I know today has something to do with being Indie (ana jones? Pendent?) but I can't for the life of me figure out what it might be.
All jokes aside (that was a joke?) we had a lot of fun at my (Face)book launch for Spirit the other night. We had a facebook/blog scavenger hunt. I need to think of some other interesting ideas for online launch parties. Next time I think I'll try to get a chatroom for the evening. :)
I really don't know what it is, since I've always considered myself a solitary person, but getting in trouble with friends around always seems more interesting. Not sure that came out right. :)
Spirit was fun to write, and urban fantasy something I'd never tried before.
Oh, and I just got a really cool idea! Off to write!
Excerpt from Family Honor, the second in the Spirit cycle (Those who've read Spirit might recognize this scene):
Inga Tarsi kept her eyes far away from the odd couple as they left the restaurant. The man was shielded, the woman wide open and practically shoving her emotions down Inga's throat. The woman wore the professionally tailored gray suit and the six inch blood red spike heels totally unselfconsciously, as if she dressed this way all the time.
Inga shook her head and turned back to her table. She picked up the overly generous tip and rubbed a hand over her arm, smoothing out the spirit bruises. She tried not to let resentment affect her that way, but she bruised again as she thought of the way the woman had used her, apparently to make a point for her boyfriend.
Inga had been waiting tables since she was fifteen, she should be used to that by now.
She walked back into the kitchen and dropped her apron on the hook, trying not to see the string of spirit bruises around the new cook's neck, the spirit slashes on his wrists. The explanation for the throat bruising was simple enough—Don't tell, this is our secret, family business, no one else needs to know. A lot of different variations on that theme, but she wasn't good enough to read the nuances. She'd never wanted spirit, and to get the training she needed would be expensive.
"Good night," she called, but he didn't respond. He never did.
The man taking over her position for the evening shift waved but said nothing.
Inga shook her head and swung her leg over her bike, then swore as her thumbprint to the lockpad did nothing. The electric engine didn't even click. She hunkered down by the bike and peered at what she could see of the wiring, then pulled a hand light out of her tool kit.
If she could afford a mechanic she wouldn't have to deal with this all the time, but fixing the ancient motorcycle had certainly given her an education in old fashioned mechanics.
She flicked on the little light, and swore more creatively this time. Some kind of black sludge dripped across the engine. She smelled petroleum, remembered from the motorcycle rally over the weekend.
Her fists clenched. She wanted to pound someone's face for this, and she knew just who to blame. She'd need to leave the bike here and come in early tomorrow to take a closer look. At least the neighborhood was relatively secure—she could mostly count on it being here when she got back.
Not that an antique motorcycle was exactly a collector's item—no one would have any reason to steal it. Since all vehicles used on roads had to be converted to electric, any vintage bike on the road was automatically considered altered from the original. A thief could sell it for scrap, or parts, but it had real little value. On the track was a different matter, and the bikes used there were brought to the rallies in their own trailers and treated like celebrities.
She could inhale exhaust fumes forever. She grinned as she straightened, remembering the weekend rally. She'd actually gotten into the pit a little indirectly—all right, illegally—and been able to look over the shoulder of the mechanic as he worked on one of the bikes.
A fantastic moment by any definition.
She shifted the strap of her purse over her head and started jogging.