Welcome back to Alchemy for Authors!
In this week’s solo episode, I share a personal update on what actions I’m taking to align myself with being a healthy author, and I reflect on how I came to write my gothic novella, Between. I also read an excerpt from Between and challenge you to trust that your words have purpose and your stories have a place in the world.
Resources mentioned in this episode:
- Between: A Gothic Novella by Jo Buer. Purchase the eBook direct from me and use the coupon code ALCHEMY to receive 50% off until October 31st 2024. https://payhip.com/b/mckaF
- Find most retailers for Between: A Gothic Novella at https://books2read.com/BetweenAGothicNovella
- Your Future Self Meditation Membership by Author Revolution. Receive a 1 week FREE trial when you use this link: https://author-revolution-academy.mykajabi.com/YFS-Broken
- Join me in Renee Rose’s Write to Riches 8 Week Course here. (Please note that since recording this episode I have become an affiliate and do receive a small commission if you enrol through my link.)
- Purchase Renee’s book Write to Riches here.
- Join The Money Magic Membership and get 1 month FREE when you use this link and the coupon code JO. (Please note: A do receive a small commission if you decide to continue with the membership)
- Listen to Alchemy for Authors Episode 55: Write to Riches with Renee Rose here.
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Find the full transcript of this episode below.
Episode 89: Behind the Scenes of ‘Between: A Gothic Novella’
Jo: Hello, my lovelies. Welcome back to Alchemy for Authors.
I have a bit of a different episode for you today, a behind the scenes look at my gothic novella Between, and I’ll talk shortly here about what inspired me to do this episode. But first I want to share a bit of a personal update.
So if you caught the last episode, ‘Your Author Self Warrant of Fitness’, you’ll know that I talked about the importance of taking an inventory of your mental, emotional, and physical health and its impact on your author life and its sustainability. One of the big catalysts for that episode was that I’d recently broken a tooth, something that could have potentially been avoided had I actually taken the time to look after my health a little bit better, rather than procrastinated on its maintenance. But since that episode, I can definitely say I am paying much more attention to my general wellbeing and have been taking lots of efforts to move myself closer to the author lifestyle I aspire to. It’s all about having a holistic approach. So at this time, I’m still waiting on my dental appointment to get my tooth fixed. The good news is the dentist was impressed with my dental health overall, and although I will need a crown for that tooth, that’s the extent of it. For that tooth at least. However, it was also noticed that I had another fractured tooth. Not a major, fortunately, just a filling, and that at least is all fixed and done with. What it has brought to my attention though, is how much my stress impacts upon my health.
So this year has been a particularly stressful one, at the day job in particular. And with being hyper-focused on protecting my tooth until I can get a crown, I’ve been noticing how much throughout the day I clench and grit my teeth. And, why? Well, because I’ve been increasingly finding myself biting back frustrations and big emotions. So, hmm, a good indicator of what else in my life needs to change… And awareness, I think, is a good thing.
So as this episode goes live, I have one week left at the day job before two weeks of working from home. That at least should give me some time and distance to reevaluate what needs to change to ensure that my day job is also sustainable. How I can change my relationship with it to be more symbiotic with my author goals and less detrimental to my long-term health.
So a few episodes back I shared I was embarking on a 16 month focus on elevating my author income to rival my day job so that in the future I could, if I desired, reduce my hours at the day job. This attention to my general health is part of reinventing my author self or aligning it at least to this larger goal of being a healthy, prosperous author. So with that in mind, I also went and got my eyes and hearing checked, and my hearing was a concern purely because it’s quite common for my particular day job to impact upon hearing. But that came back a-okay. My eyes, however, as I expected, require me to get reading glasses, which I’ll be picking up later this week.
And the reason that I’m sharing all these small mundane self-checks is because I know what life is like, how easy it can be to put ourselves last. We look after our loved one’s wellbeing, and we neglect our own. So here is me nudging you, much like in the last episode, to pay attention to your own needs. If you are serious about your author life, you need to look after yourself. It is a non-negotiable. We are going to get the best from ourselves when we’re at our best.
On the mindset front, I’m still enjoying meditating most nights before bed. My go to is still the, Your Future Self Author Meditation Membership by Author Revolution. It is a great compilation of meditations and hypnosis to supercharge all aspects of your author career, including your mindset and your health. There is a link in the show notes if you want to go check that out.
I have also enrolled in the October round of Renee Rose’s Write to Riches Eight Week Course. So Renee was on the show back in Episode 55 and is the queen of using manifestation and mindset to create prosperous author careers. I highly recommend her book Write to Riches and her Money Magic Membership that she runs with her friend, Lee Savino. The link in the show notes will give you a free month of the membership to try out for yourself if you’re interested. But if you’re like me and you want to really immerse yourself in upgrading your mindset and help with manifesting your author goals, you might want to consider joining her eight week Write to Riches Course. The link will also be in the show notes. I’m not an affiliate, I’m just sharing because it’s something that I think is going to be really cool.
Even when we know our stuff, we know what we need to do to align our present reality with our goals. There is something to be said for investing in that extra support to keep us on track. That’s what I’m doing. So I’ve decided I’m worth it. My goals are worth it. My author career is worth it. So my question for you, my friend, is what are you doing for yourself, for your goals, for your author career right now? What changes are you making? What help have you enlisted? So I hope by sharing with you some of my focuses over the last few weeks that I’m inspiring you or nudging you to consider how and in what areas you need to level up as well.
Okay, so I realize beyond all the health and mindset stuff, I haven’t really talked about the actual writing part of being an author. And that is happening, I can promise you that, although at this moment in time, writing looks more like rewriting, editing, and brainstorming a few projects. As per the title of today’s episode, Behind the Scenes of ‘Between: A Gothic Novella’, I did want to share with you some of my writing journey.
When I first embarked on taking my writing more seriously, I used to love listening to authors talking about their latest works, their inspiration behind them, and their process of writing them. As is the nature of this podcast, when I’m recording solos, I usually follow my gut as to what to talk about. And to the lead up of this recording, one of my books in particular came to my mind, my gothic novella Between. So I’m going to share a little backstory to it and an excerpt in the hope that you too enjoy hearing about another author’s journey to write a book. And if you’re new to writing or just starting out or maybe struggling to get to the finish line, sometimes demystifying the process, having that reminder of how different yet similar each of our journeys are can actually inspire us to reach our own goals.
So here we are. Between.
Between was my first, and to date my only, novella, and it still stands as one of my books that can often fall through the cracks of visibility. I often forget about it to be honest, and I think because of that others do too. Maybe it’s because it’s a novella, it’s an odd length, it’s a niche genre, gothic fiction, and I’m just not really sure what to do with this book.It’s as weird as the story within its pages. It’s not my most recent story or book. In fact, it was published in April 2023, and it was written over just a couple of weeks during my first fever-fuelled, bed-ridden bout of COVID in October 2022. And it was inspired by a place I spent time at in July 2022.
During that July, I ended up spending a week of my non-contact time from my day job, away from home, attending professional development for that said day job.Now here’s the thing, July is winter here in New Zealand. It’s cold. And I’m a homebody. I like being at home with my husband and cats, and taking me away from them to attend training for my day job when I’d normally be on sort of a break from the day job was definitely setting me up to be a little bit resentful.What’s more, the week-long training was full on days with lots of ‘peopling’, which is pretty painful for an introvert like myself. And I had an editing deadline to meet in October for a book that I hadn’t started writing, or had barely started writing.Said book was supposed to be Hades’s Haunt, which ended up coming out much later. So I was stressed and moody, but also too much of a good girl to cause a fuss and try and get out of the training that my job required of me.
So, I plastered a smile on my face, loaded up my car, (and I’m definitely an over-packer), and hit the road with the belief that I could somehow use this trip to my advantage. The four-and-a-half-hour trip meant I could marinate in the playlist I’d created for what was going to be Hades’s Haunt, I could mull over possible plots and character motives on the trip, and as long as I was disciplined, I could probably still get some writing done before crashing into bed every night.
That was my hope anyway. Writing in the evenings did not happen, however. Instead, I whittled away, most of them, nattering with my close friend who I was sharing an Airbnb with, before completely exhausting myself and falling into bed. So this change of routine sent any hope of having discipline flying out the window for me.
Now here’s where I get to the origin story of my gothic novella Between. During the day I did my due diligence and attended my PD, professional development, and I’m not going to give you all the details about what my training was or where it took place, but I will share that as far as professional development goes, it was a little bit weird. The trainers had us doing some weird stuff, even for me. And I am pretty woo-woo and weird myself. But, an example is, seeing a room full of adults writhing on the ground enacting the moment they left their mother’s birth canal to be born into the world, complete with sound effects. It’s something that I will probably never ever forget. And, knowing my workplace was paying for me to experience this, well, needless to say it was a pretty unusual week with some pretty eclectic and often eccentric training going on, some of which, I admit, my ADHD was just having no part of. I learnt pretty quick that as a student, I’m the one making jokes at the back of the room with my friend or completely zoning out or doodling instead of listening or taking notes. It was a heck of a fight at times to look engaged and to not just watch the clock. And it wasn’t that the lectures were necessarily boring, it’s just that I didn’t really want to be there. And some of the esoteric ideologies were rubbing me the wrong way. And my ADHD was just having none of it. But I also knew that I was going to end up being even more resentful if I got to the end of the week and felt that it was a complete waste of time. So I did the one thing I felt I could do to make it through: I took notes on my surroundings.
The best thing in my mind about this training was where it took place. It was like an old homestead that had been converted into an adult training facility for classes on like human development and spirituality, following a particular esoteric school of thought. The homestead itself was full of character. Even as you drove up the windy, tree lined road that led to the main buildings, you just knew that you were leaving everyday life behind. The homestead sat upon a hill with sprawling gardens, beautiful gardens in front, and a car park to the side that looked out upon rolling hills of farmland. But the gardens and the buildings in particular just fascinated me. They had so many hidden surprises. Stone carvings hidden in tall grass of Demeter and Persephone. There was a pentacle purposely etched into the floorboards of the centre of the hall. There was this really cute, but kind of gothicky little library with a collection of books on various religions and folklore and natural therapies and the like. There were paintings of pastel coloured spirit like beings dancing. And then there was this dark narrow staircase leading upstairs, and a sepia-coloured photograph of these two women of whom the homestead had once belonged. They were alternatively referred to as ‘the ladies’ and ‘lifelong friends’. They were the founders of this homestead for this particular and sometimes peculiar school of thought. There was also this beautiful intricately carved red door that led outside. There was cobbled stone paths and an almost constant outside melody of native birds. Everything combined into this magical haunting setting that couldn’t help but inspire me, particularly as I write gothic fiction.
So I have mentioned in other episodes that my stories often grow from setting. My other gothic suspense novels came about from places that I’d been. Rest Easy Resort was inspired by a beautiful Pacific Island I’d vacationed on and the haunting derelict resort that was on there that was guarded by a man on a motorbike holding a machete. Unspoken Truths and Broken Lies were inspired by a country school I knew pretty well. Even my short stories are set in places I’ve been or lived. Hades’s Haunt, my paranormal cozy book, although I set it in a fictional US town, it was a rural town I lived in in New Zealand during my teen years that really informed its creation.
So while I sat there in class on this training and the lecturer talked on about soul and spirit and human development, and around me my classmates all listened attentively and took notes, I pushed aside my guilt that my brain was having none of that and I went about describing all the details of the setting that I had seen since being there. I filled pages of my notebook with my scrawl, trying to capture the feeling of the place. Because despite my cynicism, there was somewhat of a beautiful, peaceful, magical atmosphere to the place. There was also just enough of a hint of spookiness that I enjoyed as well. Dark corners and rooms where shadows from the past seem to play. And there was also the doors that swung open and closed of their own accord in front of audiences. So, there was story all around me. And that was really how I battled my ADHD and survived the week.
Now, there were some classes I found fascinating, but also an equal amount, if not more, that I just found annoying or boring. So these are the ones where I used my ‘writer eyes’ to prise from the moment any golden details that I could maybe use in my favour in a story or for some writing at a later date. My writer’s notebook was the key to my survival. So when the week was over and I was back home, life returned to normal. I got busy. My notebook of scribbles and random snippets of descriptions was pushed aside and largely forgotten about. I was still deluding myself that Hades’s Haunt was going to be the next book that I was going to get to my editor. The problem was I was only really a few chapters in and not even close to realistically where I needed to be with the story. Plus, being back at the day job, I was crazy busy.
Before I knew it, the beginning of October had rolled around and I had another week booked back at the same place for more training. This was time I would have much preferred to have used for writing. The deadline to get something to my editor was fast approaching and I had nothing completed. I desperately tried to pep talk myself that this time, while on my training, I’d find the time to write. And if the classes just weren’t gelling with me, I’d just continue with what I did last time. Take it all in as a writer would, taking notes on it.
But I wasn’t really convincing myself. I didn’t want to go, and what’s more, I was beginning to feel quite sick, chest cold by the feel of it. But with a COVID test coming back negative, I resigned myself to mask up and just get the experience over and done with. So, four and a half hours later, I arrived at the homestead, again, sick and unhappy, trying to convince myself that this time would be different and I would enjoy myself. I made it through that afternoon’s classes and got myself settled into the Airbnb, feeling progressively worse. I tested again before going to bed and lo and behold, I tested positive for COVID. So at the break of dawn, I left for home, another four and a half hours, cutting the week long training short.
The next two weeks were a blur. I was sick. Really sick for me. Really sick. Pretty much bedridden. Hubby and I divided the house. He had one end, I had the other. And I don’t really remember a lot from that time. I know I slept a lot. TV was on in the background a lot. And I’m sure I watched lots of snippets of random shows in between falling asleep. But I can’t really remember what shows they were. I remember lots of feverish dreams and sleeping with my laptop and notebook beside me on the bed because I still had a deadline to meet and needed to write something. Sometimes when I was awake, I’d start typing away, trying to form a story from the scribblings in my notebook from my previous training. Eventually a story began to take shape. From the setting a story grew. And as a discovery writer, I let my fingers on the keyboard just guide me. And they in turn were this time round very much fuelled by fever. So I’d write a bit and then fall asleep, giving into the twisted feverish dreams, and then I’d wake and pound out a few more words and repeat.
I clearly remember bawling at one time, just crying at one point, because I honestly believed that I had written the best story of my life, the best story that I would ever write. Yup. COVID has a lot to answer for. As I got better and much more lucid, I got to the point that I knew that this was going to be what I’d be submitting to my editor, because it was the best thing I’d ever written. And time had run out, and the way I figured it, submitting something was better than nothing. I’d just have to be okay with the fact that I was just submitting a novella and not a full-length novel. So I set about editing it and although greatly fatigued still, my mind had at least started to clear, and oh boy, whatever love I had felt for that story instantly vanished. I really didn’t like it, but I also didn’t want to disappoint my editor and so I submitted it anyway. In the end, I ended up publishing it as an eBook and a paperback to no great fanfare. Mainly because for whatever reason, I was kind of embarrassed by it. I even skipped my usual process of having ARC readers read it.
I gave my mum a copy as I tend to always do with my books, expecting or at least hoping that as one of my biggest supporters, and being my mum, she would at least enjoy it. But, there was radio silence, and for a while I was both desperate to know what she thought and scared shitless. If my mother hated it, what did that mean? Finally, the day came and she called me. She said she’d tried to start it a couple of times and just couldn’t get into it. My heart fell. But then, she said, one day she was just called to pick it up and this was the time it hit home for her. She read it right through in one sitting. She still gushes about this book. This novella is her favourite of all my books.
And I find it kind of strange, it’s not at all like my other books. I have flipped from a feverish, literally, deep devotion to it, to absolutely loathing it, to where I sit now, which is, I kind of love it again. It’s not my best work, but there is something about it, much like the setting it’s based on. When the timing’s right and the story is needed, it seems to hit a person in all the feels. But when the timings off, it just doesn’t. It’s a love or loathe it, no middle ground, kind of story. And it can change for a person over time, as I learnt. The story works when it needs to. Like I said, it’s kind of strange, inspired by setting and written in a fever.
So writing is messy. There is no one right way of doing it. We’ve talked about that lots on the show. And sometimes we won’t know what we’ve created until much later. So I suggest that as authors, as writers, we are cautious about critiquing our own finished products. We’re too close to the project, too unreliable to see it clearly. Writing is about trusting that it will meet the needs of someone when it needs to, and that there is an audience for everything.
So on that note, I thought I’d share with you the first few pages of Between: A Gothic Novella. You’ll have to forgive my croaky voice and my lack of skill in doing character voices. But otherwise, I hope you enjoy.
Between: A Gothic Novella by Jo Buer.
Copyright 2023.
“It won’t be long now.” The woman pinched the handle of the teacup as she brought it to her lips. She closed her eyes, savouring the first sip. A tui’s haunting call flitted between the trees in the garden. Opening her eyes, the woman returned the cup to its saucer on the table. Her gaze fell upon the stretch of lawn before her, neatly cut and lush green, lined by untamed wildflowers. At the centre edge of the border a small path trailed down the hill. To its left, two kowhai trees stood, their clusters of yellow flowers swaying in the breeze. To the right, a sturdy oak anchored itself in a bed of ivy. A stone carving the size of a headstone stood resolute amongst the first crawling tendrils of ivy. Into the stone’s face a chiselled image of a strange dragon or taniwha unfurled amongst a teasing of moss.
Obscured from sight was a water feature. It nestled into the corner of the garden by the cobbled path leading from the driveway to the patio where they sat. A steady trickle of water fell from stone to stone until reaching the small pool below. If you listened really hard, on the very edges of the Eden, peeling back the veil, the distant sound of modern industrialism – of rubber on tar and the thrum of engines – took on a dreamlike quality.
A hand reached across the table, gently covering the woman’s.
“Are you ready for this?” her companion asked, dark eyes searching her face.
For fifty years they had lived together, loved together, stood stoic against the pressures of their time. For near another fifty they had lived between.
Their faces were autobiographies, every fine line held a memory of laughter, every deeper etching, a lesson. Every discolouration and blemish paid an homage to time. Despite all the surprises life had brought, not once had they strayed from each other. For what was life without love, and death without companionship?
Ophelia turned her hand over, clasping Hilda’s in her own, and gave it a small squeeze.
“Oh yes”, she said. “I am always ready.”
Hilda smiled, watching the light dance in Ophelia’s eyes. In an instant, time disappeared. The air fizzed between them as the lines on their faces smoothed and the colour returned to their time-bleached hair. Each gazed with fondness upon the newly born face of their much younger lover.
Hilda touched Ophelia’s cheek, stroking her soft, almost flawless pale skin. A loose strand of auburn hair fell across her eyes and Hilda brushed it aside. It never ceased to amaze her how time held no meaning here.
Ophelia moved her head ever so slightly, kissing Hilda’s fingertips.
The air crackled, and a flurry of confusion and a flapping of wings burst from the garden and took to the sky. Far beyond, a screech of tires and a crunch of metal reverberated.
“It’s time.” Ophelia stood up; Hilda’s hand again clutched in her own. She smiled, her eyes unwilling to leave Hilda’s.
Hilda nodded, her heart beating a little faster under her bodice. They had a job to do. A responsibility. The pleasure of being able to do it together never waned. Should everyone be as lucky as them.
They moved as one towards the carmine sculpted door that led inside. With her free hand, Hilda touched the Green Man’s face, intricately carved amongst the fleur-de-lis, plant tendrils and acorns adorning the door’s surface. It had been some of her best work. She suspected the newcomer would think so too.
Ophelia turned the brass doorknob and together they entered. Their home. Their life. Their afterlife. The space between.
Rhea Harding dropped her phone and pulled hard on the steering wheel. The car swerved back onto the road, crossing the centre line. Rhea’s heart jumped in her throat as she sought to correct the oversteer, the car weaving until it finally found its way onto the correct side of the road again.
“Fuck.” She bit her lip hard to stop it quivering. White knuckled, she gripped the steering wheel hard and blinked back tears. That had been close. Too close. Yet her thought almost immediately went to her phone, likely stuck now in the thin gap between seat and middle console. The same place where the odd McDonald’s fry would sometimes disappear.
Swallowing hard, Rhea gave an involuntary shudder. A glance in the mirrors gave some relief – no one had been around to see her mess up. Those signs berating, “Text and Die!” weren’t just for quips, then.
“Fuck,” she muttered again, meaning it. She could have got herself killed. The road up Hosking’s Peak was not only twisty but threatened demise with its sharp drop into a canyon and murky river below. A simple steel railing between road and death seemed a poor safety net.
She was so close. Three minutes if the GPS was to be believed, maybe a little longer. To settle her nerves, she reduced her speed. God, it would have sucked to die today. Today was D-Day. After a two-year hideous assault on her bank account, her figure (goddamn comfort food), and mental health, today was the day she finally got to celebrate her divorce. There was no way she was giving her ex the satisfaction of learning she’d been killed in a car accident before the ink had barely dried.
Oh, God. Another hideous thought struck her. She hadn’t changed her emergency contact. He would still get the damn call. Him, or worse… his twenty-something grad student, the one he now shacked up with. What would stop her from being the first to take the call or to answer the door when the police turned up to report her dead?
Rhea slowed the car as the female GPS voice directed her up a road on the left. A white sign with an arrow signalled Cambre House. Rhea loosened her grip on the steering wheel. She was here. Mixed emotions fluttered in her chest. She’d been looking forward to this for so long, just her and her best friend Sarah. A girl’s weekend to celebrate her new start. But Sarah wouldn’t be arriving until tomorrow. A kid emergency, apparently. Something about a trip to the ER, LEGO up the nose or something with the youngest. She’d have to check the rest of the text message when she officially stopped. It had been Sarah’s message that had near killed her. She didn’t know why she’d felt compelled to read it while navigating the tight turns, scrolling with one hand and driving with the other. She was an idiot. Only a moment had passed before the two passenger tyres were off the road completely, the nose of the car on a direct course for a tree which interrupted the metal railings protecting her from plummeting to her death. God, she had been lucky. How had she avoided a crash?
Before her, Cambre House rose above the trees lining the side of the drive. Gravel crunched under her tires as she pulled into a small parking area alongside the house, its white weatherboards veiled with ivy. Two small windows on the second floor peeked out from nature’s embrace.
Rhea had always loved the way ivy romanticised a place. It added a layer of mystique. Perfect for a place that proclaimed itself for respite for lost souls in search of themselves.
A fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach diffused some of the shock from her near miss. After a moment of consideration, she pulled the car up along the fence line, facing away from the house, instead overlooking the rolling hills and low clouds of the countryside. She turned off the ignition and sat for a moment, a hand to her chest, breathing deep and steadying herself. Shock and excitement were a heady combination. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them, blinking hard. Everything seemed brighter here, more luminescent somehow.
Remembering her phone, she slipped her hand down the side of her seat, searching for the plastic case with her fingertips. When she came up with nothing, she scanned the small space the best she could in the limited light.
There. A little further back than she thought. Only with some deft manoeuvring and the use of both hands was she able to rescue it. Ew, a fry really was down there. She could just see it out of reach, immortalized amongst dust bunnies.
She blew some fluff off her phone and ran the screen across her thigh before pressing the side button to turn it on. Navigating her way straight to her messages, she re-read Sarah’s text – fully this time. She had the gist of it right. LEGO up the youngest’s nose. Sarah would call later and do everything in her power to come in the morning.
Empathy didn’t quell the disappointment. This had been Sarah’s idea. She had been the one to convince Rhea that D-Day deserved its own special celebration. It made sense. People were so eager to celebrate birthdays and engagements, job promotions. Hell, even when a person died there was a commemoration of sorts. It was even more important, Sarah had said, when the rite of passage signalled freedom from an abusive, cheating, low-life scum like her husband.
Sarah’s original suggestion had been a drunken night of karaoke and pretending they were a decade-plus younger than they actually were. Rhea countered with a weekend retreat. She had the perfect place in mind, too. A lucky find squished between the pages of a random book left in the return bin at her library. A pamphlet promising a relaxing getaway. Something about it spoke to her. A century-old house nestled amongst native bush with wildflower gardens, an intimate library, and vegetarian meals. Everything was overseen by two women referred to as the Sisters.
While it promised a realignment of spirit and soul and an assortment of New-Age woo-woo, all she wanted was a quiet place to spend time with her friend, enjoy the gardens, and maybe read a book or two, far, far, away from anything that reminded her of the last two years. The last decade, if she was honest. In the end, Sarah – who had originally rolled her eyes – had given in. Rhea suspected the promise of three full days without screaming kids had won her over. Sarah even paid for their booking. She probably needed this getaway as much as Rhea did.
Rhea typed up a reply letting her know she’d arrived safely. She’d share her near-death experience when she saw her next. She sent her best wishes for the LEGO retrieval and, as an afterthought, told her to drive safely tomorrow. Send.
“Unable to be delivered”, popped up on her screen. Strange. It appeared there was no reception. She’d try again when she was settled into her room.
Stealing a glance in the rear-view mirror, Rhea ran a hand through her hair. The copper highlights looked great. Sarah had been right. She almost always was. If only Rhea had listened to her on the morning of her wedding, when she had questioned whether Rhea really wanted to go through with it. Her disapproval was written all over her face. It had upset Rhea at the time, but oh, what she wouldn’t give to go back and change things.
Time to move on, she coaxed herself. This was the start of her new life. A new her. She’d be damned if she was going to let him spoil this moment too.
She collected her handbag from the floor of the passenger seat and, juggling her phone, opened the car door before stepping outside. Orbs danced in front of her as she blinked fast to allow her eyes to adjust to the glare. She stuffed her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, then hunted for her sunglasses. It must be the country light, she reckoned. Her eyes had acclimated to the urban haze.
With her bag slung over her shoulder, she moved around to the boot of the car to grab her duffel, taking a moment to relish stretching her limbs. Four and a half hours made for a long drive.
It took a bit of shuffling from hand to hand to get the balance right: handbag, duffel, and then fumbling with the key fob, waiting for the quick chirp that told her the car was locked.
A small sign on the side of the building showed the way to the reception, following a covered walkway.
Rhea practiced a smile in the hopes it might hide her nerves from whomever she met. Being here alone made her somewhat self-conscious. I’m an independent woman, she told herself, grimacing at how weak the words felt.
A door on the right stood open, leading into a cosy sitting area. Suspecting this was the entrance, Rhea stepped inside. A small table with an array of brochures and signup sheets for watercolour classes, chakra alignment, crystal healing, performance dance and other experiences said to align the spirit and soul – hocus-pocus, as Sarah had called it – beckoned a future perusal. A framed painting of faceless wraiths dancing around a pentacle hung above the table. If it hadn’t been for the pastel rainbow colours of the composition, which calmed any sense of menace, Rhea might have turned heel and left. The pentacle bordered on being a little too much. She was certainly curious to see what Sarah’s reaction was going to be.
A couple of burgundy cushion chairs sat on either side of the table. To the left, slightly out of view, was a staircase. To her right, another sign directed her down a hall toward the check-in desk. Rhea took heed, stopping at the counter that fronted a tiny office area. Within, a young woman with bobbed brown hair sat at a wooden desk, penning something in a ledger in front of her.
Rhea placed her duffel on the ground by her feet.
“Hi,” she said, her voice a shade higher than natural, a symptom of her nerves.
The young woman, back to her, straightened her shoulders before facing Rhea, a large smile across her face. “Hello.” She had an American drawl.
As she moved towards the reception counter where Rhea waited, Rhea observed her. Petite and pretty. She wore a pale-blue chiffon dress with a dark-blue floral pattern. It hung past her knees and had puffy three-quarter sleeves. Although a little old-fashioned in its design, it somehow suited her perfectly. In contrast, Rhea felt underdressed in faded jeans, ballet flats, and a mauve T-shirt.
“You must be Ms Harding,” the young woman said. “Welcome to Cambre House. I’m Natasha.” She placed her hands, one on top of the other, on the counter.
“Nice to meet you,” Rhea said in return, surprised Natasha had guessed her name. Surely, she wasn’t the only guest checking in.
“We have you set up in room two—”
“There should be a second room, too, for my friend Sarah Harper,” Rhea added. “There’s been a bit of a family emergency, so she’ll be arriving later. Likely in the morning.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Natasha said, her smile never faltering as one of her hands slid beneath the counter.
“We’ll still pay for the room, of course.” It hadn’t been their fault Sarah would arrive a day late.
“Here we are. Your key,” Natasha said, ignoring the point. She held out an antique-looking skeleton key, the like Rhea hadn’t seen outside of movies.
“Your room is up the stairs, second on the right.” Natasha dropped the key into Rhea’s open palm. “Dinner will be served in the dining hall at seven p.m. Do you want to see a list of some of our onsite activities?”
“Sure,” Rhea replied slowly, her mind frantically searching for any mention in the brochure about there being a dining hall. That sounded fancier than she’d expected. Did all the guests eat together, then? Her chest tightened. Socialising with strangers had not been on her agenda. Damn little kids sticking things up their noses. She’d be able to cope so much better if Sarah were here.
“Are there many people staying here at the moment?” Rhea asked, hoping her nerves would calm if there weren’t many. No other cars have been in the car park although it would make sense if there was a second car park elsewhere. Where else would the staff park?
“Oh, you’re our only out-of-town guest tonight.” Natasha arched an eyebrow, a sparkle in her eye. “Our usuals will be here, of course, and I know Ophelia and Hilda are eager to meet with you.”
Ophelia and Hilda. She couldn’t place the names, yet it seemed she should know who they were. Rhea tried to recall what she’d read in the brochure, but she could no longer remember a lot. It was a bit of a blur.
Natasha interrupted her thoughts. “The Sisters.” She cocked her head. “Although, of course, they’re not really sisters.” Excitement lit her face as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “Cambre House. It’s because of them any of this is here.” She swung her arms out wide.
She obviously loves her work, Rhea thought.
“It’s because of them we’re here.” Natasha’s eyes narrowed in on Rhea, who shifted under her gaze.
“Of course,” she said, not knowing how else to reply. She should have known about the Sisters, she berated herself.
Natasha, chattering on, pushed a couple of pamphlets of activities across the counter with Rhea only paying half attention.
Maybe the Sisters were mentioned when she made the booking? She searched her memory. The name seemed familiar, didn’t they? It’s just… The realization hit her. She couldn’t actually remember making a booking. Her breath hitched. Natasha, oblivious, opened a brochure and pointed at a painting class she thought Rhea might be interested in.
Had she booked by email or by phone? Rhea wondered. A quick glance behind Natasha showed Rhea there was no sign of either. Neither a computer nor a laptop sat on the desk. No landline anywhere. Maybe a cell phone lay out of sight, she consoled herself. She was either more tired than she had supposed from the drive, or else she was going mad. Neither thought was very comforting, but she couldn’t ignore that there was a definite fogginess in her mind that she hadn’t noticed before.
“Are you okay?” Natasha asked, reaching across the counter and covering Rhea’s hand with her own. Her icy touch made Rhea want to recoil, but she stayed herself, thinking it rude.
“Oh, yes,” Rhea replied quickly. “Just a bit tired from the drive, I guess.”
Rhea gently pulled her hand out from under Natasha’s and rubbed her forehead to stress the point. “Nothing a quick nap won’t fix.” She hoped Natasha believed her.
“Of course,” Natasha cooed in sympathy. “Would you like some help taking your bags to your room?”
“Oh no. I can manage.” She was eager now just to get to her room. The sudden cloudiness in her mind bothered her. It wasn’t normal. Oh, please don’t let this be the start of a migraine, she prayed. She had heard of otherwise healthy people being plagued by migraines out of the blue. The thought was horrifying. But she was sure she’d packed some painkillers in case of an emergency. She could wash a couple down with a glass of water once she reached her room. Then maybe she’d be able to think clearer.
“Thanks so much,” Rhea added. “It was nice to meet you.” She forced a smile, then bent down and picked up her bag.
When she stood upright, Natasha was watching her. Her hands rested one over the other demurely on the counter, her head tilted to the side.
A prickle of unease crawled across the back of Rhea’s neck. The way Natasha was looking at her. She had seen that expression before. Rhea shifted her weight uncomfortably. It was pity. Unadulterated pity.
So, I hope you enjoyed today’s episode. I know it’s a bit different than my usual ones, but I hope it at least got you thinking again about the everyday things you can do now to make your author life easier. For instance, making time and taking care of your health and wellbeing.
In the intro, I mentioned I’m enrolled in Renee Rose’s Write to Riches Eight Week Course. It starts on the 8th of October, so if you’re like me and want a little boost in the mindset and manifestation department, maybe go check it out. The link is in the show notes. Again, I’m not an affiliate, it’s just something that I’m excited for.
If my novella Between is calling to you, despite my mediocre reading of it, it is presently available as both an Book and a paperback and there are links in the show notes to take you to your favourite store so that you can purchase it if you wish to do so. If you wish to purchase the eBook, you can purchase it directly from my website at https://jobuer.com and save yourself 50% off when you use the coupon code ALCHEMY at the checkout. The coupon code will work up until October 31st, Halloween, and I’m more than happy for you to tell a friend about it. Again, details of that will be in the show notes.
Just to give you a bit more of a background on Between: A Gothic Novella, I will share with you the blurb here quickly.
In a house full of secrets, one woman’s need for the truth may cost her life.
Ink still wet on her divorce papers, Rhea Harding arrives at Cambre House yearning for nothing more than sanctuary from the horrors in her past.
The sprawling estate offers romantic decor and lush gardens… but it’s all just a picturesque façade. As the sun sets and shadows creep, the house shows itself to be something else. Something secretive. Something sinister. And its occupants, at first so welcoming, are keeping its secrets to themselves.
Unable to leave and unsure who to trust, Rhea’s hold on reality begins to slip away. Will she lay bare the truth of Cambre House? Or sacrifice her sanity – and life – for the peace she so desperately sought?
So there we are. And just to wrap up, if you’re enjoying Alchemy for Authors and if you feel so inclined, I always appreciate it if you left a review or encouraged others to listen to the show. If you want to support the production costs of the show with a donation, you can do so at https://buymeacoffee.com/jobuer. And just know that your support in whatever form is always deeply appreciated.
Right, my friend. I am wishing you a healthy and inspired writing week ahead. Bye for now.
author mindset, Between: A Gothic Novella, gothic fiction, Healthy Author, manifestation, New Zealand Author, writing a book