J.L. Murray
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Exclusive Excerpt: BLOOD DAY

9/13/2015

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I released Eat the Ones You Love a month ago, and SURPRISE! I'm almost finished with Blood Day. So I thought to celebrate, I'd show you all a little of this new world. It's dark and goth-y and I've had so much fun writing it. Below is the first few pages (unedited, so some wording may change), and probably my favorite character I've written ever, Sia Aoki. 

If you like it or are curious, please don't hesitate to put Blood Day on your Goodreads list. It will be available for pre-order on Amazon in the next few weeks, I think. I'll let you know when that happens.

Without further ado...



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Sia shivered as something cold brushed against her cheek. She tried to open her eyes but her skull exploded with pain. She felt fingers touching her mouth and sluggishly realized they were hers. She strained to remember something, but her eyes and teeth ached. She kept her fingers at her lips as if she were a young girl reliving her first kiss. But her lips were cold, colder than her fingers, and her mouth tasted of copper and Slack. And she was no girl. She wasn't even herself anymore. She was used up, dry and brittle. She couldn't even remember what it felt like to be a girl. 

Slack. She had done it again. Sia squeezed her eyes shut tighter. She couldn't remember anything, but she knew she had used. She must have gone to Trey's house, he was the only one left that could still get it. Steeling herself as much as she could, she forced her eyes to open. It was almost dawn, she could tell by the feel of the night. She was leaning against something warm, her body grateful for the heat. Reaching behind her, she touched whatever it was that was holding her up. It was hard and rough. And hot. Her muscles screaming, Sia looked behind her.

A tree. Since when did trees give off so much heat? Sia rested the back of her head against it, looking up. Through the leaves and branches she could see a barely-lightening sky, clear and cloudless and perfect. Something fell on her face and it was the same kind of something that had brushed against her cheek, waking her. She took it between her fingers. It was soft and cool and she let it rest in her palm. In the light of a flickering streetlamp it looked black, but she knew it must be a deep dark red. Because in the light, in the dawn, under a tree that gave off heat like a man, the petal that she held in her hand looked so much like blood.

Sia blinked hard and the hallucination disappeared. She was holding a petal in her hand. A dark petal that had fallen from a tree that was probably warm because she had no doubt been resting against it for hours. She moved her cramped legs and felt something move against her boots. She looked around her for the first time and was sure she was hallucinating again. 

She sat in the middle of a street. Apartment buildings rose up around her, cutting into the sky. Resting against a tree. In the middle of the road. The objects she'd felt against her feet was rubble where the tree had forced pieces of asphalt to crumble around it. Fighting the need to retch, Sia pulled herself to her feet, using a low-lying branch to pull herself up. The branch was alarmingly warm in her hand and she let go as soon as she had gotten her balance.

“What...?” she rasped. Her head was pounding, her mouth so dry that her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She noticed again the taste of copper. She tried to lick her lips, but there was no moisture. Her lips tasted even stronger of something sweet and metallic. There was a smell that made her flinch. Something sweet and savory at the same time. Something wrong. Sia pushed her hair out of her face and the smell grew stronger. 

The sun was pushing up toward the horizon and the blue of the sky was visible. The streetlamp flickered off but Sia could still see that she was covered in something that crinkled dry when she touched it. Something that smelled sweet and metallic. Something that looked black just like the petals of the tree.

There was so much blood.

“Oh my God,” Sia whispered. “Oh my God.” She felt a tear well up in her eye and roll down her cheek. It was cold by the time it dripped onto her hand. Cold and red. Sia touched her cheek where the tear had fallen down her face and her fingers came away dark and flakes of something fell away. 

There was a noise in the distance. Sia's eyes moved toward it slowly. A motor. A car. She squinted. Two pinpoints of light cut into her head and she staggered against the warm tree from the pain. Headlights. Not a car. A black van.

Movers.

She looked up into the headlights. The buzzing was so loud. It wasn’t inside her head. It was a car. She knew she should run. She should feel a sense of urgency now. But she didn’t have anything left. She was weak and lost and covered in blood. And now the Movers had found her.

The headlights switched off and she heard voices. She blinked in the sudden darkness and it seemed to her for a moment that the stars had fallen down from the sky. Then there were feet in front of her, attached to legs, attached to a jumpsuit. Sia squinted her eyes to make out some letters. 

“Paine,” she said slowly. 

“That’s me,” said a voice. Long legs folded and now there was a face in front of her. A long, stubbled jaw and eyes that smiled even though his mouth was a stern line. “What’s your name, love?”

“Sia Sia, Sweet Sia,” she sang. Then she flinched. She hadn’t heard anyone sing those words in such a very long time. Not since another lifetime ago when a man had loved her and written songs for her and covered her with kisses. 

“Well, sweet Sia,” he said, “my name is Desmond. It’s lovely to meet you.” He held out his hand slowly, like she was a wild animal. 

“You’re a Mover,” Sia whispered. 

“Yeah. That’s one word for it,” he said, smiling eyes crinkling. “But don’t hold it against me, sweet Sia.”

“Please don’t take me away,” she said, a prickle of tears behind her eyes. “Please don’t. Just let me stay here. Let me die. It won’t hurt anyone. Just another Slacker.”

Desmond Paine’s eyes weren’t smiling anymore. He looked sad. But that wasn’t right. Movers weren’t sad. They crept up on you in the night. They took you away. They took your children away. They grabbed you and no one ever saw you again. But everyone knew you weren’t dead. Even Sia knew that. The Revs wouldn’t kill you, that was too kind. They hooked you up to machines and pumped you dry for the rest of your life. Those were the stories, but Sia believed them. No one ever came back once the Movers came. She sat up straight, her back cold without the warmth of the tree.

“I would be happy to do that for you, Sia,” said Desmond Paine the Mover, “but I don’t want you to die.”

“It’s too hard,” said Sia. “It’s too cold. Everything’s cold now.”

“There must be something you like about living,” he said.

“Not anymore,” said Sia. “Everyone’s gone. And there’s no music.”

“You miss the music?”

Sia felt around by her feet and her hand wrapped around a large chunk of asphalt. She squeezed it hard in her hand. 

“The music was my life,” she said.

“Paine!” said a brassy voice coming from the van. “Come on, what’s taking so long?”

Sia’s breath caught in her throat. He wasn’t alone. If she got away, his partner would chase her. And her legs felt like they were full of water instead of bones.

“I’m handling it,” he said over his shoulder, sounding irritated. 

“Just tranq her and let’s get out of here,” the voice said.

Sia tried to stand, but she fell back again. 

“Sia, hang on,” said Desmond Paine. “It’s not like it used to be. They want to help you.”

“So they can drain me,” said Sia, a note of panic in her voice. 

“Not forever, though,” he said. “Not anymore. Just clean you up. Make you better.”

“I was better!” she said. “I was perfect before they came. I had everything.”

“We’ve all lost someone, love,” said Desmond Paine. “Don’t do what you’re going to do. Don’t try to run. Please.”

“Let me go,” she said. 

“I can’t. They’ll take me if I do.”

“Then kill me. Please. Please.”

“Oh Christ, Paine,” said the woman’s voice again. Sia heard the squeal of hinges as the van door opened. Sia scrambled to her feet and grasped a branch on the tree, pulling herself to her feet. This time she managed to stay upright. She still held the piece of road in her hand. Desmond Paine stood up and Sia felt a sharp pain in her shoulder, then her vision, tenuous as it was, blurred even more. 

The woman was standing next to Paine now. She was holding something that looked like a thin gun.

“Easy peasy,” the woman said.

Sia fell back again and when the woman bent over her, Sia swung the arm with the rock. But the woman caught it easily with strong fingers and the asphalt clattered to the ground.

“What’s with all these trees lately?” she said cheerfully to Paine. “All over the damn city.”

“I dunno,” Paine said, sounding defeated. “Maybe a prank?”

The woman was pushing up Sia’s sleeves. “Christ, she’s covered in blood.” 

“It’s a brutal world,” said Paine.

“You sound like you feel sorry for her,” said the woman. “Just trash is all. Junkies.”

“We were all junkies before,” he said. “State mandated, remember?”

“Times change, Paine,” she said. Sia tried to focus on her. Her hair was short and curly and she was strong and broad, wearing the same dark jumpsuit Paine was. “When’s your Blood Day, honey?” she said to Sia, speaking loudly. “I can’t find a mark on her.”

“They won’t get my blood,” said Sia, her tongue thick in her mouth. 

“They’ll get it,” said Paine. “Whether we like it or not.”

“Never had a Blood Day,” the woman said. “Can you imagine? Must be nice.”

“I don’t reckon any part of her life has been nice,” said Paine. “Not in a very long time.”

“Cry me a river,” said the woman. “Help me load her up, will you?”

Sia felt them lifting her, carrying her. Then she was somewhere warm and dry and she heard a door slide shut. She couldn’t open her eyes. She felt herself slipping into unconsciousness. But before she was completely gone, she heard a voice in her ear. A whisper.

“I would have let you go if I had the chance,” said Desmond Paine. “But I would never have killed you.”

Sia could have sworn she heard music as she fell into sleep.


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The Unknown Street

9/10/2015

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My husband thinks I've turned a new corner in my career. That corner that comes after you've proven you can write, and you can sustain a series, and you can craft good stories. That corner that, when you come to it, you can either keep going down the familiar street and keep writing the same sorts of books, or you can take the unknown street and see what you can do. The unknown street stretches you out in uncomfortable ways. The unknown street makes you work, daring you to try things that couldn't possibly fit together, things you couldn't possibly make people believe. The unknown street is scary and dark and you're afraid you'll get lost and never make it out of the street. You'll end up working at a mini mart on the unknown street, and no one will ever recognize your name; they won't remember that a long time ago, they read your main street books.

I turned the corner. I took the unknown street.

The other street was easier. On the other street I knew who I was and what I was doing. I knew what I had to do to earn a living, and how to get a reader hooked. But now I'm in weird territory. I'm writing books that I have no idea if people will want to read. But these books I'm writing on this unknown street are making me excited to go to work. They're waking me up in the middle of the night and filling me with excitement and curiosity. The characters are disturbing me because they feel real and close and they're popping up in my dreams. 

I chose the unknown street because I didn't want to spend my life writing the same books. I didn't want to write popcorn books that would earn me a paycheck. I wanted books that would consume me. I'm hoping since I'm consumed, that maybe one other reader will be consumed too. That's all it takes, really. If one other person is moved, it's worth it. If one review says, "I stayed up all night reading this," then I'll be happy. I'll work at the Unknown Street Mini Mart and keep writing Unknown Street books. I'll stay up all night being consumed. 

I can still write books from the first street, the main street. But for now, I have to stay on the unknown street. So I'll know, and I won't wonder what would have happened if I'd written that neo-gothic dystopia. I won't wonder what would have happened had I written that noir time travel romance. This is the year of divergence, of straying from the path and exploring what I can do. It's not the easy way, but it's the right way. 

Let's see what I can do to make you remember my name. 
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The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of reading all night

9/9/2015

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I finished a book I was reading last night/this morning. At 2am I finally shut my Kindle off, just staring at the black screen. There's this feeling you get when you finish an amazing book. The feeling fills you up inside and wakes up your mind and your eyes and your heart is beating so fast. I may have cried a little. 

I'd never heard of this book before I started it, so I didn't know what to expect. If you've read any of my books, you know that I'm not terribly whimsical. So a book of whimsy and beauty (albeit much of it very dark) and witchy magic didn't really seem my cup of tea. In fact, I almost decided not to read the book because it didn't seem like something I would enjoy. But in the end, I did buy The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender, and I am so happy I did. I was so moved by the alternating grief and joy of this book. The writing is so vivid and real that reading it is like watching the longest, best movie in your mind and you don't want it to end.

And yet, at 2am, that's just what it did. Sigh. So if this post is wonky or has errors, I'm blaming sleep deprivation. A girl needs more than four hours, my friends.

I don't have time to write a real review right now as I have writing to do myself, but I want everyone to read this book. It's truly a fantastic experience and I want to talk about it with everyone. Also, this author is incredible and she deserves mucho royalties. If a book can melt the ice of this black hearted author, then you know it's something special.

Off to write some blackhearted words.

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George Orwell might have been right

9/8/2015

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“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”
—George Orwell
I hope your Tuesdays are all proving spectacular. I'll be checking my kids into their school today so they can start tomorrow. After that, there will be sleep deprivation as we all acclimate to our new schedules, but I will have lots of extra time for writing. Which I need, because this story is eating me alive (pun intended, because vampires) and I need to write it to get it out of my system. This is okay, because it's been really fun to write something just because I want to. 

Anyway, Murray out. Off to do boring things where I will be forced to talk to actual humans. Pray for me. 
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Social media addiction and the pumpkin spice latte.

9/6/2015

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A Facebook addiction is a weird and wondrous thing. I'm still detoxing here, and really enjoying the feeling of being twitchy about the silence. I suddenly will think, in the middle of doing something, "Oh, I should be..." But no. I shouldn't be doing anything but focusing on what is right in front of me. I shouldn't twitch and be distracted by social media or people going on psycho-moral rants, or political agendas being brandished in a public space. I shouldn't. And I don't have to. And I can't if I want to become anything other than just another voice added to the miasma of opinions.

I want more. And I want silence. And I want to feel okay about those things. I don't want to see something beautiful and say to myself, "I should Facebook this." I want to enjoy the beautiful thing and hold it in my mind. I want to think things and have them stay inside. I want to keep things to myself sometimes instead of just vomiting them out on my keyboard. I want to be able to just sit.

So for now, I'll just twitch. 

The benefit of this is that I have so much more time to write. I wrote over 4,000 words the other day, much more than my usual 1,000. Every time I sat at the computer, I didn't have any distractions, so I just jumped right into what I was working on. It was a glorious feeling. To be focused on the story, to be zoned in on the characters without feeling like I should take a break and see what people were up to on social media. It was how I felt when I first started writing full time. An immersion in the story. 

Today I bought a pumpkin spice latte from the coffee shop in the supermarket. I'd been waiting all year for this flavor. All my Facebook friends are always talking about it. They just can't wait for the pumpkin spice latte to be available. I was with them, too. Pumpkin spice lattes meant fall and cold nights and brisk mornings and a tinge of woodsmoke in the air. So today I bought one. I took a few sips and I just couldn't drink it. It was a syrupy, chemical flavored mess that didn't taste like anything to me. I couldn't taste the pumpkin pie it had always reminded me of, and I couldn't taste the coffee, which is the reason I was drinking it. All I could taste was what I realized was filler. It was like the fluff that writers sometimes stuff their books with so it will make an adequate word count, to make their publishers happy. Then I realized why I had been feeling depressed about social media. 

Social media is filler. It isn't life, and hardly anything on it is real. It's not the coffee or the pumpkin-y flavor. It's not even the whipped cream that makes everything it's on top of taste better. It's just filler. Sugar and chemicals and coloring that makes a syrupy mess seem like a good thing. It fills up the silences that make you uncomfortable, and it eases the loneliness that all introverts feel at one time or another, but it's not real. It's not nutritious or spiritually fulfilling. It's a Big Mac when you should really go for the roasted chicken and vegetables. I know I'm going against the grain and getting all hermit-y and sounding like a Luddite, but I guess that's what happens when you turn off the static. You start analyzing why things are the way they are, you start oiling the rusty cogs that haven't been turning correctly for a very long time.

I think it's about keeping things simple. Simple things are always the best things. Simple foods are the most delicious, simple days of doing things that you like and nothing else, simple relationships where there are no worries or suspicions or bad feelings. And sometimes to simplify life you have to cut out the filler. You have to say no to the pumpkin spice latte. You have to choose the silence and rusty cogs. Because from that simplicity, comes joy. Not just typing some mundane status update about being #blessed or a claim about shoes equalling happiness. But joy in the moment. In being alone, without the clamor of millions of virtual voices. You can listen to music and have that be the only thing you have to do in that moment. You can read a book without live tweeting the plot twist. You can go five seconds without seeing an advertisement for whatever product is going to improve your life even though you've gotten this far without it and never wanted or needed it. 

Now I'm going off a bit, so I'm going to cut this short. It's something that's been on my mind for years, but I'm only now able to put it into words. Silence is the nutrition that all minds need. Our cogs are all rusty and we take for granted that our world has become complicated. It's not. It's the same world it's always been. We're making it complicated. And it's unnecessary. 

All you have to do is unplug. 
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Updates, future projects, and disappearing from Facebook

9/4/2015

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Blood Day is almost done! It's a dream to finish this one. I originally started it just after Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (though I've basically scrapped everything from that far back). I think it'll be a good one. It's been a journey because I've never written a standalone before. The only difference is that you have to tie up all your loose ends instead of leaving them where everyone can see them to keep them excited about the series. Anyway, I'm nearly to the climax and it's like almost winning a really intense game of chess. All the characters are in place, the scene is set, and when it's over I'll either have a fantastic book that's been a long time in the making, or experience and paper to burn to keep me warm through the winter. I'll let you all decide.

Also, if you're trying to find me on Facebook, SURPRISE! I'm not there. My fan page is still up, of course, and I'll check in there from time to time, but I'm scaling back from social media (AGAIN!). It gets too noisy for me and I need to find a quiet corner. If I could, I would stay off forever, but as it stands, I'll probably jump back in every time I finish a book, and then duck back out after I start the next one.

And finally, in case you're wondering, my writing schedule for the next year is very exciting for me. I am stepping away from marketing to try and write as much as possible and I am so excited. I'm basically going to be working on all the things I've wanted to write since I started as an indie writer several years ago, but either was in middle of a series, or didn't have the writing chops yet. Well, I've sharpened my chops quite a bit since those days, and I need to work on projects that I feel excited and passionate about. At this time (of course this stuff changes rapidly, depending on where my brain goes at the end of each book), these are the books I'm planning on in the next year:

Blood Day: a neo-gothic dystopia story with vampires (sort of).

Monstrous: book one of Blood of Cain series, an urban (or ruralish sometimes) fantasy about a woman who comes back from the dead to seek redemption by killing the killers. 

Something Dark and Beautiful: a dark and twisty time travel with elements of noir, voodoo, and Lovecraft.

So there you have it. I'll probably be blogging a little more regularly without the the outlet of blabbing on Facebook, but I wouldn't expect anything too regular. This is still me, after all. The writing always comes first. Well, after Skittles anyway.
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    J.L. Murray is the bestselling author of the Niki Slobodian series, After the Fire, and Jenny Undead. 

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