Goodreads

*Meerkat into blog*

Shhhh.... I'm suppose to be writing Book 2 in the CUSPIAN Series but I wanted to sneak in to share the Goodreads page for CUSPIAN, book 1 in the series.
Here it is CUSPIAN Goodreads Page

*Looks left then right*

Okay I gotta go! I think they know I'm here.

*Ducks out*

 DC

Title Change!

I'm excited to announce a title change for my series. Check out the updated cover and title! The release date will be announced very soon! 

Goodbye

Before completing my manuscript and sending it off for the first rounds of edits I was having a hard time finishing it. Here is my reasoning. 

I’m ashamed to admit I have been avoiding my novel. I sit down to write, clicking the word document entitled WIP, then something happens like I realize my dog needs fresh water, or I need to clean out my car at that very instance and I walk away. The next day I repeat my steps, and just reach for the red X in the upper right hand corner, this time without any excuse besides I don’t want to – can’t say goodbye to my characters.

I’ve learned the hard way that there is no switching off from writing my novel. That just because I have powered down my laptop for the night, it doesn't stop my fictional characters popping into my head over a greasy cheeseburger and a mound of fries or keeping me awake on the wrong side of midnight.

They're kind of bossy like that.

And I all love them for that, of course - even the assholes. Especially the assholes. They are my snotty nosed kids, in the sense that they were conceived in my minds. And they have become my closest friends - perhaps even closer, because I know everything about them and they can’t nor want to hid anything from me (and who can say that about a real person?) And they know everything about me as well, living inside my twisted mind and all, yet they don’t avoid my eye contact because they know my lofty dreams, and greatest fears.

I understand how unhealthy this all sounds and after crapping out an unnecessary line or two I realized that I have to let go. Not for my own sanity, I lost that years ago, but for theirs. The strong willed characters in my head won’t stand for the muddling of their life for my own selfish reasons. The ransom has been paid now they demand release – I told you they were pushy. So I power up my laptop determined to finish their story, not to be derailed, or lose focus because as much as I have grown to love them, my characters deserve to be shared with the world and to boss someone else around. 

A Novel idea...

When I tell people that I am writing a novel, the first thing they ask is if it’s fiction or nonfiction. Well that’s not entirely true, the first question they ask if it’s about vampires with amazing ‘just rolled outta bed hair’ and sparkle in the sunlight or teenage boys wielding magical tree bark. These questions I’ve learn to filter into my spam folder of life with clipped (yet polite) No’s then I wait to absorb their “he’s never going to make it” pity looks.

Then the first real question they ask is if I am writing a fiction or nonfiction book? And I square my shoulders, lift my chin slightly, clear my throat and declare that I am writing a novel. This is usually the part where they, completely unaware of their literary faux pas, repeat themselves, and I lose all hope in the American education system.

A novel by definition is a work of fiction. To refer to a piece of literature as a “Nonfiction Novel” is inaccurate and was created for the sole purpose of luring you into the mislabeled book section with a well placed sign at your local bookstore. A nonfiction novel is oxymoronic but unlike jumbo shrimp it can’t be dressed up with crispy golden brown beer batter outside, it continued usage muddles the English language.   

Why me?

Some days I wonder what it is all for.  Why these words plague my thoughts. Haunting me. Forcing me to cut myself and quill them onto paper until it is saturated with my story rich blood. Words seeping slowly, keeping with the tendency of blood from a wound. I wonder naught what they mean, for the meaning is very clear. I wonder why me. For my passion is a bitter mistress--A Dominatrix, coming and going on her own whim. Her will flows forth from her loins when stubbornness suits her and at a turn she has my willingness; playful, teasing and taunting me nearer. 

The voice that calms my panic storm whispers “Why not me?”

Introductions!

Writer.

Hello my name is DC Hall and I’m… a writer. Yeah I said it and it’s all I can do not to hang my head in shame from once hiding my passion.

When I was writing my novel I kept telling myself that… other people wouldn’t understand my passion. That I was alone in my literary quest. That I’ll tell the world I was indeed a writer…after I was finished with my work in progress. Then that point came when my novel’s plot was complete. Not edited. Not proofread. Not Beta reader tested. But the hours and hours and hours of writing and shaping my story was “done.” And then my excuses tasted like chalk on my tongue. I knew then my closet writing had to cease so…

*POOF*

I was a DC Hall, the writer.

Mind you I fancy that from the age of 12 when I first wove a story in my 5-Star notebook, that I became a writer, but now I shared my secret with those closest to me. The reviews were mixed...

Is your book like that vampire one. Midnight, Sunlight… come on you know the one where they glitter in the sun and the guy with the hair.

Or my favorite is:

Oh, which one of the big 6 are you signed to?

* blank stare*

This was the point where my tongue swells to the size of a sea slug and I would mumble some noncommittal grunt. (ßYep it’s as strange as it sound.)

But I wasn’t hiding anymore. I was a writer. So it didn’t matter what others thought right?

Then one day I joined a Facebook group and my life changed. It was amazing. Ladies. Gentlemen. People who knew my hardships, doubts and dreams so shallow that I couldn’t bear to speak them aloud. People who didn’t use a pen name for the sake of hiding from potential failure or shame but for privacy. People who weren’t afraid to be themselves. Writers.

As time passed I learned and learned and I’m still learning and something strange happened. I grew. Just a little bit. The change was so minute that I barely recognized it. The change grew bigger slowly changing me until I realized as a writer I was safe. I was as safe as a ship in harbor and with the help of my peers that I learned that ships weren’t made to be tied to a dock. Ships were made to withstand squalls, hurricanes, and even icebergs. (Well icebergs not so much.) And I wanted to be a one of those. AWriter who was built like a ship. A Writer able to withstand uncooperative characters, writers block and the iceberg of literature – reject letters.

So I would like to re-introduce myself.

*Clears throat and stands on nearest chair*

My name is DC Hall. And I’m a Writer.