Paranormal Gets Real

Shirin Dubbin 10/17/09

I’m sitting on a flight pondering what makes the paranormal feel real. Which is tough ’cause my whole body itches like the dickens. Wait! Before you run screaming with visions of internet communicable disease allow me to explain. Twenty-four hours ago I stood on a gorgeous Tybee Island beach and bore witness as my good friend married her big ole teddy bear of a honey.

Such a beautiful wedding. Such vicious bugs.

We were swarmed by biting gnats who left my skin scored with dozens of itchy red bumps, in places as varied as my right armpit (strapless dresses) and lower left buttock (and here I thought ‘kiss my ass’ was just a figure of speech.) Things got so bad the writer in me began to envision the bugs were zombies sent to infect the bridal party?[Ow. Swat. Smack. Smile for the camera] by a vengeful undead queen?named?ooh I know, Faye Tality, who was once in love with the Groom. Heh. Can’t you see it?

[cue melodramatic music] Four bridesmaids sway down the beach in tea length gowns of silk taffeta; though every step is punctuated with stinging they demurely use bouquets and shoulder shrugs to displace the swarm’s vicious attack. White sand stretches before them and the sky is full of cotton candy clouds. The maid-of-honor nods at the guests. A smile plays across her perfectly glossed mouth. The moment would be perfect if she didn’t have gnats up her skirt nibbling on her ‘cookies.’ Oh well, the show must go on.

The Bride appears, resplendent in a one-shoulder column of handmade lace, the sash at her waist chosen to match her maids. The Groom’s heart stops. Then begins again in a happy rush.

The make-up artist has painted the Bride’s face in the manner of an Egyptian Queen and she will not break the illusion no matter how many gnats get trapped between the lace and the underskirt of her gown, ?Ow.? Swat. Smile for the camera.

The Groom extends a hand to his bride. She stops short, a puzzled look on her face. Her lips part. He waits. Entranced.

?Uungh,? she says, ?Brainnnzzz.?

Her eyes glow bright red before she shambles past the Groom, leaps and wraps her entire body around the good Reverend. Pandemonium breaks out as wedding guest go running, pell-mell, down the beach only to be picked off by voracious bridesmaids. The Bride smiles then bites into the Reverend’s head like an apple. The only thing that saves him is the metal plate in his skull–a souvenir from his days at war?

Could you see it? As much as I’d like to take credit and tell you it’s because I’m a great writer. It’s not. It’s because most of that story is true, or because you’ve been there in some capacity. You’ve attended a wedding or have been a bridesmaid. Maybe bugs have attacked you or perhaps birds. Or you’ve been so bored you found yourself hoping a gathering of people would be attacked by zombies (you know, just to spice things up a bit.) Either way you can relate.

It is the marriage of real and fantasy that makes paranormal fiction work. When the author imbues a story with elements the reader can identify with, or has experienced, it makes the fantasy elements all the more real. That’s especially true of Urban Fantasy where metropolitan grit meets fae glamour and I believe it is what makes the sub-genre so popular.

I first realized this after the release of my book, Keeper of the Way. Every time I learn someone has read it I get excited and end up asking what part they liked best. To my surprise most folks chose a scene I’d think least likely to show up on a list of faves. While riding in a limousine my main character, Nia’Mora, is confronted by her parents. She will sooner or later experience The Twinning, her race’s method of choosing a mate, and they want her to face facts. The scene is simple, depicting a woman as she struggles to reconcile her parents’ wishes with her own:

Excerpt from Keeper of the Way

?Nii,? Tul’Leah said in an infamous ‘this is disappointing but I’m sure we can correct it’ Mama tone. ?Why do you persist in wearing those sunglasses both sun and moonrise??

Nia’Mora sighed and slipped the sunglasses off her face. She couldn’t be angry. It was a reasonable question. Her spring-green eyes found her mother’s lavender ones. ?Mima, I need a little more time. I don’t want to be bound yet. I don’t?I don’t know. I’m just not ready for a bond-mate.?

Her father, Ramender, harrumphed, the sound so comical Nii and her mother burst out laughing.

Truth was, she knew exactly why she didn’t want a mate. Only she couldn’t say it out loud. Deep-rooted fear held her back. Fear that once her mate got into her head–knew her more intimately than one could know their own flesh–he would denounce her as the biggest freak ever; refuse to live with her; spin her around and boot her right out the front door. That would destroy her.

She shuddered. A visceral memory of the male in the dry cleaners suddenly rode her body the way she wished she could ride him. Each of her pleasure points pulsed with need. The precautions she’d taken not to meet his gaze hadn’t spared her receiving psychic impressions of his power and prowess. Closing her eyes, she forced him out of her head in sections. He didn’t go easily. Something in the masculine scent, the sense of comfort, and the need he evoked within her lingered at the periphery of her consciousness, as if some part of him had taken root there. This could get tricky. Hopefully she’d never see him again.

So what if her fears were irrational? She had been the weird one her entire life–born with the very human ability of foresight. Elves didn’t deal in premonition. As immortals, they believed in the now and relished the lessons of the past. Her sense of humor added to her Aftermath Cleaner skills made popularity possible. Foresight would have nixed it. Not that it ever made her lonely or an outcast. She had loads of friends who loved her to bits, but even those closest had a hard time figuring her out. She was an odd bird. Like a dodo amongst phoenix. Phoenixes? Either way?

?Sunray.? Her father’s voice drew her gaze. He looked the part of a Bollywood hero, his raw silk sherwani tunic switching from maroon to blue each time the Jaguar passed beneath a streetlight. The Indian-style suit fit him like a dream.

Strange, at almost two centuries, her father was considered a youngster among their people. The years didn’t age the Amaranthine. It refined them. Her mother was over six hundred summers but would give any thirty-year-old mortal woman fits.

?Sunray, the path you take to avert your destiny will lead you to it,? her father continued. ?Soul meets soul when eyes meet eyes. When your bond-mate shows up, those sunshades won’t make a pixie’s shrug of difference.?

Though Nia’Mora is an elf and over 88 years-old many people could identify. One reader, Nicole, said if a kick-ass heroine like Nii dealt with the same day-to-day trails she did maybe she could be a fabulous leading lady too. Very cool.

This revelation stuck with me and I began to notice the everyday life details my favorite authors build into their stories. Allergies, taste in music, candy addictions combined with golem mechanics, boys raised in cemeteries or reformed gangster vampires.

As I finish revisions on my latest book, codenamed Dreams, I’ve kept this in mind. In the excerpt below I worked to give the griffons similar qualities to a family pet, named the bar inside a library after a well-known book (I know but I’m weird), and invoke thunderstorm imagery. It is my hope details like these make my brand of Paranormal Urban Fantasy Romance all more real for you–but you’ll have to let me know.

Stop by and visit me on my web site http://fan-fatale.com/

And if you’d like, and I hope you would, pick up a copy of Keeper of the Way

Amazon (link: http://www.amazon.com/Keeper-Of-The-Way/dp/B002HJV4Y8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1255399635&sr=1-1)

Red Rose Publishing? (link: http://redrosepublishing.com/bookstore/product_info.php?cPath=23_70&products_id=447)

Fictionwise (link:?http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/b93868/Keeper-of-the-Way/Shirin-Dubbin/?si=0)

Excerpt from my upcoming WIP, Dreams:

The end of that thought brought him to stop at the stones steps leading into the big ass library in question. The Libros Arcanum, every library in existence or had ever existed–all and none simultaneously. The pair of griffons standing guard sprang to life and bounded circles around Keoni. Their heads dipped beneath his hands and lifted forcing him to pet them. The Hawaiian patted their feathered heads and furred flanks heartily. One jumped up and laid its front paws on his shoulders.

?Easy,? he said grinning at their antics and impatiently swishing tales. He knew what they wanted and materialized the comic books from memory. Flipping one to each, he chuckled as the pair gulped their treats down in single snaps of their beaks?

Keoni left the griffons behind and took the steps two at a time. Before he reached the top the studded bronze doors swung open in anticipation of his arrival. He stared into the nothingness. Churning clouds of raw Dreaming flickered before him, internally lit by bursts of lightening. You had to know where you were going when dealing with the Libros Arcanum. Otherwise you’d step off the stone entry, drop into unformed imagination and never stop falling.

?For Whom the Tale Tolls,? he told the library and it leapt to his request. The clouds became modular and began to fold and flip into new shapes. Its movements reminded Keoni of a grid that decided to become a cube and then, just as suddenly, the interior of a bar.

With the basic structure of the library’s pub in place the lines softened into the curving backs of chairs and archways. Iridescent building blocks took on wood tones and grain or thinned into glass. The hum of bar patrons rose as they faded into view and solidified.

?What’s up big man? You’re late,? Jay said leaning back into one of the square leather couches and throwing his feet up on the matching ottoman.

Keoni flopped down into the armchair near his reclining friend, ?I’m never late, always right on time.?

Excerpts of Keeper of the Way and Dreams copyright ? 2009 Shirin Dubbin. All Rights Reserved.

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