I am finally done grading my first papers! I had some nice surprise, and some that weren’t so nice. It took me a hell of a long time, but I’m done.
Enjoying my newfound free time, I took a little time to get back to my novel and finish typing back the first chapter. I’ve already done the rewrite notes for chapter two but it’s not back in digital yet. Chapter three needs a major tweak so it won’t be done for a little while but, at least, I back in business.
I also spent a few minutes on The Spell (my upcoming NaSty entry) and it’s shaping up nicely. I’ve also got a few ideas for Tiffany’s song. Yeah!
But that’s not what I meant to talk about. While I was browsing through my novel stuff, I found an old paragraph I wrote for the main character of the second novel of the series. She was actually born in an old novella of mine and I’m giving her a new life.
Anyway, it’s in English! I can share it with you, dear readers.
Just to give you a bit of context before I lay it before your (hopefully) avid eyes, her name is Aziza and the second novel is mostly the transcript of what she narrated to her psychiatrist while she was in an asylum. But she is not crazy, people forced her there.
Old Souls series – The One Who Lives excerpt
I am immortal. I can’t die or age. And no, I am not a vampire.
Actually, vampires have it easy. For starters, there are several of them. They have a whole culture and they support each other… kind of. I am the only one of my kind.
I’ve tried to mingle with vampires, just so I wouldn’t be alone for eternity. It didn’t work: I’m too appealing a meal to be treated like a friend. I’m like finely aged wine for them. Plus, they are stronger and faster than me.
Which brings me to the second point of my argument: they have it easy because they rule. If they wanted to take over the world, they could. Me? I am just as helpless as the next mortal.
Last, but not least, if vampires grow tired of being alive or become plain crazy, they can die! They just need to walk out for a tan and let themselves turn from alive to roasted human to pile of ashes. That’s it.
I can’t die. I mean it. I’ve tried every possible way I could conceive to kill myself. I succeed every single time: it just doesn’t stick.
So here I am, dragging my forever fourteen looking smock and trying to be taken seriously. I’ve seen my second millennium, for crying out loud and all every last one of you sees is an angry teenager. Peachy damn keen.