Blue Eyes and White Lies

A writer, lover, thinker, and midwestern, book-loving sexpot.


Choosing a Perspective

One of the things I have difficulty deciding on is whether or not to write in first person or third person. I love the first person voice. It can be personal and expressive. A narrator can often take a mundane story and turn it into something special. But it’s not easy to do. Especially if you’re writing a supernatural mystery-thriller-romance like yours truly.

After getting pretty far into my novel, I’ve realized that the first person voice just isn’t going to work. I love it, and I wish I could keep it, but I’ve decided my vision is more important and to fulfill my vision, I simply must write in third person. This will free me up to follow different characters and create a better story. It sucks that I have to rewrite all that I’ve written, but I think it’s worth it. I’m looking at it like a trial run, and now the real race begins.

But what about you, friends and patriots? What perspective do you like to use when writing? How does that affect your work?




In the shadows cast by the streetlamps, Tegan and Damon stood watching.Their prey had been indoors for almost a week.

“This day time thing really isn’t working for me,” she said.

“If I could switch with you, I would. I’ve not seen the sun in nearly two hundred years.”

“You’re not missing much.”

Damon grunted and Tegan yawned. “Tell me again why I can’t bust down his door?”

“Because he knows we’re watching him and he’s smart. Perhaps smarter than you and I.”

“He may never come out.”

“He will eventually.”

Tegan yawned again and sat down on the grass. She stretched out onto her back. She looked up at Damon, but could barely make out his face against the backdrop of the star spattered sky. The breeze came and it chilled Tegan’s skin. She shivered and Damon dropped his coat on top of her. She slipped it over her cold skin.


He nodded. “You should go home and get some rest. I’ll be fine by myself.”

“What if he makes a move after I’m gone?”

“I will summon my coven.”

She stared at him and knew that he wasn’t going to let her stay another night. She was of no use to him this exhausted and she knew it. “Fine. I’ll go home. But after this is over you owe me.”

“Whatever you desire is yours,” Damon said.

“That’s a tall order to fill.”

“I’m up to the challenge.”

Tegan stood and kissed him on the cold cheek. She disappeared around a corner and was gone. He stood there in complete stillness for hours. He did not tire or grow bored, but instead meditated and snacked on the energy of oblivious passersby. By the time the city had finally quieted into slumber, the door of his prey quivered and opened a fraction of an inch.

Damon did not hesitate.


Reading While Writing

I’m a big fan of paranormal thrillers, but since I’m actually writing one right now, I have no interest in reading them. Instead, I’m focusing a lot of time on reading online publications and previously read novels. It made me wonder. Do others tend to not read the genre they’re currently writing in? But if you do read the same genre, do you find it influences your story?

The reason I don’t is because I’m trying to be as original as possible. This is not to say, for example, that those who are reading and writing paranormal thrillers simultaneously are copying each other. But personally, I tend to take on the voice of the writer I’m currently reading and right now, I’m trying not to do that.

So, do you read the same genre in which you write? If no, why not? If yes, do you find it influences your writing?



How to Deal With Jehovah’s Witnesses

**Please note: This is FICTION.**

There’s a knock at the door, which is strange, but I open it anyway. Two guys stand there with pamphlets in their hands. I’m not wearing a bra and my shirt covers my shorts so it looks like I’m pantsless. The wintery cold air hits my chest and I see the younger of them glance down, then look away.

Hi, do you have a minute? the older asks.

Sure, I say and I bend down to scratch my ankle, letting my shirt fall forward a bit.

The older of the two starts talking about natural disasters and how the world is turning to shit and the whole time I’m staring at the younger guy biting my lip. He smiles and looks at the older man and nods.

Wouldn’t you agree? he says.

It’s cold, do you two want to come inside?

Oh no, we couldn’t go in there.

But I’m freezing. And all this stuff your saying is turning me on.

Excuse me?

I’m not interested, I say. I stretch and lift my chest in the air and I see them both look away into the distance.

Well, sorry to bother you, the older one says.

He shuts my door and I go back to sitting in my blankets.



Her body was still warm when they found her. Her father checked for a pulse, then began CPR. With every attempt at jumpstarting her heart and with every breath he pushed into her mouth, he begged God to save his child. The paramedics peeled him away, his arms and legs flailing like a mad man.

Today, the sun breaks the clouds and touches a church. A column of light shines through a pane of colored glass, engulfing the flowers on her coffin, dust particles floating in the beam like spirits.


*This post is my contribution to Madison Woods’s Friday Fictioneers.

Leave a comment

Bubblegum Girl

This is an old poem, and I think it’s bit heavy in the adjective department. 

The bubblegum smacked pink
between her teeth as death
seeped out, her saliva sweet
with the aroma of acted-agony.
That customer service smile–
elegant in its vacuous irreverence,
bled the tune of protocol.
Paperwork, the crisp certificate
of the deceased, is solicited
in indifference.  Her reception
glitzy, giggling through our grim
expressions and glossy balloon eyes.
We sign, eliciting relief as our somber
dose of life, diaphanous in nature,
masquerades as durable.