Rejection, Failure & Vampires

Anyone that’s ever tried to write anything for publication or competitions will know that 99% of the time, the answer you get back is rejection and/or failure. I am not immune from this writerly condition, nor did I ever expect to be. The most important thing, I think, is to learn what you can from the failure and keep pushing on to do better.

Resilience. Very much easier said than done.

Does it feel like someone has kicked you in the stomach when they tell you they enjoyed your work, but it’s not quite good enough? Absolutely. Does feeling like you’re the only person in the class not to instantly understand a new concept knock your confidence? Yes. 100%. However, it is not a permanent state of being. It’s a transition point - or to lean on my alchemical vibes - a transmutation point. You’re stopping being the kind of writer that makes those mistakes. You’re becoming a new kind of writer that makes new mistakes instead. This all sounds very philosophical, but the reality looks a lot more like your head hitting the desk, a small pool of tears, digging your nails into your face with frustration and despair as you read through or listen to the comments that tear your work to bits, and a lot of chocolate in consolation.

I call these “wobbly writing weeks.” They happen. Often.

This past couple of weeks, I’ve been facing up to writing “subtext” in my work. Somewhere during the lecture on the subject, my brain decided that this was something I found utterly impossible. The fact is, subtext is probably already in my writing somewhere, but my brain has gone into panic mode and I can’t see it. I’ve also realised that I’m something of a direct character. I’ll say what I’m thinking most of the time, and apparently that’s unusual. I tried to explain the difficulties I was having to my husband, bouncing the ideas and concepts off him and asking him why he thought I wasn’t quite getting it. His response was to pat me on the shoulder and reply “T’was the ‘tism, my lady.” He may have a point there, but it didn’t really get me any closer to understanding where I was going wrong.

When asking for help fails, I resort to the tried and trusted read a book about it strategy. Spending a week dragging myself through the exercises in Writing Subtext by Dr Linda Seger did help me to get a bit more of a handle on things. However, until I start throwing more of my redrafted writing in front of someone with the ability to spot the presence or lack of subtext, I’m not going to be entirely sure if I’ve managed to sort this out or not. I’ll be trying that again in class this week. The saga, therefore, continues apace.

My point here is, that we’re always learning. Learning can often feel icky. It’s the uncomfortable, squirming moments where you have to face up to the fact that really, you have no idea what’s going on and if you don’t fix it then things are going to get a lot worse. However, no one gets things right first try. Persistence and resilience pays off - supposedly - but you’re not going to find out if that’s true unless you stick around long enough to find out.

That said, sometimes things just go wrong.

On those occasions, you have to sit down and face up to it. Honesty is always the best policy. This was the case with a short story I submitted for an online writing competition. The theme was vampires and werewolves. I had to somehow find a way to incorporate a family recipe, a contract being signed, and a cursed object. I had a maximum word limit of 2000 words and ten days to draft, edit and submit.

However, I had no experience of writing short stories and find writing to set prompts a very suffocating and difficult thing to do.

Predictably, then - it did not go well.

My work was in the bin on the first sift. What made that all the more disappointing was that I had really worked hard at it. I’d put aside all my other projects and focused on trying to carve something out that would be engaging and hit the prompts with subtlety rather than a sledgehammer. I’d had various friends offer their feedback on it, which was generally positive. I hoped I’d caught the holes and that it was a powerful story.

As it was, it turns out it was a bit shit. And that’s okay.

The judge reading it felt that the magic I gave my vampires wasn’t explained enough and was contradictory. That reasons one of my characters had a ring that was cursed were also not explained well enough.

It was bin fodder. On reflection - fair enough.

I threw the magic in as a last minute change because I felt that my vampire-heavy story wasn’t ‘fantasy tropes’ enough for a fantasy writing competition. That was mistake number one. I should have trusted my initial instincts and left it alone.

Mistake number two, was not knowing how to plot something to fit within 2000 words. That’s very much a specific skill. Writing a novel is very different to writing a short story - and having never written a short story of any form before, I wasn’t really aware of this until I was knee deep in the cess pit I’d built for myself and with no time to clamber my way out.

Mistake number three was not practicing doing this kind of thing before entering a competition for it and denting my confidence so much that I’m not sure if I want to do it again.

As it is, I ended up really quite liking the characters and this was something that the judge picked out in their feedback. They would be happy to read about them and their world in a novel. Perhaps not all is lost and I can do something with them on a larger scale in future? Time will tell.

Somehow I think it was the 2000 word limit/ short story form that screwed things over for me more than anything else. I’d like to think it didn’t work because the story I wanted to try and tell with them was far bigger than the word limit would allow. Maybe that’s the case. Or maybe it’s just shit and the person giving the feedback was just doing the compliment bit of the compliment sandwich with that comment.

Either way, the most important thing is that I’ve learned something. I’ve learned another weakness I have in my writing - which means I know it’s something I can try to address or learn to do better. I’ve learned about my own preferences for how I write. I’ve learned that I plot on a huge and detailed scale and that this doesn’t work for short pieces of work unless I learn to really carve out a lot of the world in my head and get down to basics.

I’ve learned I have so much more work to do. And that’s okay.

If you want to decide for yourselves on if you think it’s alright or not - then the story is below. Enjoy - or bin - your choice!

Blood of the Faithful

Sarafina has lived for millennia. Ben just wants to die. Amid the repression of a holy regime their paths collide and ask both to decide what it really means to be alive.

Trigger warnings:

Blood. Death. Death by burning. Religious persecution. Indentured Servitude. Imprisonment. Depression. Grief. Suicidal ideation.

Sarafina

I was a necessary evil.

That’s the problem with creating a society that’s built on idolising a saviour - it won’t last without something to save people from.

I had seen my fair share of religions come and go. I had even helped develop some along the way; who else could come up with a cult that quaffed blood every Sunday, other than a vampire? My talent for magic had led me to indulge the sects with arcane proclivities, and thus, I missed this one emerging. That failure had destroyed us. Our domain was now a circular patch of desiccated pine forest, sealed under a dome of holy light.

‘Sarafina Duchamp. Please deposit venom sample for today’s exchange.’

The synthesised voice buzzed out from the barred speaker on the wall.

I glared into the black void of the camera lens, hoping that somewhere my blood-red gaze still elicited a delicate pricking of hairs along real flesh. Seconds passed. Apparently, even after a century, the ‘All-Seeing Seraph’ still needed a moment to process who I was. The hatch finally ground open, and I snatched up the items inside.

I bit down into the leather draped across the goblet, feeling my fangs pierce the hide. I tried to imagine it was the neck of the High Seraph himself, my venom dripping into the cup. I had never known that if you blessed our venom, it would burn with a holy light so potent that it could power entire cities. I defy anyone to have seen that coming, magically inclined or otherwise.

I emptied the venom into the receptacle and waited as the answering splash of stale blood trickled into the goblet. I grimaced, but pulled it close. Rummaging in a ragged pocket for my precious vial of cinnamon and cloves, my pale fingers teased out the tiniest amount. Sprinkling it into the blood, I swirled it around and knocked it back. There was a heady rush of relief somewhere in a part of my body that always simmered with need. The spices were always a poor substitute for my sire’s infamous family recipe for blood-wine. The convivial reminiscences choked away as the clots of my new reality caught in my throat. I swallowed them down, dumping the cup back in the silver hatch.

‘The High Seraph thanks you, Sarafina Duchamp. In service lies salvation.’

‘Tell him to go fuck himself.’

I returned to the forest with swift, seething steps. The High Seraph had taken almost everything from me, but I still held on to the one quality he didn’t believe a vampire capable of: faith. Not in High Seraphs or light, but in the magic lying withered beneath my undead skin. I was too weak, my magic too depleted to pierce the walls of our prison. But not forever.

I hadn’t seen the High Seraph coming, but I had foreseen his end.

It begins with a green-eyed man devoid of hope.

Ben

‘You understand the risks?’

The prioress, a porcelain doll devoid of any blemish or feeling, was tilting her head with feigned concern.

I nodded. I knew the risks. I was depending on them.

‘Then please sign your name.’

My hand jerked the pen. Words jumped out from the small print that I really should have cared enough to read: ‘death..,’ ‘damnation..,’ ‘servitude...’

I dismissed them, scraping my name in scarlet ink on the contract until the nib snapped. It dotted my battered wedding band in crimson spatter.

‘Blessings upon you, Benjamin.’ The prioress gathered up the papers. ‘If you will please follow me? It’s time for you to select the creature you hope to redeem, in the High Seraph’s name.’

‘Praise the High Seraph.’

I heard myself answer, but it was monstrous. It sounded like the person I was a year ago, when salvation had actually felt possible.

I followed the prioress down the cloying marble corridors, stopping in front of a bank of video screens. Row after row of pale faces stared back at me with homologous blood-red eyes.

‘Which of these creatures do you wish to save?’

I stepped forward, studying and dismissing the faces one by one. Too soft, too smiling; was that a child? I shuddered and kept looking. Empathetic brows, dimples, gentle curves, then…

‘Her.’ My hand jabbed towards the monster’s screen.

Hair the colour of frosted steel. Every angle of her gaunt face was sharp with hunger. Rage had carved the lines around her eyes. She stared into the camera as though daring it to come closer. The certainty of death gleamed in the twisted curl of her full red lips.

‘Are you… sure? No one has ever selected Sarafina Duchamp.’ The emotionless voice of the prioress wavered.

‘Her.’

Sarafina

Familiar pale faces turned as I approached, but they snapped back immediately to the gates. Waiting. Salivating. The newest ‘saviours’ approached. The speakers hissed as the chosen names were called into the night.

A frail, hopeful thing stumbled in first. She had chosen Barnabas. I tried not to feel jealous as he hauled her into the dark. Her screams soon followed before cutting short.

“For the salvation of Sarafina Duchamp.”

I slipped on the pine needles. There had to be a mistake. My name was never called. I drifted forward, feeling as though I had forgotten to breathe even though I hadn’t needed to in millennia.

The silver doors opened. A man walked forward, his head held high despite the blindfold. The others always stank of fear, but not this one. He smelled of desolation and blood-wine.

He was… mine.

I heard the slavering of the vampires behind me. My surprise had made me slow, the others sensing an opportunity.

I struck forward, slashing the grasping hands out of the way, gripping his arm and pulling him with me through the forest. Venom dribbled down my chin, my fangs scraping my lower lip as they lengthened. It had been years since I had drunk my fill. Every part of me sang with need. Yet, arriving in my festering hollow, I dropped him to the floor.

My sire had taught me manners. I didn’t play with my food.

I reached out with a trembling hand and took off his blindfold. He kept his eyes closed and twisted a strange, shimmering ring on his finger.

‘Any last words?’ I forced the question through my trembling fangs, already resting my lips against his throat.

‘Thank you.’

My widening jaw locked, dead sinews freezing.

‘What did you say?’ I felt myself lean back, curiosity piercing through my thirst. ‘Do you not understand you will die?’

‘I do. That’s why I’m thanking you.’

‘Why?’

His pulse throbbed. Every fibre of my being begged me to just feed, but I couldn’t.

‘Please.’ His voice was barren. Desolate.

I sat down on the prickling layers of pine needles, folding my arms tight around my knees to check myself.

‘Not until I know why.’

He moved, lifting his head with an expression so full of sorrow and pain that I felt something within me burn with pity… and then exultation.

His eyes were vivid emerald green.

Ben

‘Why do you want to die?’ She cocked her head to the side in a river of silver hair.

My mind filled with the crackle of flame. My nose clogged with the stench of burning flesh. The distant screaming became memories of my wife’s garbled screams as the flames had slowly consumed her. I felt like I burned alongside her.

Sarafina’s gaze flicked to my hand, where I twisted my wedding band.

‘What was her name?’

‘Melisande.’

‘How did she die?’

‘She was a witch. She had… visions. They called her a heretic and burned her alive.’

I didn’t know why I told her this. It changed nothing.

‘I see.’ The pine needles shifted beneath Sarafina’s feet.

‘No, you don’t.’ I whispered. ‘You didn’t see everything you love crumble to ash.’

‘Didn’t I?’

I finally looked at her. I had been wrong. The lines around Sarafina’s eyes weren’t rage, but ancient grief.

‘Then, you understand. Please make it end.’

‘No.’

‘No? You don’t understand?’

‘You are the one who doesn’t understand.’

How dare this monster tell me how to feel?

‘Who ordered her burned?’

‘The High Seraph.’

Sarafina laughed. The guttural rumble bounced off the surrounding trees. I lashed out at her on useless impulse.

‘Don’t you dare laugh at me!’

There was a soft clink as my wedding band dropped into the pine needles. I scrambled for it, but she got there first. Picking it up, she hissed in surprise.

‘This ring is cursed. Why did she curse you?’

My anger fluttered to confusion.

‘What? Who?’

‘Your wife.’

My soul rang like an empty urn.

‘There’s a curse on this ring. It makes its wearer… despair.’

The vampire stared at me with pity. Melisande had promised she never worked dark magic. Why would she curse me? Had she ever loved me? No, we had been happy…

‘It’s a potent curse, but there’s far stronger magic behind it. Something else...’

‘You know magic?’

“I did.”

‘Can you break it?’

She crossed her legs, balancing the ring in her open palms. Pine needles rose around her as she chanted, the scent of magic rising in the air. It was like coming home. Sarafina frowned in concentration, the hollows in her cheeks and under her eyes deepening.

‘Your wife begs your forgiveness,’ Sarafina sputtered, jerking her hands towards me. The ring within glowed with white fire.

My mind scrambled for an absolution that had meaning. None of the holy words would do – they were the curse. I pressed my lips to the ring, kissing it as I had once kissed Melisande. I felt the cold bite of metal, wishing it was fangs.

Something in my soul shifted. It was like cracking open a door into bright sunlight; the radiance poured through the gap as despair broke its grasp.

Sarafina

The curse broke easily. Behind it was her gift.

Melisande’s eyes met mine across time. I felt her power unspool from within the golden band, bound there for this very moment.

‘I saw you waiting.’ Her echo whispered. ‘I sent Ben to you. Take my strength. Unleash it and end their evil.’

Her magic surged through my desiccated veins and sinews like the first rains after years of drought. The prison of holy light glittered overhead, but not for much longer. My feet rose from the forest floor. A century of rage pierced upwards into the sky like a silver needle. I opened my eyes to watch it burst through the holy light, the shimmering panes shattering and vanishing into nothing.

For the first time in a century, I saw stars.

Cheers erupted in the forest. I saw my people running for the open walls, whooping with joy and bloodlust. Our vengeance would be swift.

‘Look after him for me.’ Melisande’s echo whispered, her magic still pulsing in my veins.

‘Ben?’ I kneeled in the needles beside him.

He looked at the world around him as though he had never seen it before. Wonder now lit his beautiful green eyes.

‘Do you still want to die?’

He frowned.

‘Killing the High Seraph won’t bring Melisande back.’

‘No.’

His shoulders slumped.

‘Life without Melisande… feels wrong.’

‘Life, perhaps. But what about undeath?’

I let my offer hang in the air, with all the possibilities of immortality.

Ben

In my mind, I saw Melisande’s face, full of love and joy. I remembered when I had wished for an eternity, fearing the endless dark that would steal away all memories of her. What if death could never take those memories from me? What if the end was really just another beginning?

Hope sparkled like a lit fuse. It burst back into my soul with a fire that burned brighter than any star.

I tilted my head carefully to the side, feeling my pulse fluttering in my neck.

Sarafina smiled.

‘I’ll be gentle,’ she whispered.

And with that, my new life began.