Paranormal Fantasy Addict
Hi, my name is BR and I’m a paranormal fantasy addict.
It started when a friend, or at least I thought she was a friend, loaned me a couple of JD Robb’s In Death books. Then another supposed friend loaned me Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. I discovered Kim Harrison’s Hollows series and Richelle Meade’s succubus books.
Before I knew it, I was on a death spiral into alternate realities. Yasmine Galenorn’s Sisters of the Moon, Faith Hunter’s Rogue Mage, Patricia Briggs’ Mercy Thompson, I didn’t realize it, but I was hooked. I swallowed Nina Harper’s sophisticated Manhattan succubus and Jim Butcher’s warlock without a whimper of protest.
I found myself reading about vampires having sex with werewolves, witches casting spells on unsuspecting demons, fairies falling in love with Lokis (Lokis???), all without a single thought to the depravity I was sinking into. My capacity for critical thinking drowned in a suspension of belief that knew no end. I needed an intervention, but as with most addicts, I didn’t admit to myself how low I’d fallen. I didn’t care that I was wallowing in the unclean thoughts and magical thinking that is the paranormal sewer, underlying the lives of so many people who look and act normal in the every day world. I started fantasizing about, “wouldn’t it be weird if that guy was a werewolf?” or worse, “I wonder if vampire sex is really as hot as it’s supposed to be?”
Then I got a job, an incredibly boring job, with a two-hour a day commute. Eleven hours a day that I couldn’t read. I found myself in shaking withdrawal. In desperation, I began to make up my own stories, and then I found a world and a story that fascinated me. I didn’t need books anymore, I had a paranormal circus going on in my own head.
Visiting a friend for Thanksgiving, I got caught up in a conversation about self publishing. In what I now know was a final cry for help, hoping someone would recognize my problem and force me into a twelve-step program, I told her that I had a story I thought would make a good book. The final blow to reality was delivered with a sudden crashing finality. She encouraged me to write it down.
When I raised my head from my laptop several months later, I discovered I had told it about the world I’d created, about the characters that now seemed more real than my own family. In a fit of revenge seeking, I sent it to the people responsible for my sad state, the vicious women who gave me that first taste of candy, luring me into the dark, hidden world of urban fantasy and perverted paranormal romance. My state was so reduced, all I could do at that point was inflict my madness on others, on those who turned me.
To my utter shock, they liked it. Not all of it. They gave me suggestions, comments, edits, and instead of calling in a shrink, actually encouraged me to finish my self destruction and publish it.
The result is The Succubus Gift, and the two books coming out this summer, Succubus Unleashed, and In Succubus We Trust.
But in purging myself of that story, I’ve turned away and finally managed to break free and move into the light. I’m writing a mystery, free of the depravity of paranormal romance I have been living in so long. My new main character won’t fall in love with a telepathic sex machine. She’s a hard-bitten private investigator with her head firmly set on her shoulders. The working title is The Case of the Missing Succubus, but I’m really, really open to suggestions for something better.
For now, there is an interview with me posted on the blog Willing to See Less, http://willingtoseeless.blogspot.com/ and Ivana, the nice lady who runs it, is sponsoring a contest. Two winners will receive a free copy of The Succubus Gift. Check it out.