Author Interview with Auburn Seal

I’m so grateful to Auburn Seal for supporting my work, for encouraging my progress, and listening to my break downs when the Muse flees from me. She’s just released a new book in her Vanishing series and I invited her to share her insights and advice about writing and publishing. Her responses have been lightly edited, only because I can’t seem to help myself.

Tell me about your newest release.

Maya Vanishing is the second book in the historical mystery Vanishing series. Our history-student-turned-heroine Avery Lane is still recovering from the life changing events of book one, Roanoke Vanishing. She is intrigued by the collision of historic civilizations and her modern day world and is ready to set off on a search in the Yucatan to find more clues about the villainous Descendants that she became acquainted with in the first book of the series.

In other words, a nerdy white girl goes to Mexico to solve an ancient mystery and finds herself completely out of her depth.

What’s been the hardest part of writing Maya Vanishing? What’s gotten easier about writing with each book?

Writing the second book in this series has been surprisingly more difficult than writing the first. The challenge has been weaving the plot threads from book one into book two, while looking ahead to book four so that I could continue to foreshadow the things that will happen at the end of the series. Over the course of the four book series, Avery’s life undergoes quite a substantial shift in everything she thought she knew; portraying that change in a realistic way throughout the series is freaking impossible challenging. The second difficult aspect in completing Maya was conquering my belief deficit. It was a frequent battle to ignore the voices in my head that mocked the very idea that I could write this second book well. Because Roanoke performed extremely well decently, I worried that the second book wouldn’t be received as favorably. I like to think that I’m a “glass is at least half-full” kind of girl, but I lacked optimism from the beginning of this process.

That said, some things did get easier. I had more resources at my disposal during the second book than I did during the writing of Roanoke. Having an editor on speed dial when you’re certain that your book is crap is surprisingly useful. I also knew what to expect from the editing process so those first bits of developmental feedback weren’t so harrowing. Surrounding myself with competent professionals keeps me from veering too far off the path.

Which aspect(s) of the writing process is your favorite? Least favorite?

You know that old saying, “Write drunk, Edit sober”? For me, it’s the opposite. Details make me crazy. I can draft quickly. I learned as a novice writer to banish that inner bitch who likes to rip apart my work while I’m still in the creative, fun, euphoric drafting mode. I’ve got silencing her down to a science. Don’t stop and think. That’s my motto while I’m drafting: “Just let the Muse move me.” Can you tell I love drafting?

What I haven’t dialed in yet is how to let the critical whore out of her cage when I need her for the editing process (without letting her getting a stronghold on my psyche). Working with her is a delicate process. Completing a project takes both of us, but I feel like I have to keep her mostly caged or she will ruin me. You can see why I refer to her as a whore and a bitch. She’s narcissistic, too. I let her out only when I need to (and after I’ve had enough to drink to silence the pain of her harsh critique). I lock her up again as soon as possible. Sometimes that means when the job is done, sometimes it’s when I just can’t stand her anymore. She is me, of course, so, you know, that’s fun. Trying to let out the best parts of yourself in order to create and then bringing out the monster long enough to get the job done right. But only in short doses, or she’ll (I’ll) sabotage me.

That’s a trip across the tight rope that can only be done by the brave or inebriated. Bottoms up.

What’s been the most surprising part of living a writing life?

That I can live through the process and come out the other side not dead. This creative journey brings me to life. The madness gives me a vitality, a connection to myself that I have come to love and depend on. When I’m not writing, I’m insane. Yes, more insane than when I am writing. Don’t you feel bad for my family?

What are you reading right now?

I’m currently listening to Gone Girl on audio because I’m slightly behind the times. But a good friend *wink* recommended it and I can no longer avoid it. She gave me an ultimatum. “Read this damn book, or we are through” [Editor’s note: I don’t remember it being that strongly worded a book recommendation, but it is good. And all of you should read it. Or else]. I respond well to threats of withheld affection, so it worked like a charm. I’m always reading Larry Brooks’ Story Engineering because plotting and story building are my secret passions. I’m also in the middle of Self-Editing for Fiction Writers because I have the delusional idea that if I read enough about editing, someday that process won’t make me squeamish. That and I’m into pain.

Tell me about your next project.

My next independent project—I have so many collaborations going right now that ‘independent project’ almost feels like the ghost of Christmas past—is really just an embryo of an idea. Once I finish the Vanishing series, which is two more books, I plan on digging into a historical paranormal set in Amsterdam. I have no title yet and only the vaguest notion that the city itself will be a character—the main character maybe?—that we get to know over hundreds of years. I have an ancestor from Holland who was a ship’s captain for the Dutch West India Trading Company and I want to play with the idea of his spirit haunting Amsterdam through time, a stacked narrative of sorts. I will ruminate on that idea for the next six months while I finish the early drafts of Vanishing; once those are off to the editor (I call her the Wizard), then I’ll sink my teeth into clarifying the direction I want to take the next project. But I do get a real kick out of combining a paranormal element with historical events. It’s going to be fun to write, whatever it turns out to be.

What advice might you offer to aspiring or beginning writers?

So, I’m all into feelings: how something makes me feel, how I think something I am doing might make others feel. Feeling good about myself is pretty critical to my work. Because that’s how I roll, my biggest piece of fluffy, inspirational advice would be to let yourself go. Give yourself permission to create and don’t let the monster out of her cage prematurely. If you ask that inner editor for her opinion too soon, she’ll eat you alive.

In terms of craft, I would advise getting to know your own style. Do you plot? Do you outline? Do you fly by the seat of your pants? Something in between? Do you need to know everything about your character before you start drafting, or are you like me, unable to really know your character until you write them into a scene? Figure out what you need, and then do that. Don’t try to box yourself into writing the “right” way.

It is my firm belief—and I’m pretty wishy-washy on a lot of things in life—that the right way to write is whichever method gets your story onto paper. Of all the writers I know, none of them go about it in the same manner. So find yourself, trust yourself, and then turn on the afterburners and don’t overthink it. Go, speed racer. Unless you are a turtle. Then by all means, creep. Whatever you need. It’s your journey.

Which writers do you most admire and why?

It’s of course hard to pick only one. If we are talking about being moved, which is the best thing writing can do, then I would say Truman Capote and Anne Frank. Their stories have occupied by brain since I first read them. A long time ago. Stories based in reality that have real pain, real emotion, real violence. As they say in the music business, that’s my jam. Reality. Mostly.

Who shows up most often on your dedication pages?

I was surprised at the answer to this, although I shouldn’t be, considering my interest in the paranormal. Dead people. They are the ones who show up most often in my dedications. From my young friend who committed suicide to my grandma who gave me the best parts of myself—here’s another of my unfailing beliefs—it’s the dead who I write for. It’s ironic that I write for those who will never read my work. I think my brain just exploded a little bit. That’s quite a target audience I’ve picked for myself. Second to the dead folks, though, is my family: my husband and my children. I write for the dead but I live for those who are still with me.

Auburn Seal Biography

Auburn Seal published her first short story in 2012. Since that time, she has written and published many stories in a variety of fictional worlds. Of Auburn’s titles currently available, only one of them doesn’t include death in some form. It’s not that she is particularly dark, but rather that fictional violence is exceptionally therapeutic. For the record, she wants to announce that she is only a murderous psychopath in her books. In real life, she is a perfectly lovely person with only a slightly twisted mind. Auburn lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family.

Contact her
On Twitter @auburnseal


An Excerpt from The Apothecary’s Apprentice

Tree and lily of the valley

Chapter One

The late winter light dappled the forest floor through the needles above. Tightening her grip on the satchel slung over her shoulder, Evee crept toward the canopy overhanging the base of the tree. This is where the salvia grew. Over the past month, she’d slipped into the apothecary’s garden in order to snip cuttings from the same shrub. While she’d read online it was an easy plant to propagate, Evee’d had no luck convincing it to take root. But here it seemed to grow easily, sprawling over the ground. She headed toward the tree’s base and bent down, her shears in hand. Grasping a small cluster of the soft green leaves, she cut the tender stalks. She worked carefully not to damage any of its leaves. Clutching the small bundle, she stepped back and surveyed her work. It’s like I used a samurai sword.

She heard the swift snap of a twig underfoot. “Crap.” Shoving the handful of leaves into her bag, she looked back over her shoulder. The bright red knit of her striped scarf was like a blinking neon sign. She wished she hadn’t worn it. Withdrawing behind one tree in a small stand of cedars, she crouched down and hid. There’d never been anyone out here before. She peeked out from behind the tree. She saw something move. It was him. His boots squelched in the mud, but grew fainter the farther away he moved from her hiding spot. She pulled back, hiding behind what felt like the skinniest tree in the woods.

She didn’t know this man at all, other than having walked by his store a few times. Was he the ‘call the cops and ruin her life’ type? Or the ‘open carry gun’ type? She didn’t know. But if she was caught, it’d be worse than the last time she got in trouble. The cops wouldn’t be as forgiving. And their reaction would be nothing compared to Sister Agatha’s.

Now what? Taking short, small gasps, her chest felt like it was being pressed on by a boulder. She didn’t want her breath to give away her hiding spot. Edging away from the tree, Evee saw a ramshackle shed across from the way out. She took a step from behind the tree into the clearing. She tugged the strap on her bag, pulling it tightly across her chest. She looked up to see the apothecary moving around the corner of the shed. He stood directly in front of the gate. She was trapped.

Sneaking through the thick, wet underbrush, she felt like an elephant. Every cautious step she took seemed like a beacon, blaring her location through the forest. Her feet sunk into the duff, crunching through layers of twigs and pinecones. Brambles and vines grabbed at her, clinging to her pants as if trying to slow her down. Glancing over her shoulder, the apothecary stepped into the clearing behind her.

Their eyes met for a split second. Although he stood far off, she could tell h’d been watching her. Could see her well enough from there to identify her? His lips moved, like he was speaking, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. And really, she didn’t care. But his words floated toward her as if tracing the tendrils of fog snaking through the garden. The menacing look on his face turned her stomach sour. Run.

She darted past a large evergreen, tripped on a root, and landed face down on a carpet of sharp needles. She pushed up and tried to regain her footing, but her right leg was pinned. A thick, ropy vine twisted its way around her ankle and moved up her leg. She watched it slither around her leg like a snake. She didn’t want to know how high up her thigh it might go.

She thrashed against the vine, cutting her wrists and ankles on its bark. She yanked and tugged, but couldn’t pry her leg free. “What the—?” Her chest felt like it might explode. Quickly exhausted by the fight, she fell back onto the ground, edges of black seeping into her field of vision.

She forced herself to breathe more slowly. The fingers of black loosed their grip, her heartbeat slowed, and she worked to slow her breathing. She looked up, tracing the path of the vine through the trees. It seemed to spring out of the ground near the apothecary’s feet. He stood in the middle of the garden, his arms crossed over a picture of Chewbacca’s furry face. A dark, scruffy beard and thick, wavy hair echoed his choice of tee shirts. She smiled, but then she remembered Chewbacca was trying to bust her.

Gathering all the energy she possessed, she bucked her hips and legs upward, fighting against the vine to free her leg. She checked on the apothecary. A knot twisted itself into the center of her gut. There were those black fingers again. He’d moved, standing now only a few feet from where she lay. It felt as though he towered over her. Her position, arms and legs splayed awkwardly in different directions, like a crab on its back, made her terribly vulnerable. She thrashed against the vine and slipped around on the wet needles. The contents of her bag spilled out—but not the incriminating stuff. Drained from fighting, she let her trapped leg drop as she fell back onto her elbows. Her breaths came in short, quick puffs of vapor into the cold morning air. She wasn’t going anywhere. He closed the gap between them in a few quick strides, coming to kneel right beside her.

Now that he was closer, he was younger and more attractive than she’d imagined. Rather than the grandfatherly image of an apothecary she’d pictured, he was more like someone’s hot older brother. Or at least an older guy rocking a pretty decent dad bod.

He reached out and touched her necklace where it lay on her neck.

She pulled away, but given the vine, she didn’t have anywhere to go.

“A crucifix.” He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “You’re one of Sister Agatha’s girls.” It wasn’t a question. He stood and looked down on her from above. The discrepancy in their sizes magnified by the effect of his height as he loomed over her. “Why the Salvia divinorum?” His words, clipped and fast, startled her.

Evee decided not to waste time pretending she didn’t know what he meant. He’d probably seen the hole she’d left when she cut it. And it wasn’t the first time she’d taken cuttings from the same plant. Tense, ready to spring to action the moment she saw an opportunity. But her back ached in the cold morning air as the muscles in her back stiffened, like fingers digging into her spine. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to put much distance between them. Despite the cold, she a bead of sweat trickled down the edge of her face. In her head, she snapped back at him, matching his bark with her own. But when she opened her mouth, not a sound came out.

He leaned over and grabbed the satchel. She scuttled back and tried to pull the bag away, but he snatched it easily. He reached inside and pulled out the small bundle of salvia she’d cut. He lifted one of her legs and gave the vine a good tug.

Evee heard an odd ripping sound, as if the roots were being torn from the ground. She yanked her leg back, tucking it beneath her body.

For a second, the loose end of the vine dangled freely in his hand. When he tossed it aside, she watched it coil itself into a circular pile at his feet like an obedient hose.

“Holy—” She knew it was impossible for a vine to move across the forest floor, writhing like a snake, and then put down roots in the seconds it’d held her down. She rubbed her eyes and shook her head. She couldn’t explain what she’d just seen. Darting backwards like a crab, she put as much distance as possible between herself, the apothecary, and these crazy plants. She wasn’t sure what had happened, but something was wrong out here. Plants didn’t move on their own. Chills raced up and down her spine as goosebumps prickled her skin.

“Well done. Thank you, friend,” the apothecary said.

“Who are you calling friend?” Her eyes darted around the garden, taking in every shadow and dark patch.

He ignored her question, plowing ahead with an interrogation instead. “What’d you do with the salvia?”

She felt her jaw tighten. She winced as the muscle spasmed under the pressure. “Someone dared me to come out here and get it.”

He arched one eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ll get nowhere with bullshit,” he said.

“I sell it.” As soon as the words took shape, a tightness slithered into her belly. It probably wasn’t a smart thing to say, given how isolated she felt out here. Crawling backward a few more feet, it felt safer to have some distance between the two of them. “But you can’t prove anything.” She crossed her arms over her chest, pulling her jacket closed around her body.

“My name is Silas Wardwell.” He stared at her, as if waiting for her to say something.

His eyes were really green. They seemed to match the color of the trees and garden around him. It made her think of a chameleon. He continued staring, his head cocked to the side. It seemed as if he was figuring something out. The pause lasted a while, too long, as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. Awkwardness settled into the quiet space between them. He nudged the vine next to him and let out a loud breath.

“This is no common vegetable patch. My plants are dangerous. Some can poison you by the lightest touch. Others are fatal if ingested. And all of them are extremely dangerous in the hands of the ignorant.”

He emphasized this last word. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to make her feel stupid, or small, but it worked. Flame rushed to her cheeks. Her eyes pounded painfully with every heartbeat.

“Given your interest in things that grow,” the apothecary tipped his head in the direction of his garden, “perhaps you and I can come to an agreement. You come to work in my garden. I think you owe me that much. In return, I can teach you things you never imagined possible.”

She tightened her grip on the edges of her coat and gritted her teeth. “I didn’t actually take anything.” She pointed to the bundle in his hands. “See, you have all of it right there. I never actually left the garden.”

Silas raised an eyebrow then pulled out a cell phone from his back pocket. “I’m happy to call the police.” He shrugged and began to dial a number. It looked like a short number.

Evee reached out and grabbed his arm. “Wait! OK. Fine. I’ll do it.”

He pulled the phone away from his ear, turned it off, and slipped it back into his pocket.

“It doesn’t seem like I have much of choice.” She hated how her voice sounded like a whiny toddler and she worried about what she’d gotten herself into. She surveyed him from head to toe. He wore dark jeans and black rubber boots; standard issue outer wear on the island this time of year. Aside from his thick, wavy hair and rather decent shape, he pretty much looked like every other guy in town. He seemed normal enough. Except for the whole creepy plant thing. She held out her hand. “I’m Evee. Evee Ellingson.”

He looked at her and chuckled. He put out his own hand and shook hers. Her fingers burned as his warm hands squeezed her own cold ones. He pulled her up in one quick motion. “Follow me.” He turned on his heel and set for the gate with a long stride. Evee slipped her satchel across her body and scrambled after him to catch up.