Review: Pale Demon by Kim Harrison

There are a hundred different reasons why we read.

Some of us like the process of acquiring knowledge on a given subject. Some like the escapism provided by an underdog overcoming insurmountable odds. In any given story, the reader can become an active participant. We see ourselves in the characters we read about, or we can at least sympathize with the hero, with the damsel, with the everyday Joe whose journey we purposefully decide to follow.

We read for enjoyment, for the needed desire to feel joy, terror, passion, heartache because those are the emotions that make us feel alive. I read to don the heroine’s vestige, to see what depths of surrealism can be imagined. And when it’s done well, when the writer becomes much more than a mere Creator God of a wholly new world, I continue to read, as I have with Kim Harrison’s work.

I’ve followed Harrison’s Hollows series through nine action-packed, tear jerking, and imaginatively exhaustive books. I started reading about her protagonist, Rachel Morgan, because I wanted to see what antics the white witch would get up to. I continued to read because Harrison made Rachel real.

During the series, Rachel has discovered the secrets of her childhood, has mourned the loss of a lover, has been betrayed, nearly killed (on multiple occasions), and has emerged from each adventure a bit wiser, a bit more cynical. Still, she maintains the heart of who she is: not just a white witch placed in difficult situations, but also a fighter who never backs down.

In Pale Demon, the ninth book in the Hollows series, Rachel is forced into a road trip with Trent Kalamack, the elf she loves to hate and finds impossible to ignore. Through the series, Kalamack has manipulated his way into Rachel’s life, first as a nemesis then as her unwilling familiar. In Pale Demon, he convinces Rachel he’ll be able to get the shunning she received for performing black magic by the witch’s coven removed if she agrees to get him to the West coast so that he can complete a secretive Elven quest.

Blacklisted from all other manner of travel, Rachel has no choice but to take Trent up on his request. With assassins tailing them, Rachel, Trent and her partners Jenks the pixy and Ivy the “living vampire” make the trek from Cincinnati to San Francisco while fighting their attackers, barely surviving eleven magic and running from a century’s old demon who has formed an obsession with Rachel.

Getting to their destination, as the old cliché goes, isn’t the point. In Pale Demon, it’s the journey that matters; it’s what makes Rachel embrace her heritage and the notion that moving forward doesn’t always mean saying goodbye.

With this chapter in the Hollows series, Rachel isn’t the only character shifting focus and altering realities. Trent, the paradigm of a glossy public figure hiding darker, ulterior motives, changes before our eyes. We, right along with Rachel, find the elf’s layers being stripped away and what is left endears him to us, forces us to see him differently as his agendas are revealed.

But it is the revelations that Rachel discovers about herself that brings surprise and intrigue to the forefront in Pale Demon. She discovers more about herself and her magic, still leaving us at the end with the idea that her new realizations won’t limit her.

Like the other books in the series, Pale Demon’s focus isn’t solely centered on plot, but rather on the family Rachel has constructed for herself. It is these essential relationships that make Rachel fight, that gives her the motivation to move forward and, in a sense, the strength to accept who she truly is.

Harrison imparts authenticity into her books, making the world in which Rachel and her partners live a vivid reality separate from ours only by the absence of magic and the social hierarchies of her many mythical creatures. We don’t see these characters as caricatures of fantasy standards, but rather as people with whom we identify and whose plights we draw into our own sensibilities. We like them. We hate them. We feel like permitted voyeurs into Rachel’s world because Harrison has given us an open invitation to live the adventure right along with her characters.

Pale Demon reflects a journey that Rachel undertakes to discover truths about herself and the people around her. But the road is strewn with more obstacles to overcome, more demons to face. A road that, like Harrison’s readers, I can’t wait to travel further down.

Back to the beginning

Tonight, my sweet friend Bree reminded me of why I started writing.

I didn't begin my journey with dollar signs or Nebula's in my eyes.

I never saw my agenda based upon how many tours I could do or what superstar agent I'd managed to land.

I started writing for the pure joy of it. I started writing because I had to, because there were stories and characters who lived in my mind and demanded to be given breath and life.

But like so many of you, I'm sure, the years of education and experience have shifted my purpose. As of late, I've been writing to fit into a given standard. I've written to fall in line with what others insist is acceptable. In short, I haven't truly written for myself.

I don't blame anyone but myself. You see, I've found that when we begin to focus on the business of writing rather than the art of it, the result is, many times, stories that are only half imagined, that only realize their potential in the vaguest sense.

Now, I don't believe it's a bad thing to understand the way publishing works or what is "publishable." I'm not completely green; I do understand that books need to be sold. But I've become disheartened by the motivation for which I write. It bothers me immensely that I've put aside the joy of writing for the duty of it. Honestly, I can't remember the last time I wrote with raw, unabashed fervor, with the purpose of only writing a story I want to read.

As I told a friend of mine tonight, sometimes the best stories we write are the ones we keep hidden from the world.

So instead of setting word count goals for myself, my intentions have changed. Instead of making myself adhere to some certain genre requirement, I'm going to try to go back to my old love: pure, joyful writing.

#writersroad Blog Post: The Road to Routine

Since the illustrious Heather McCorkle will be off being proactive this week, I'm going to try my hand at hosting Thursday's WritersRoad chat on Twitter, hence the unexpected and not-related-to-TeaserTuesday-post. Sorry, Judy. I'm still editing and actually making process! :)

It was brought to my attention that many times in our chats, our focus tends to drift toward the act of publishing rather than the skill of writing. Don't get me wrong, I adore all of our topics and chats and I find that the process each published writer takes toward publication is fascinating. It can offer invaluable information for anyone just setting out on the publication journey. But I think as Heather's last post and our last chat demonstrated, the foundation of writing should be more important than the 'business' of publishing and/or the business of establishing a writing platform. With that in mind, this week, I'd like to discuss how to build that foundation by exploring our individual writing routines.

Every writer has a different modus operandi when it comes to laying the basis of their work. Some of you may be early risers and prefer be up before the sun sets to knock out the next Great American/Australian/Canadian/Irish/Scottish/Vulcan Novel. Kudos to you all! I find your ability to wake up and write enviable.

Others, like yours truly, need the still quiet of a sleeping home or the soft whirl of a Cappuccino machine to awaken our muses. Do you use a laptop or PC or is freehand the only way you're able to kick the muse in gear? Can you only write at night and on weekends because, like me, you're stuck in the Seventh Circle of Corporate Hell? Do you steal company time and flesh out plot and character development while your boss' door is shut during lunch? (Guilty of that one).

The point of asking all of this is to illustrate a routine; that indelible little method you implement to get your fingers moving and breath inserted into your characters and their world.

I believe that a routine is the spark that ignites a story's foundation. It is the intrinsic necessity that is required of the writer, the method by which we get the ball rolling.

Now, not everyone will agree with me. Many writers view the creative process as 'feast or famine' in that when they're writing it is thousands of words and hundreds of pages at a time. During the famine, not a single word makes it onto the page for months. That, I think, may be the last luxury of the unpublished writer. Once publication happens, those moments of famine seems to disappear. Or so I've been told.

For me, deadlines are key. I love pressure. I love the anxiety of thinking I just might not make my deadline. I love the idea of sitting down and thundering out something while the minutes slip by too quickly. I thrive on it and, oddly enough, it's when my best work is born. Lord knows that's how I survived graduate school.

Ultimately, I think the way your routine functions isn't nearly as important as the organization and commitment you put into it. My advice (which I'm trying to apply to my own routine) is to make certain your process is attempted at least once a day. I believe that writing, for a true writer and not the writing hobbyist, is make writing a part of your daily tasks. (Though I don't think 'task' is quite the right word). It should be as commonplace to you as brushing your teeth and cleaning behind your ears. If you are a writer, if your intention is to express your passion in written art, then it is necessary to make it a part of your everyday life. If you do that, I think the groundwork for your writing foundation can be laid and though it might not be an easy or convenient process, it is one that directs how strong and sound that foundation becomes.

BDCWB Bookclub

In an effort to promote great literature and great discussions among readers, BDCWB proudly introduces our BDCWB Book Club. Now, before you start rolling your eyes, thinking that I'm being all sales pitchy, bear in mind that this ain't your Mama's book club. (Apologies to my fellow English nerds for making you cringe).

BDCWB loves to foster communication by and about writers and with the book club, the intention is to continue that productive energy into discussions about great books. This is an effort to not only support the endeavors of some great writers, but to openly discuss the merits or pitfalls of the books we read on a monthly basis.

According to BDCWB:

Members have the opportunity to chose from five of our genre based book clubs: Literary, African American Fiction, Romance, Young Adult and Sci-Fi/Fantasy. And the best part, is that each book club features all of the same great membership benefits:

• Moderated chats with the author of the selected books
• Q&A sessions with book printers, graphic designers, publishers and agents
• Daily open forums and discussion posts
• Gift card and book giveaways

Monthly membership to the Best Damn Book Club is $5 (or $20 if you want a signed copy of the book shipped to your house).

So if you're looking for a way to have honest, intelligent discussions with fellow readers while supporting the publishers and writers you love to read, do us a favor and join the party.

We have cookies.

Well, we have metaphorical cookies and, um, there's less calories in those.

Ah...resolutions

I know. I KNOW. You want an ending to "Wishing Well."

Judy, I know, trust me.

I can only offer you a lame "it was the holidays and my muse abandoned me" excuse.

It seems she deserts me when the leaves turn. It seems my excuses are plenty and my motivation is null, particularly when bombarded with holiday/end of the year responsibilities.

So I won't insult any of you by saying the story will be completed in x number of days, because, to be honest, I'm not certain when the missing muse will reemerge. However, I can tell you that I've been editing it and that I believe I see the light at the top of that dark, freak-ravaged well.

Pun, intended.

This time of year it's normal to see the majority of posts and tweets and status updates that beg the same silly question: "What's your New Year's resolution?"

Generally, I don't make them because I'm SUCH the procrastinator and likely undiagnosed ADHD sufferer that what I've resolved to accomplish in the beginning of the year is forgotten around Mardi Gras time.

So this year, prompted by the wise words of a dynamic woman in my church, I won't make resolutions. Rather, I'm going to choose a word for the year. One simple word that defines all that I hope to accomplish.

That word, for me, is: organize.

Time management has never been a strong quality of mine. I work best at the final-really-there-is-no-time-deadline. I love the pressure. I thrive on it. (Might be why my cholesterol and blood pressure is so dang high). But with so much on my plate (BDCWB, family, job, #writersroad, writing responsibilities AND starting a tiny side business), the time has come to organize the chaos.

No resolutions for me. Just a word, a simple word that I hope directs my path this year.

So, my sweet friends, what will your word for 2011 be?

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Review

A warning: If you're reading this blog because you found me on twitter and you're accustomed to my teasertuesday entries, I apologize for expressing my inner nerd here. If you're reading this because I linked you from facebook then you are likely well aware of my long-standing nerdom for which I make no apologies.

That said...

For many of us rabid Potter fans, The Deathly Hallows is main course being served in preparation for the delicious, much anticipated desert. It is the first part of what we hope is a true representation of all the lush detailing Rowling gave us in the final book...resolutions to the conflict we'd considered for a decade. It goes without say that if you haven't read the books then the films will leave you will a sense that something is missing. Sadly, that's the nature of the beast. The films, while exciting and thrilling, simply can't compare to the magnitude of plot that cannot be experienced by letting your Potter journey begin and end in a theater.

Many aspects present in the books are, of course, missing in the film and some have previously been glossed over to accommodate time and budget. But the first part of Deathly Hallows, like films past, gets the job done and does it well.

I'll say this first and foremost, this film, as well as the previous one, Half Blood Price, has a decidedly dark overtone. This is not a trick of creative license on director David Yates' part, however, but rather a necessary expression of the tone and feel of the final two books. War is approaching. People die. Communities are seeing the ravages of impending doom because that is what happens when tyrants begin their dance of mayhem and violence.

Harry, Ron and Hermione have a job to do-- to find and destroy Horcruxes, objects containing parts of Voldemort's soul. Without doing away with these objects, killing The Dark Lord will be impossible. Since Dumbledore's death said Dark Lord and his minions have been doing their level best to find Harry, destroying whoever gets in their way in the process. Hence, all the death and violence.

The films walks in the shadow of the books. They skip along in the shadows of the detail Rowling has laid, but essential plot elements are still there: Harry leaves his Aunt and Uncle's home for the last time, though, I was disappointed that it was less dramatic than the Dursley's common muggle reaction in the book. The Seven Potters scene is wonderful, very funny and gives viewers a sense of Radcliffe's comedic timing. George Weasley's injury is verbatum to the book and done justice by Oliver and James Phelps, who are, let's be honest, the truest representation of the Weasley twins we could have ever hoped to see. Much of the film continues in this vein--some being perfect copies of Rowling's work, some skimming the surface of that perfection.

Now, because I was asked to give the goods, I'll say that those hoping for the small subtleties of the Ron/Hermione dynamic will not be disappointed. No, we have yet to see the grand romantic gesture yet (Hermione does not level her snog attack on Ron's face until the second half of the final film), we DO see some very obvious interest between the two. Yes, Juliana, there are many, many longing looks, you will particularly like when Hermione tries to teach Ron the piano and yes, it appears that the "they must have fallen asleep holding hands" bit is there indeed. Also, anticipate a collective "awe" from the entire auditorium when Ron explains how he found his way back to Hermione. Oh and yeah, there are loads of small touches and consolations.

Film Ron did not carry on in the 'exact' manner that book Ron did whilst Bella is torturing Hermione, but Grint was remarkable at expressing his characters desperation. And in that same vein, I'll say that of all the child actors to graduate from the Potter Academy of Film, Grint must be the valedictorian. He can say more with one look than some actors seasoned by fifty years of time and experience. The young man is remarkable, beyond talented and is heading for a lifetime of acting success. I look forward to seeing it.

Another note to my fellow nerds, the Riddle "Harry/Hermione" is astonishing. Trust me, you have not seen a Harry or Hermione like this. They emerge from the locket to taunt Ron in very weird pseudo forms, too perfect, too controlled and niggle Ron into overwhelming fury, particularly when they 'wrap' around each other and begin a smooch that is seductive, alluring and well, let's just say, I found it necessary to cover my seven-year-old's eyes whilst the snog fest went on and on.

Shining in a very tight second to Grint in way of performance is Emma Watson. I completely adore this young woman and have faith that should she decide to continue in her career, she'll thrive and succeed with grace and elegance.

And folks, you are fools if you do not bring along a hankie. Dobby the House Elf. I won't say more to that than, dear Lord, my eyes are absolutely leaking.

So, I'll end my geek fest by saying this: the first part of Deathly Hallows, while not filled with comedy or a large abundance of action, is what I expected, what pleased the die hard Potter book fan in me--the long withheld breath that fills the lungs, that anticipates the thrill ahead, just like a ride on a roller coaster where you can see the plunging dip ahead, where you know you'll soon be screaming and flailing your arms from the thrill of the ride. It's the breath you take before beginning a journey from which you're not certain you'll end unscathed.

Wishing Well, Part 5

I meant to finish this up today, but NaNo has made me a slave of my muse. Next week should be the last installment of this little story. Please comment!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

He looked more human than the others, his skin free of the frayed texture of their gray skin tone. He was clean shaven and the only defect on his face was a wide scar, deep and red, beneath his left eye. He wore a thin white linen suit, crisp and creased as though he’d taken it from its packaging and settle into it right away. His hair was long and black as a crow’s feather. It curled past his small ears and was pulled back by a thin hemp strap.

“Who are you?” I asked. I lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the incandescent brightness that shone from his head and arms. It reminded me of the reflection of lake waves on midday.

“Some call me friend.” He moved around me like the others, draping his body behind my shoulders, around my arms, but he did not frighten me. He smelled of lilies and when his fingers brushed across my cheek, I felt the velvet smoothness of that flower. “Some call me enemy.”

He let his hand rest on the small of my back while he stood at my side. I had long-since stop wondering how these creatures could defy gravity or suspended logic.

“Miss Matthews, do you know why you are with us?”

I was afraid to answer, still troubled by the cruel evidence of my past sins, still consumed by the weight of my shame. Was I being disciplined? Was this man the punisher, set in a fine cast, wearing a warm smile to lessen the shock of my judgment?

I looked away from his face and stared at the fine hairs on his ear. “I was dared.” The words came out weak and low enough that I was certain the man would not hear them.

“A dare? How very odd that you would accept a challenge from such weak-minded, simple girls. Girls who have no hope but what they are told to have from others.” I did not know how he knew of Ruth and her friends or how he could so accurately describe them. The man touched my chin and I lifted my head up to stare into his black eyes. The lily fragrance was diminishing. “You are here, Miss Matthews, to see the truth.”

“Whose truth?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“All truth.”

He turned from me and lifted his hand, waving it once in front of the well wall until that white fog that heralded my past sins, returned and covered me. It shifted around my neck and moved the damp hair from my cheeks.

I saw a green light flash, like the quicksilver of lightening cracking across the black, starless night sky.

What I saw made me hold my breath.

I stood beneath the thin veil of the fog, my hair longer, my breast fuller, my hips rounder. I walked near the bank of Redwood Lake, holding the hand of a child. She was small, no more than five or six, with long blond hair that trailed past her waist. She ran ahead of me, following a golden dog who barked at something in the treetops above us.

“Tomorrow is a gift given to those willing to sacrifice,” the man said. I could not see him, did not take notice of where he stood, too consumed by this older version of myself, took caught up in the beautiful child and her play. “Gifts are not offered so easily, Miss Matthews.” His voice sounded behind me, somewhere in the depths of the well I had no interest in discovering.

The scene shifted and a still older Blythe Matthews appeared. Her hair was graying, but she was not elderly; still firm in her body, still having a solid, straight frame as she danced and twirled with a man. His face was hidden to me though I could clearly see the shape of his head and the length of his hair. His features, however, were blurred as though intentionally blotted out to keep me from a complete image of him.

“Sunshine,” he called Blythe. “My sunshine.”

The Blythe before me smiled and nestled her head against his broad chest. Content. Pleased.

“Tomorrow comes to those who choose it.” The man’s voice now sounded deeper and held a sterner timber. “Only to those who choose well, Miss Matthews.”

Again the green light flickered and the fog became thick, so thick and expansive that I could barely make out the figures that moved within it. I saw myself as very old. My back curved and my hands were twisted by the cruelty of time. My cheeks were heavily concaved and the skin on my face was thin and lined with deep wrinkles. Despite all this, despite the evident twist of my body and the old creases on my face, the old woman before smiled a toothless grin, surrounded by a room of people I did not know.

She laughed and giggled at two young children playing a game. They were all assembled in the front room of a cottage, every inch of the place taken by couples, by children, by an assortment of people that reminded me of my parents, of my brothers and cousins.

They were a family I had not yet designed; a consortium of lives that existed in my future, suspended in wait for the choices I had yet to make.

“Choose wisely,” the man said. The fog lifted and he stood before me. He had grown older. His hair was now thin and gray. His smooth skin was creased and he stood slumping in front of me. The sock of his appearance made me reach out to cradle his face.

“What’s happened to you?”

“Time,” he said, his grin weak, his lips giving a small view of missing teeth, “time transforms us all.” I felt the sting of tears corner in my eyes, not certain why I should feel such worry and sorrow for this strange man. His long fingers wiped back the moisture on my face. “Choose well.”

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