The Story Behind the Story with Bea Waters of New Brunswick, Canada.

 

Say hello to Bea!

This week we have the pleasure of featuring Ms. Waters and she is going to share the good news of her debut novel.

Plus, she treats us (teases us?) to an excerpt of  Book Two in the series.

Read on my friends

 

 

Bea Waters has been writing stories since childhood. Back then it was her way to escape the bullies, but today she strives to provide an escape into adventure for all who need one, while fostering a sense of belonging and cooperation. Her favourite characters are the weirdos, those who have been downcast by the status quo, because the future is never created by the status quo. Her favourite themes centre around the secrets we keep and the quest to find our tribe, our community.

Project Human is Bea's first published novel, and the first in a series that fuses Ancient Mythology from around the world with the genres of Science Fiction and Fantasy.

 

Title: Project Human

 

Synopsis:

Olivia Carpenter hates her life. The kids at school bully her; even her dad treats her like a disease. When Olivia runs away, she doesn't expect to be beamed up by telepathic aliens and transported halfway across the galaxy, where she discovers a universe teeming with intelligent life - including twelve alien tribes who have engineered human DNA to suit their needs. Caught in the crosshairs of a galactic tug of war, she's sworn to secrecy about her "Terran" origins until an attempt on her life forces her to trust her new alien friends with her identity. Will Olivia be able to unravel the mystery of Project Human before she's permanently silenced?

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.