The Story Behind the Story:
I’m
insanely fascinated with cultures from around the world. In my studies, I began
seeing repetition between cultures that I could not ignore. For example, the
Mi’kmaq people of Atlantic Canada had a written language before colonizers
arrived with English and French. Their alphabet of glyphs, written on birch
bark, were recorded by a priest. Hundreds of years later, when the Rosetta
Stone enabled the translation of hieroglyphs from Ancient Egypt, the glyphs and
their meanings were almost identical to that of the Mi’kmaq people. Clearly, a
cultural exchanged happened between these people, or they both had a common
origin.
Also,
when I learned about the Annunaki, the Creator-Gods of the ancient Sumerian
people, they claimed that they were genetically engineered by the Annunaki to
mine gold for them. (Some have discounted that translation, without offering a
better one, so I digress..) Coupled with humanity’s obsession with amassing as
much gold as we can, I began to wonder. This is the oldest human created record
that we have, so it’s also likely the closest to the truth.
I
set out on a mental journey to understand our hidden past, humanity’s true
origin story. I created it as a tv series, meant for an adult audience. The
pitch was good: Thirteen alien species are fighting to control planet Earth,
because we are their science project...
I
pitched Project Human at the Banff Media Festival to Matt Loze, VP of
Development at Fox Studios. He loved the pitch, he loved the worlds I had built
and how each one was connected to a different culture around the world. And he
couldn’t sign my show without giving the power to someone else who would run
this big budget behemoth and make it their own thing. He wanted this to be my
thing. He gave me the nicest rejection I’ve ever gotten. He told me to look at
The Walking Dead, at Game of Thrones, and write this as a series of books. He
said that once I had the stories on paper and an audience behind it, people
like him would be in a bidding war for Project Human.
I
returned home and got to work, but I decided to write the entire story from the
point of view of a teenager, because a teen is still open to new experiences,
to the possibility of aliens. Having a teen protagonist allowed me to begin
laying out my grand unifying origin story for the human race without the
resistance that an adult protagonist would bring to this massive revelation. I
wanted this to be a non-stop adventure, full of twists and surprises, anchored
in the common connections we share as a global species.
I’m
also on a mission to infuse my books with ancient knowledge about the world
that has been lost or hidden. Book one begins with Olivia practising a
grounding technique taught to her by her grandmother. This later feeds into the
story, but it’s also meant to show readers how to do an actual grounding
practice, if they want that in their lives.
I’m
really proud of book one, and I am currently editing book two.
Website: Go HERE.
***I’m getting ready to start a
newsletter called “Occulted World” which actually just means “Hidden World”. It
will be all about things that have been hidden from us by those who hold power.
So if any of what you’ve read is interesting, please go to my website and sign
up today!
A question before you go, Bea:
Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music
in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?
Bea:
I write at my dining room table when
the house is quiet. Often a mug of purified water sits at my side, but
sometimes black coffee or peppermint tea sneak their way in. I don’t generally
write with music, unless I’m really craving Chopin piano nocturnes recorded at
432Hz. My workspace is messy to the right of my daily organizer, but the rest
of the table has to be clutter free. When the words don’t flow, I get up and
pace around, talking to myself and answering in the voices of my characters to
get things going. I could never do that in a coffee shop, which is why I always
write in private. Now you know one of my secrets!
This is an excerpt from Book 2 of the
Project Human series, Atlantis Rising. This book is still under construction,
so this passage may have some grammar errors. Apologies if that is the case.
Retchen was correct about
the rural nature of route 785. Beyond Lake Utopia, all traces of human
civilization vanished. The paved road gave way to a wide path of compacted
gravel, and soon, even the power lines stopped. Anyone living this far from
town would have to be a survivalist. Retchen salivated. Tonight’s menu would be
a challenge.
The red van pulled over
next to a lone driveway that disappeared into a stretch of deep forest. Retchen
locked up the van and leaned a tire pump against one of the back tires. If
anyone actually passed his van on this desolate stretch of road, it would look
like he’d had troubles and had gone for help. Nobody would suspect the van
itself meant trouble.
He inhaled deeply,
enjoying the early scents of rotting leaves and fungal decay that had begun to
take hold. The warm weather had stretched fully into mid-September; the only
real indication that summer was coming to a close were the vibrant colours overtaking
the green of the maples, oaks, and birch trees. Thankfully, half of the leaves
were still attached to their branches, providing a decent amount of cover. He
crept through the woods as if he was the wind itself. Eight thousand years of
practice had given him the ability to be practically imperceptible. Nobody
would have sensed his approach at all, if it hadn’t been for a murder of crows
that cawed loudly and flew away.
Why did the crows always
have to make such a ruckus?
The squeal of rusty hinges
followed the cacophony of the crows.
“Who’s there? I ain’t
‘specting no one. Show yourself before I unload this here shotgun at ya.”
Perfect. If he wasn’t
expecting company, Retchen’s meal would be undisturbed. Retchen dropped to a
crouch and leapt into the air, grabbing a branch high up in a white pine. He
swung around the branch like a gymnast and landed on it with barely a crackle from
the bark betraying his lookout.
From high up, Retchen
could see the entire property, including a post with a husky dog on a chain and
a well worn path all around. The poor beast had been confined to three metres
of this yard for most of his life. He’d stopped caring about intruders long
ago.
“Show yourself!”
With his shotgun snugged
into his shoulder and his finger tapping on the trigger guard, the homesteader
looked down the barrel to his left, then his right.
“I know you’re out there.
I can smell your stench. Gutted one of your kind a few years back and I’m gon’
do it again.”
Retchen was used to a lot
of things, but he was not used to being recognized by scent. He was even less
prepared to hear that one of his siblings had fallen prey to its own dinner. He
twitched, snapping a twig.
The gunman swung his
shotgun up towards the trees and fired, spraying the pine with pellets. The aim
was a bit low, but the upper radius of the spray still managed to pepper
Retchen’s legs. Dozens upon dozens of pellets punctured his clothing,
shattering the scales underneath. Small dots of violet soaked through the
flimsy fabric of his cable guy outfit. He had to act quickly. He had precious
few moments before a second shot would land, better aimed. Wincing, he lunged
from the tree, aiming himself directly at this puny human who had somehow
injured him.
The gunman saw him coming
and jumped sideways, swinging his shotgun around, but the gun was too long, and
Retchen was too fast. He snatched the barrel, his scaly palm unaffected by the
scorching heat of the metal. He twisted the barrel sideways and snatched at the
man’s throat, choking him up off the ground.
“What was it you were gon’
do?” Retchen mocked, as the man kicked and thrashed his free hand in mid air.
Normally, Retchen would play with his prey for a while, savouring the moments
as true fear settled in. But now that he was injured, he needed to repair his
wounds quickly, before another problem popped out of the bushes.
He squeezed the man’s
throat until the struggle ebbed out of him. The man thrashed for a good thirty
seconds, gurgling to the dog who whimpered but refused to move. He’d been
taught that his place was chained to the pole, and that’s where he planned to
stay.
After a few minutes of struggle, the gunman stopped thrashing.
Retchen lowered the bruised neck onto his razor sharp teeth and the flesh gave
way, adrenaline-rich human blood gushing forth, like a balloon losing its air.
He gulped it back, barely spilling a drop, having not eaten properly in weeks.
He drank until the human was dry and when he was done, he unceremoniously
dropped the body on the ground, nodded at the dog, and went inside the cabin.
Book two sounds as fascinating as the first, Bea.
We wish you continued success with your stories and thank you for
being our guest this week.
And thank you to all our readers and visitors.
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