I’ve never liked being stuck in a single genre,
either as a reader or as a writer. There are huge benefits to it because it
helps to simplify the story and match the expectations of readers browsing a
specific category. Dozens of professional writers who have made fortunes from
Amazon proclaim the benefits of writing to market and giving the audience
exactly the book they expect.
That’s fine, and I think it’s hugely beneficial for
a writer’s career to be able to churn out works that fit a specific genre and
fulfill expectations if that is what they are trying to do. But, for most
authors, writing to get rich isn’t really the end goal. We write because we
enjoy it or we feel that there is a story we want to tell.
Sometimes that story doesn’t fit neatly into a
category with a nice bow on it, but that’s okay because life doesn’t work that
way either. I like to blend genres and put things together that people aren’t
expecting. Tropes and clichés exist because they are comfortable, and I think there
is a happy medium between adding something new to a genre or simply repeating
it because it’s something people already understand.
It all depends on what the end goal is for the
author and his fans. Major publishers maintain editing control over an author’s
career and will not allow them to deviate from their ‘lane’ but that same
control isn’t put upon a self-published or indie author. For Indies we have the
power to do anything we want, which gives complete freedom but also comes with
inherent risks.
For me, I like to branch out and try new things. If
I’m inspired to tell a story, then I’ll do my best to tell it even if it is
nothing like what came before. There are stories and series I prefer to write,
but I’m willing to try anything at least once. If you’re an aspiring author,
then I recommend you decide for yourself what sort of career you want to have,
and then experiment until you’re having fun with it. If writing isn’t fun, then
why bother?
Raven’s Peak
World on Fire
Book 1
Lincoln Cole
Genre: Horror/Paranormal Thriller
Date of Publication: 7/4/16
ISBN: 9780997225976
Number of pages: 280
Word Count: 76,000
Cover Artist: MN Arzu
Book Description:
A quiet little mountain town is hiding a big problem. When the townsfolk of Raven's Peak start acting crazy, Abigail Dressler is called upon to find out what is happening. She uncovers a demonic threat unlike any she's ever faced and finds herself in a fight just to stay alive.
She rescues Haatim Arison from a terrifying fate and discovers that he has a family legacy in the supernatural that he knows nothing about. Now she's forced to protect him, which is easy, and also trust him if she wants to save the townsfolk of Raven's Peak. Trust, however, is considerably more difficult for someone who grew up living on the knife's edge of danger.
Can they discover the cause of the town's insanity and put a stop to it before it is too late?
Excerpt:
“Reverend,
you have a visitor.”
He
couldn’t remember when he fell in love with the pain. When agony first turned
to pleasure, and then to joy. Of course, it hadn’t always been like this. He
remembered screaming all those years ago when first they put him in this cell;
those memories were vague, though, like reflections in a dusty mirror.
“Open
D4.”
A
buzz as the door slid open, inconsequential. The aching need was what drove him in this moment, and nothing else mattered.
It was a primal desire: a longing for the tingly rush of adrenaline each time
the lash licked his flesh. The blood dripping down his parched skin fulfilled
him like biting into a juicy strawberry on a warm summer’s day.
“Some
woman. Says she needs to speak with you immediately. She says her name is
Frieda.”
A
pause, the lash hovering in the air like a poised snake. The Reverend
remembered that name, found it dancing in the recesses of his mind. He tried to
pull himself back from the ritual, back to reality, but it was an uphill slog
through knee-deep mud to reclaim those
memories.
It
was always difficult to focus when he was in the midst of his cleansing. All he
managed to cling to was the name. Frieda.
It was the name of an angel, he knew. . . or perhaps a devil.
One
and the same when all was said and done.
She
belonged to a past life, only the whispers of which he could recall. The ritual
reclaimed him, embraced him with its fiery need. His memories were nothing
compared to the whip in his hand, its nine tails gracing his flesh.
The
lash struck down on his left shoulder blade, scattering droplets of blood
against the wall behind him. Those droplets would stain the granite for months,
he knew, before finally fading away. He clenched his teeth in a feral grin as
the whip landed with a sickening, wet slapping
sound.
“Jesus,”
a new voice whispered from the doorway. “Does he always do that?”
“Every
morning.”
“You’ll
cuff him?”
“Why?
Are you scared?”
The
Reverend raised the lash into the air, poised for another strike.
“Just…man,
you said he was crazy…but this…”
The
lash came down, lapping at his back and the tender muscles hidden there. He let
out a groan of mixed agony and pleasure.
These
men were meaningless, their voices only echoes amid the rest, an endless drone.
He wanted them to leave him alone with his ritual. They weren’t worth his time.
“I
think we can spare the handcuffs this time; the last guy who tried spent a
month in the hospital.”
“Regulation
says we have to.”
“Then
you do it.”
The
guards fell silent. The cat-o’-nine-tails, his friend, his love, became the
only sound in the roughhewn cell, echoing off the granite walls. He took a
rasping breath, blew it out, and cracked the lash again. More blood. More
agony. More pleasure.
“I
don’t think we need to cuff him,” the second guard decided.
“Good
idea. Besides, the Reverend isn’t going to cause us any trouble. He only hurts
himself. Right, Reverend?”
The
air tasted of copper, sickly sweet. He wished he could see his back and the
scars, but there were no mirrors in his cell. They removed the only one he had
when he broke shards off to slice into his arms and legs. They were afraid he
would kill himself.
How
ironic was that?
“Right,
Reverend?”
Mirrors
were dangerous things, he remembered from that past life. They called the other
side, the darker side. An imperfect reflection stared back, threatening to
steal pieces of the soul away forever.
“Reverend?
Can you hear me?”
The
guard reached out to tap the Reverend on the shoulder. Just a tap, no danger at
all, but his hand never even came close. Honed reflexes reacted before anyone
could possibly understand what was happening.
Suddenly
the Reverend was standing. He hovered above the guard who was down on his
knees. The man let out a sharp cry, his left shoulder twisted up at an
uncomfortable angle by the Reverend’s iron grip.
The
lash hung in the air, ready to strike at
its new prey.
The
Reverend looked curiously at the man, seeing him for the first time. He
recognized him as one of the first guardsmen
he’d ever spoken with when placed in this cell. A nice European chap with a
wife and two young children. A little overweight and balding, but
well-intentioned.
Most
of him didn’t want to hurt this man, but there was a part—a hungry, needful
part—that did. That part wanted to hurt this man in ways neither of them could
even imagine. One twist would snap his arm. Two would shatter the bone; the
sound as it snapped would be . . .
A
symphony rivaling Tchaikovsky.
The
second guard—the younger one that smelled of fear—stumbled back, struggling to
draw his gun.
“No!
No, don’t!”
That
from the first, on his knees as if
praying. The Reverend wondered if he prayed at night with his family before
heading to bed. Doubtless, he prayed that he would make it home safely from
work and that one of the inmates wouldn’t rip his throat out or gouge out his
eyes. Right now, he was waving his free hand at his partner to get his
attention, to stop him.
The
younger guard finally worked the gun free and pointed it at the Reverend. His
hands were shaking as he said, “Let him go!”
“Don’t
shoot, Ed!”
“Let
him go!”
The
older guard, pleading this time: “Don’t piss him off!”
About the Author:
Lincoln Cole is a Columbus-based author who enjoys traveling and has visited many different parts of the world, including Australia and Cambodia, but always returns home to his pugamonster and wife. His love for writing was kindled at an early age through the works of Isaac Asimov and Stephen King and he enjoys telling stories to anyone who will listen.
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