Recently I made my first foray into the sweet and somewhat innocent world of Young Adult novels with middling to disappointing results. The story itself has all sorts of potential with strong characters and a dynamic location and fantastical creatures that run rampant in my mind. It was the story of a warrior and her love, the battle to save her people in a world doused in snow and darkness.
That’s not the story that was told.
Even before I finished I knew that it was not that dynamic of a tale, it had no real pull, no real drama and resembled nothing of my normal work. Why?
Because I was trying to do something I don’t do. I was trying to write a story that was sweet and fun and light with hints of darkness. I struggled and fought against my natural instinct and the result-A bland love story that was wrought with holes and devoid of passion. Even innocence can be sexy, but I saw none that. Reading it over it felt as if I were reading someone else’s words as they attempted to tell a story that I had imagined
It wasn’t until I looked over some of my other works, that I realize why it didn’t feel right. It’s because I love, love dark, sexy and somewhat creepy storytelling and that is my forte. I have a knack for the sensual and surprising and live for those what the fuck just happened moments.
My short stories Serenity (https://tanishadelill.wordpress.com/2013/12/06/new-short-story-serenity/ ) and Breeder (https://tanishadelill.wordpress.com/2014/04/06/breeder/) are prime examples of what I write. So why did I try to go light and bubblegum?
But I did discover after reading these older versions of what I can do that it is perfectly okay to embrace the darkness. It is a wonderful place to visit, to imagine what lurks down the twisted stairwells that lead into the abyss. Is it a wonderful sexual adventure or a devastating end to a life not yet lived? Is there a dark and brooding man with haunting eyes and soulful kisses hiding in the shadows, or is it a child with haunting eyes and the ability to become your worst nightmare.
Why should I stifle the freaky, twisted tales I enjoy writing so very, very much? If I’m going to write, why not find my passion and write stories that I want to read about people I wouldn’t mind hanging around with- under proper supervision. Well- Elijah Cain would be my one exception to that rule. But Why try to hide how truly warped I can be, especially when it lends itself to fantastical worlds and colorful characters? Why not let my freak flag fly?
Why not tell these lust filled fever dreams full of faeries and vampires and gods and goddesses, demons and demi gods? Why not tell this eccentric sagas?
Who knows, but I’m am more than willing to grab a flashlight and investigate the bumps in the attic. I want to follow the sexy stranger as he disappears into a foggy mist beckoning me with a crooked finger. I want to know if the prim, innocent virgin is really a succubus luring men to their deaths by seduction. I need to know what’s down that winding staircase or behind the locked door. Will it lead to sexual exploration with a shape shifter, a fantasy garden full of wood nymphs or the horrors of a brilliant surgeon run amuck?
Who’s coming with me?