So it might come as a surprise to me, my friends and family, whenever I make a concrete decision and stick with it. It always comes as a shock to me personally, when I can put my foot down firmly and not second guess myself. So-far in this writing process it's only happened a handful of times.
1. When I finally found my schtick, the little twisted mythology that tied my protagonist in with the scary man-beast hounds. It was one of those ahhh-haaa moments, where the stars aline and the world just sings around me. I was ecstatic when I found the myth, beyond happy. And I still am, it made the story, it brought it all together like butter on a skillet. (I'm feeling particularly metaphory today, apologies in advance.)
2. After finding the Myth, or maybe it was before, really it's hard to keep track of research. Anyways, I came across information, and a poem about The Wild Hunt. The description was dark, and creepy, a little fairy-tale-esque, and I fell in love. I needed a title for my story, something better than all of the other craptastic title's I'd tried out. And so The Wild Hunt, was christianed, and I never once looked back. It was another one of those decisions that were strangely easy to make.
3. For a while now I've fought with myself, about whether or not I should scrap the prologue and just make it a Chapter. It's horrifyingly long in prologue standards, most are only a few pages, maybe even just a paragraph, and here mine was going on fourteen pages. FOURTEEN. That's not a prologue, its a damn chapter. But I didn't have a prologue. I had a poem, a simple, not horribly wonderful little poem, but a poem is not a prologue. The prologue needed to say something about the story, and the protagonist. It needed to pull the reader in, and make them want to stay for a while, make them want to find the secret, open the door, breathe in my world. For the last few months I tried, again, and again to write a new prologue. I failed, miserably, horribly, every word felt wrong, fake, forced and ugly, nothing fit. Nothing felt right. So imagine my surprise when two days ago, like the Maltynos, and The Wild Hunt, the prologue finally came. Like lightening it struck bammm, and it was beautiful. I'm hoping this lightening trend is the secret to my muse, because I never question it. It's always right.
So to make a long horribly boring story short. I have a new prologue, a short, three paragraph, feww word prologue. I'm ecstatic, it feels fantastic, and I hope that you, the reader, will love it as well.
The Wild Hunt
When I was a little girl, I had an imaginary friend. I called her Jillie. She was my silent companion when I played dress up and pretended to sip tea. Every day Jillie walked silently beside me to the school bus. She was always there at the end of the day to listen as I whispered my secrets. Jillie was probably the best friend I had for most of my childhood. After my sixth birthday my father decided I was too old for imaginary friends. He told me my friend wasn’t real, that no-one could see her, and my childish games had gone on long enough.
For two years my father punished me every time I played with my invisible friend. Through his punishments I learned my first lesson in defiance. I grew proud of the marks that lined my skin; every mark was a snub in my father’s direction. Every welt was a helpful reminder of my father’s true face.
One day my mother begged me to forget about Jillie, and never mention her again. The funny thing was my mother looked at my imaginary friend. Not in some small way of pacifying me either. Her pale green eyes scanned across Jillie’s blood splattered dress and dirty knees, and smiled with understanding. Like she too once had an imaginary friend. I still see Jillie sometimes. A childhood ailment I never truly outgrew. But the little girl who was my imaginary friend, was never really imaginary, Jillie was……is…… a ghost.