Table of Contents
Interviews & Essays
An Interview with Karen Marie Moning
Karen Marie Moning takes time-travel romance to new heights in this wonderfully entertaining entry in the Highlander series, featuring two complete opposites who meet, combust, and fall head-over-heels in love. On one side: law student and mortal Gabrielle O'Callaghan, who actually can see the Fae, or faeries, but has been taught by her grandmother not to acknowledge doing so lest she lose her soul. On the other: Adam Black, the ultimate hottie Fae, whose playboy past has been drastically and recently curbed by the curse of invisibility. In fact, the only woman who can see him is Gabrielle, and she thinks he is her worst nightmare. After Adam blackmails her into helping him, they flee through time and space to outrun his pursuers. As their attraction deepens, Gabrielle has just one question: How can there be a happily-ever-after when one lives forever and one doesn't?
Heart to Heart persuaded Karen Marie Moning to take a break from time-travel and tell us about her life and work.
Heart to Heart: You graduated from Purdue University with a bachelor's degree in society and law. What's a nice scholar like you doing flitting from century to century, following dark magic?
Karen Marie Moning: The flitting from century to century, following dark magic, wasn't a conscious choice. I think writers bring to the table that which fascinates them, weaving stories around those elements. Magic, history, time -- in both a physics and a metaphysical sense -- sex, romance, the tension of mortality, all these things fascinate me. So I write steamy, romantic time-travels with ancient artifacts and civilizations, peopled by the occasional immortal, shaped by legend and myth.
HtoH: Your books are filled with Druid lore and historical detail. Tell us about the kind of research you do for your books.
KMM: Read, read, read. So many books; so little time. It is not enough for me to read a book, I have to own it. I hope one day to collect rare editions. Much of the research in my novels is a product of having read voraciously all my life. However, I've amassed an extensive reference collection encompassing many topics: the Templars, Scotland, Ireland, archaeology, Celtic lore, codes, physics, the origins of language and the alphabet, books before printing, illuminated manuscripts, time, theories of time-travel, language, custom, and historical references. When I begin a novel, I have a broad idea what I plan to research, which narrows as I write and the characters/stakes begin to speak to me and define themselves.
HtoH: Who and what influenced you as a writer or storyteller?
KMM: I owe my first and perhaps greatest debt to science fiction/fantasy writers; it was Harlan Ellison, Robert Heinlein, and Sherri Tepper who first drew me into a fictional world, ignited my imagination and passion for storytelling, pushed my mind beyond the quotidian into a world with no boundaries: the world of "what if?" Since then, I've found inspiration in the works of an odd mishmash of writers. To name a few: Jorge Luis Borges, Judith Ivory, Neil Gaiman, Rudy Rucker, Lisa Kleypas, Katherine Neville, Terry Pratchett, Linda Howard...the list is as long as it is eclectic.
HtoH: Your characters are so strong, so passionate. Are they based on any real people, past or present?
KMM: I wish. If so, I'd run off with Dageus. Or Drustan. No, Adam, definitely Adam. On a more serious note, yes, to an extent. There are bits and pieces of people I know in all my characters, including myself. But contrary to a theory some people espouse, I'm not to be found in my heroines. If I wrote my Scorpio personality into a heroine, the story would be too dark, too moody to market as romance.
HtoH: How do you go about starting a new book? What comes first to you -- plot, character, chemistry, or something else?
KMM: A single scene -- the opening one -- comes to me; I play with it, feel it out, see if it wants to grow. And from that comes a novel. At various points, perhaps 50 pages into it, again at 100, and at a half dozen more points throughout the novel, I step back from the fictional immersion and lend it structure, craft it a bit. But lightly. I've tried controlling my writing, deciding in advance exactly what I intend to write, but I've found that the harder I muscle it, the more aggravated the muse gets. But I want to play, she says. This isn't fun, I'm leaving.
I believe any act of creativity springs from joy. That stories come from a place in the subconscious where myth and archetype and collective memory burble and hiss in a primordial stew. For me, attempting to control this process turns it into labor, not creation. If forced, I can plot quite competently, but the story I write upon completion of said plotting rarely resembles what I've plotted, ergo, I don't see much point in bothering.
HtoH: The time travel element in your stories always presents intriguing situations. Would you have liked to live in a different time period? Which one, and what would that have been like for a woman?
KMM: The future; when space travel is possible. I thoroughly resent having been born in a time before space travel. What would it be like for a woman? We'd be captains of our own starships.
HtoH: Do you have a favorite Highlander novel, and why?
KMM: The Immortal Highlander. If a parent loves the most difficult child differently, in my case, it's more.
HtoH: What's next for you? And for the Highland lairds?
KMM: Several story ideas on the burners: an alternate universe that runs parallel to the MacKeltars, but with sorcerers, not Druids; another MacKeltar (or two); and then there's a fallen Fae who is demanding attention every bit as insistently and tenaciously as I am endeavoring to ignore him. As if Adam wasn't difficult enough...
Read an Excerpt
Adam Black raked a hand through his long black hair and scowled as he
stalked down the alley.
Three eternal months he'd been human. Ninety-seven horrific days to be
exact. Two thousand, three-hundred and twenty-eight interminable
hours. One-hundred thirty-nine thousand, six-hundred and eighty
thoroughly offensive minutes.
He'd become obsessed with increments of time. It was an embarrassingly
mortal affliction. Next thing he knew, he'd be wearing a watch.
Never. He'd been certain Aoibheal would have come for him by
now. Would have staked his very essence on it; not that he had much
left to stake.
But she hadn't, and he was sick of waiting. Not only were humans
allotted a ridiculously finite slice of time to exist, their bodies
had requirements that consumed a great deal of that time. Sleep alone
consumed a full quarter of it. Although over the past few months he'd
mastered those requirements, he resented being slave to his physical
form. Having to eat, wash, dress, sleep, piss, shave, brush his hair
and teeth, for Christ's sake! He wanted to be himself again. Not at
the queen's bloody convenience, but now.
Hence he'd left London and journeyed to Cincinnati (the infernally
long way, by plane) looking for the half-Fae son he'd sired over a
millennia ago, Circenn Brodie, who'd married a twenty-first century
mortal and usually resided here with her.
Usually.
Upon arriving in Cincinnati, he'd found Circenn's residence vacant,
and had no idea where to look for him next. He'd taken up residence
himself, and had been killing time since -- endeavoring grimly to
ignore that, for the first time in his timeless existence, time was
returning the favor -- waiting for Circenn to return. A half-blooded
Tuatha Dé, Circenn had magic Adam no longer possessed.
Adam's scowl deepened. What paltry power the queen had left him was
virtually worthless. He'd quickly discovered that she'd thought
through his punishment most thoroughly. The spell of the
féth fiada was one of the most powerful and
perception-altering that the Tuatha Dé possessed, employed to
permit a Tuatha Dé full interaction with the human realm while
keeping him or her undetectable by humans. It cloaked its wearer in
illusion that affected short-term memory and generated confusion in
the minds of those in the immediate vicinity.
If Adam toppled a newsstand, the vendor would blithely blame an unseen
wind. If he took food from a diner's plate the person merely decided
he/she must have finished. If he procured new clothing for himself at
a shop, the owner would register an inventory error. If he snatched
groceries from a passerby and flung the bag to the ground, his hapless
victim would turn on the nearest bystander and a bitter fight would
ensue (he'd done that a few times for a bit of sport.) If he plucked
the purse from a woman's arm and dangled it before her face, she would
simply walk through both him and it (the moment he touched a thing, it
was sucked into the illusion cast by the féth fiada
too, until he released it) and head in the opposite direction,
muttering about having forgotten her purse at home.
There was nothing he could do to draw attention to himself. And he'd
tried everything. To all intents and purposes, Adam Black didn't
exist. Didn't even merit his own measly slice of human space.
He knew why she'd chosen this particular punishment: because he'd
sided with humans in their little disagreement she was forcing him to
taste of being human in the worst possible way. Alone and powerless,
without a single distraction with which to pass the time and entertain
himself.
He'd had enough of a taste to last an eternity.
Once an all-powerful being that could sift time and space, a being
that could travel anywhere and anywhen in the blink of an eye, he was
now limited to a single useful power: he could sift place over short
distances, no more than a few miles. It'd surprised him the queen had
left him even that much power, until the first time he'd almost been
run down by a careening bus in the heart of London.
She'd left him just enough magic to stay alive. Which told him two
things: one, she planned to forgive him eventually, and two, it was
probably going to be a long, long time. Like probably not until the
moment his mortal form was about to expire.
Fifty more years of this would drive him bloody frigging nuts.
Problem was, even when Circenn did return, Adam still hadn't
figured out a way to communicate with him. Because of his mortal half,
Circenn wouldn't be able to see past the féth fiada
either.
All he needed, Adam brooded for the thousandth time, was one person.
Just one person who could see him. A single person that could help
him. He wasn't entirely without options, but he couldn't exercise a
damned one of them without someone to aid him.
And that sucked too. The almighty Adam Black needed help. He could
almost hear silvery laughter tinkling on the night breeze, blowing
tauntingly across the realms, all the way from the shimmering silica
sands of the Isle of Morar.
With a growl of caged fury, he stalked out of the alley.
Gabby indulged herself in a huge self-pitying sigh as she got out of
her car. Normally, on nights like this, when the sky was black velvet,
glittering with stars and a silver-scythe moon, warm and humid and
alive with the glorious scents and sounds of summer, nothing could
depress her.
But not tonight. Everyone else but her was out somewhere having a
life, while she was scrambling to clean up after the latest fairy
debacle. Again.
It seemed like all she ever did anymore.
She wondered briefly, before she managed to push the depressing
thought away, what her ex was doing tonight. Was he out at the bars?
Had he already met someone new? Someone who wasn't still a virgin at
twenty-four?
And that was the Fae's fault too.
She slammed the car door harder than she should have and a little
piece of chrome trim fell off and clattered to the pavement. It was
the third bit of itself her aging Corolla had shed that week, though
she was pretty sure the antenna had been assisted by bored
neighborhood kids. With a snort of exasperation, she locked the car,
kicked the little piece of trim beneath the car -- she refused to
clean up even one more thing -- and turned toward the building.
And froze.
A fairy male had just stalked out of the alley and was standing by the
bench in the small courtyard-oasis near the entrance to her office
building. As she watched, it stretched out on the bench on its back,
folded its arms behind its head and stared up at the night sky,
looking as if it had no intention of moving for a long, long time.
Damn and double-damn!
She was still in such a stew over the day's events that she wasn't
sure she could manage to walk by it without giving into the
overwhelming urge to kick it. It.
Fairies were "its", never "hims" or "hers." Gram had taught her at a
young age not to personify them. They weren't human. And it was
dangerous to think of them, even in the privacy of her thoughts, as if
they were.
But heavens, Gabby thought, staring, he -- it -- was certainly
male.
So tall that the bench wasn't long enough for it to fully stretch out
on, it had propped one leg on the back of the bench and bent the other
at the knee, its legs spread in a basely masculine position. It was
clad in snug-fitting, faded jeans, a black T-shirt and black leather
boots. Long silky black hair spilled over its folded arms, falling to
sweep the sidewalk. In contrast to the golden, angelic ones she'd seen
earlier that day, this one was dark and utterly devilish-looking.
Gold armbands adorned its muscular arms, showcasing its powerful,
rock-hard biceps, and a gold torque encircled its neck, gleaming
richly in the amber glow of the gaslights illuming the courtyard
oasis.
Royalty, she realized, with a trace of breathless fascination. Only
those of a royal house were entitled to wear torques of gold. She'd
never seen a member of one of the Ruling Houses before.
And royal was certainly a good word for him, erit. Its profile was
sheer majesty. Chiseled features, high cheekbones, strong jaw,
aquiline nose, all covered with that luscious gold-velvet fairy skin.
She narrowed her eyes, absorbing details. Unshaven jaw sculpted by
five-o'clock shadow. Full mouth. Lower lip decadently full. Sinfully
so, really. (Gabby, quit thinking that!)
She inhaled slowly, exhaled softly, holding utterly still, one hand on
the roof of her car, the other clutching her keys.
It exuded immense sexuality; base, raw, scorching. From this distance
she should not have been able to feel the heat from its body, but she
could. She should not have gotten a bit dizzy from its exotic scent,
but she did. As if it were twenty times more potent than any she'd
encountered before; a veritable powerhouse of fairy.
She was never going to be able to walk past it. Just wasn't happening.
Not today. There was only so much she was capable of in a given day,
and Gabby O'Callaghan had exceeded her limits.
Stillit hadn't moved. In fact, it seemed utterly oblivious to its
surroundings. It couldn't hurt to look a little longer
Besides, she reminded herself, she had a duty to surreptitiously
observe as much as possible about any unknown fairy specimen. In such
fashion did the O'Callaghan women protect themselves and the future of
their children; by learning about their enemy. By passing down
stories. By adding new information, with sketches when possible, to
the multi-volume Books of the Fae, thereby providing future
generations greater odds of escaping detection.
This one didn't have the sleekly muscled body of most fairy males, she
noted, this one had the body of a warrior. Shoulders much too wide to
squeeze onto the bench. Arms bunched with muscle, thick forearms,
strong wrists. Cut abdomen rippling beneath the fabric of its T-shirt
each time it shifted position a bit. Powerful thighs caressed by soft,
faded denim.
No, not a warrior, she mused, that wasn't quite it. A shadowy image
was dancing in the dark recesses of her mind and she struggled to
bring it into focus.
More likeah, she had it! Like one of those blacksmiths of yore who'd
spent their days pounding steel at a scorching forge, metal clanging,
sparks flying. Possessing massive brawn, yet also capable of the
delicacy necessary to craft intricately embellished blades, combining
pure power with exquisite control.
There wasn't a spare ounce of flesh on it, just rock-hard male body.
It had a finely honed, brutal strength that, coupled with its height
and breadth, could feel overwhelming to a woman. Especially if it were
stretching all that rippling muscle on top of-
Stop that, O'Callaghan! Wiping tiny beads of sweat from her
forehead with the back of her hand, she drew a shaky breath,
struggling desperately for objectivity. She felt as hot as the forge
she could imagine him bending over, hard body glistening,
poundingpounding
Go, Gabby, a faint inner voice warned. Go now. Hurry.
But her inner alarm went off too late; at that precise moment it
turned its head and glanced her way.
She should have looked away. She tried to look away. She couldn't.
Copyright © 2004 by Karen Marie Moning.
Loading...