her breath.
The quaint vicarage was over a hundred years old, filled with relics from the past and a peaceful ambience in which a person could unwind. The verdant colours of the vines, clinging in masses to the exterior, framed the stained-glass windows, while pink roses twining in and out, here and there, added delight for the viewer. The foliage explosion nearby covered a crumbling stone wall that enclosed a large garden filled with hybrid roses, all blooming and permeating the air with their fragrance. On the other side of the wall was a surprisingly busy lane where the folks of the small town frequently walked or drove by, following their daily routines.
Her normal choice of a holiday hotel it wasn’t, but for some unknown reason Jenna had fallen in love with the atmosphere of tranquility on sight and, reluctant to leave it, had rented the nest for a few extra days for herself and her secretary to relax after the shoot. It was essential for Marnie to stay there with her, not just for reasons of answering the telephone and other business matters, but because Marnie had worked almost as hard as Jenna these last few months and deserved a break. Keeping up with the daily correspondence, being at Jenna’s beck and call and catering to her every whim would leave Marnie a bit of time left over to spend as she pleased.
Jenna was heading to her special place, a wooden bench near the roadway where she could people-watch, one of her favourite pastimes. She liked to breathe in the scents from the pink roses that trailed over the trellis behind the bench and gave a fresh contrast to the natural greyness of the oak. Today the scene was framed by a sky bluer than normal. She meandered along toward the empty bench, Marnie close behind her. As she stopped to smell a particularly gorgeous rose, a thorn bit into the fleshy part of her finger and she suddenly squealed with pain.
Strangeness settled over her as she sat to pull out the spine. As soon as her body touched the bench, a trancelike state began to take hold. Her mind felt numb, and later she would swear that her body floated away from her and disappeared in small drifts, like a cloud shifting.
Finally, she broke loose from these imaginings and turned to talk to Marnie, who was nowhere to be seen. She shook her head and reached up to rub her forehead, but when she touched herself she knew something was dreadfully wrong. It was as though she were having an out-of-body experience. Everything around her had altered. She closed her eyes and slumped further down on the bench. She twisted herself agitatedly, opened her eyes again and looked in every direction. It was then she realized that the road looked oddly different from the one she remembered.
She swivelled every which way, still seated because she felt weakened somehow, too weak to stand. And then she spied her dress and screamed. When she’d walked outside she’d been wearing white jean capris and a navy-and-white designer top, with a rhinestone-decorated white jean jacket to set off the ensemble.
Now, clutched in her shaking hands, her garb seemed to be a full-skirted, polka-dotted garment that hung down well past her knees and—what scared her silly—were the white gloves covering her decidedly plump hands