Today I wrote a deathbed scene, two of them actually, separated by two thousand years. They’re both framed by Christmas Day, though as observed by the non-observant, which is to say the winter solstice with the full Druid trimmings: evergreen boughs, candles, and snow.
November marks the slow spiral into the pit of winter, and the traditional story-telling season in many Northern Hemisphere cultures. So I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at how very between-the-worlds this story is. One of my characters is a ghost at the moment. His thoughts are coming to roost in our heroine’s head, which is a whole lot less romantic, and more annoying, than any of the paranormal romance folks would have you believe. Actually, it’s pretty disturbing territory: the line between “me” and “not-me.” We’re already sneaking along the border with demonology: possession, revenants, and necromancy.
That’s the Long Strange Trip this time: summoning the kinesthetic sensations of someone who doesn’t have a body of their own. I’m finally managing the alternating viewpoint, and my other main character is the most hard-headed empiricist you could wish to meet. She’s fairly unflappable, as you’d expect of someone whose portrait clients are cold cases.
The supernatural weirdness is fun, but what really makes it is the characters. And they are, both of them–characters.