IN SEARCH OF THE MEANING OF DEATH, SHEÂ’LL FIND THE MEANING OF LIFE.
The Ceruleans: mere mortals infused with power over life and death. Five books; one question: If the might of the heavens were in your hands, would you be sinner or saint?
Seventeen-year-old Scarlett Blake is haunted by death. Her estranged sister has made the ultimate dramatic exit. Running away from school, joining a surfing fraternity, partying hard: that sounds like Sienna. But suicide? It makes no sense.
Following in her sisterÂ’s footsteps, Scarlett comes to an isolated English cove with grand plans to uncover the truth. Alone. But she hasnÂ’t reckoned on meeting two boys who are determined to help her. Luke: the blue-eyed surfer whoÂ’ll see the real Scarlett, whoÂ’ll challenge her, whoÂ’ll save her. And Jude: the elusive drifter with a knack for turning up whenever ScarlettÂ’s in need.
As ScarlettÂ’s quest for the truth unravels, so too does her grip on reality as sheÂ’s always known it. Because thereÂ’s something strange going on in this little cove. A dead magpie circles the skies. A dead deer watches from the undergrowth. Hands glow with light. Warmth. Power.
What transpires is a summer of discovery. Of what it means to conquer fear. To fall in love. To choose life. To choose death.
To believe the impossible.
What inspires you?
Art Â– especially modern art. Architecture. Literature. Poetry. Plays. Movies. Music. Buzzing cities. Breath-taking landscapes. Big, blue skies. People who strive and strive.
How long did Death Wish take you to write?
I wrote the first draft over two intense months. Then came the rewriting and editing Â– another couple of months. (GEEK ALERT) I wrote a blog post explaining how I wrote the series with (UBER GEEK ALERT) a chart: http://megantayte.com/blog/a-new-blog-and-a-brief-history-of-getting-the-ceruleans-down-on-paper/Â
What was your favorite chapter to write and why?Â
Chapter 23, Â‘Kiss MeÂ’. Scarlett and Luke are at the top of an ancient stone folly that teeters precariously on a very high cliff Â– Â‘on top of the world and a step from deathÂ’, as I put it in the book. Both are trying hard to face the fear, not only that induced by the setting, but also that created by the past: theyÂ’ve lost people very close to them recently, and to let themselves love, to trust each other, knowing that people can be ripped away from you, is terrifying. The choice they make at the top of that tower is to stop being safe, to stop holding on Â– to fall for each other.
Waves everywhere, swirling, surging, seething Â– a raging melange of foam and salt and inky water biting at me, pulling at me, thrusting upon me a solitary invitation:
As I fought to remain on the flimsy polystyrene surfboard that seemed more bucking bronco than wave rider, I thought:Â ThatÂ’s how easy it is Â– you just let go. Just release the grip on this world that in recent months had seemed so much an effort, and sink into the blue, beneath the waves, where chaos and fury turned to quiet and calm. LikeÂ sheÂ did.
Was drowning as they claim? I wondered. The easiest way to die Â– peaceful? How would it feel to give up all the dragging myself through the day, all the struggle to evade the aching void inside? A relief?
Another wave rose me up and slammed me down with breathtaking power. Its force stirred me. You could say a lot of things about Scarlett Blake Â– sheÂ’s a loner, sheÂ’s a wallflower, sheÂ’s a menace in the kitchen Â– but no way was Â‘sheÂ’s a quitterÂ’ on the list of character flaws.
Â‘Screw you!Â’ I shouted through the spray.
Funny, sounded like someone shouted back. But who else would be out in this tumultuous sea at six a.m. on a summerÂ’s morning? Solitude was the entire point of hauling myself out of bed in the still-dark and picking my way down the cliff path to the beach just in time to see the horizon light up with the first burnt-orange glow of the rising sun. No one to see me make a damn fool of myself on my first surfing attempt.
Â‘TryingÂ… yourself killed?Â’
Definitely a voice. Male. Angry.
Scanning the surroundings for the source proved difficult while lying stomach-to-board. On an upward surge I got a glimpse of the Devonshire cliffs that fringed the cove, all dark, jutting rocks topped by bushes of gorse, and then a flash of the beach. On a downward plummet there was nothing but eye-burning, throat-choking seawater.
Â‘ForwardÂ… next wave!Â’
The voice was closer now. There was an edge to it beyond the anger. Something raw.
My eyes picked out a black form between the waves. Someone on a surfboard, paddling it expertly seaward. I took one hand off the board to push sticky tendrils of hair from my eyes. Rookie mistake. Turned out holding on one-handed was impossible. The board shot upwards, out of my feeble grip, and then it was just me and Old Man Sea.
Kicking frantically, I tried to keep my head above the surface, but the waves were burying me, one after the other, only a second or two to come up for air before the next one hit. Far away now were thoughts of letting go Â– I was fighting furiously for life. Never in my seventeen years had I been so desperate. But my legs were tingling with effort, and I knew it was just a matter of time.
When the final wave broke me all I could think was,Â Sienna. With her name on my lips I inhaled a lungful of water and I sankÂ…
Â… for all of a second before something grabbed the back of my t-shirt and hauled me upward. Coughing and spluttering, I emerged from the blue and was pulled roughly onto a board, my leg shoved over so that I straddled it. I had the fleeting thought that this board was much sleeker and more substantial looking than the one IÂ’d just lost before my rescuer settled pretty much on top of me and started paddling toward the shore.
With him in command, we crested waves and glided down the other side with apparent ease, though I seemed unable to match the rhythm of our motion and kept taking in great gulps of brine. Over the sound of the waves and the wind and the splash of powerful arms cutting into the water to propel us along, I picked out low, irate grumblings.
Â‘Â…Â idiotÂ touristsÂ… total waste ofÂ… all we needÂ… another bloody dramaÂ…Â’
Finally, we reached the shallow waters and he slid off the board and pulled me off to walk to the beach. But my legs didnÂ’t seem willing to respond to basic instructions like Â‘walkÂ’ or even Â‘standÂ’ and breathing between wrenching gasps had become a challenge, so he threw an arm around me and half-carried, half-walked me, dragging his board with his spare hand.
Ten steps up the beach he let me down onto the sand.
Â‘Head down,Â’ he commanded. Â‘Between your legs. Cough it out.Â’
I did as I was told. Liquid spilled out of me with each retching cough, and the cool air I gulped in burned my throat. I fought the panic, I fought the pain, focusing instead on the shells and stones strewn around. Finally, breathing won out.
I was reluctant to look up. For starters, I knew I must look a mess Â– long hair plastered to my head rat-tail style, face flushed and salt-burned, eyes teary and bloodshot. And then there was the fact that this guy, whoever he was, had just saved my life, and was evidently pretty mad about having had to do so.
Â‘Hey, you okay?Â’
I lifted my head slowly. Took in broad thighs clad in black neoprene; hands reaching out, palms raised; a wide, muscular chest; a striking face Â– rugged, square jaw, full lips, ruddy cheeks, Grecian nose bearing a thin scar across the bridge, thick black lashes framing eyesÂ… oh, his eyes.
I opened my mouth, tried to speak, but I was paralysed by his gaze. All at once I was home in the cottage, tucked up beneath the blue patchwork quilt of my childhood; I was watching my grandmother remove vanilla-scented fairy cakes from her powder-blue Aga; I was running through a meadow of sky-blue forget-me-nots with my sister Â– free, exhilarated, happy. The memories took my breath away. I felt the familiar burn in my tear ducts.
His eyebrows pulled together and he placed a hand on my trembling knee.
Â‘Are. You. Okay?Â’ he said with exaggerated care, as if he were speaking to an elderly lady having a turn at a bus stop.
I blinked, cleared my throat and managed a husky, Â‘Yes. Th-thank you.Â’
Concern melted into exasperation.
Â‘WhatÂ’s the deal,Â’ he demanded, Â‘out there on your own, clearly no idea what youÂ’re doing, childrenÂ’s play surfboardÂ… you got a death wish or something?Â’
I cringed. IÂ’d known the board was short, but IÂ’d thought it was me-sized Â– at five foot three, what use was some enormous board?
Â‘You wouldÂ’ve been sorry if I hadnÂ’t seen you.Â’
Â‘I just wanted to get a feel for it. I didnÂ’t realise it was so rough out there.Â’
Â‘Rough? ThatÂ’s not rough. Not even optimum surfing weather. Piece of cake for someone who actually knows how to surfÂ…Â’
He paused when he saw a tear escape my eye and roll traitorously down my cheek. Furrowed his brow, combed his fingers roughly through dark hair that was drying fast in the breeze.
Â‘Listen, I didnÂ’t mean toÂ…Â’
I brushed the tear away furiously.Â EnoughÂ with the vulnerability.
Â‘Right, well, thank youÂ…Â’
Â‘Luke. My nameÂ’s Luke.Â’ The stress lines in his face smoothed out and his lips curved. Like this, smiling and relaxed, his scrutiny was a touch less unsettling. Â‘And you areÂ…?Â’
Â‘Thank you, Luke, for your, um, help, but IÂ’m sure youÂ’ve better things to do, so IÂ’ll just beÂ…Â’
Before he could protest, I launched myself to my feet. He instinctively rose with me, and my water-fogged mind registered belatedly that my rescuer was a giant of a guy Â– my head was at the level of his chest. As I looked up to take in his stature I staggered slightly and he reached out to right me, but I stepped backwards. I didnÂ’t need his kindness.
He looked awkward, unsure of himself, as he towered over me. Â‘Hey, will you be okay?Â’
Â‘Yes, yes, IÂ’m fine. IÂ’ll just head home.Â’
Â‘You live close?Â’
I pointed vaguely west. Â‘Yes, not far.Â’
Â‘UpÂ there?Â’ He looked puzzled, and then interest sparked in his eyes. Â‘You mean the Blake place?Â’
Busted. Of course being vague was pointless. My grandparentsÂ’ ramshackle cottage on the western cliff was the only building up there.
I made a noncommittalÂ mnnnhnnnÂ noise, but Luke was not to be deterred.
Â‘But that place has been empty sinceÂ…Â’
He was looking at me now with such scrutiny that I took a further step back. I saw the cogs turning in his mind as he took in the classic green Blake eyes and then comparedÂ herÂ Â– short, spiky red hair, eternally crimson lips, tall and impossibly slender Â– with me Â– petite and curvy, hair more blond than auburn reaching to the base of my spine and a pallor worthy of a vampire. His eyes widened.
Â‘Scarlett? Scarlett Blake!Â’
There was shock in his tone, and then sympathy.Â
Is any part of the book based on someone you know or events in your own life?
People, no Â– although the heroine, Scarlett, and I have a sensitivity in common. Events, yes Â– to some degree the story is personal to me, a fusion of experience and fiction woven from my imaginings and ponderings. ItÂ’s based on my own efforts to make sense of a world in which people close to you can die; in which being true to yourself can be incredibly difficult; and in which love Â– for people, for places, for a way of being, for a passion and an ethos Â– is the only reason to hold on.Â
If this book is part of a series, tell us a little about it.
Death Wish is Book 1 of The Ceruleans series: young adult romance with soul (and an edge of sass). Five books, one question: If the might of the heavens were in your hands, would you be sinner or saint?
What writers influenced you the most?
IÂ’ve been an avid reader since I was this high [holds hand at hip level] and I firmly believe that every book IÂ’ve ever read has shaped me into the writer I am today. Of course, looking back, some stand out. Roald Dahl put the fun into writing for a little girl; Charles Dickens caught my twelve-year-old imagination with his intricate plots; EmilyÂ BrontÃ« led my teenage self to her first torturous love, Healthcliff; Alice Walker and Toni Morrison set me on the path to my degree studies; JK Rowling made me dream; Stephen King gave me nightmares; Terry Pratchett made me want to write and write and write.
Can you share a little of your current work with us?
Right now IÂ’m embarking on a new series, which is keeping me awake at night. The first book is set in London, on the arts scene, and is a romance at heart, but also an exploration of identity. ThatÂ’s all I can say for now!
When you read, do you prefer ebooks or traditional paper/hard back books?
I prefer paperbacks: the feel of the book in my hand, the smell of the ink and paper, the rustle of the pages; all comforting and affirming. But I do read a lot on my ereader these days as well, for convenience. If I love an ebook, I order it in paperback for my Â‘keeperÂ’ shelves.
What book are you reading now?
Dragonfly in Amber by Diana Gabaldon, in preparation for the new season of Outlander. ItÂ’s one of the few fiction-based TV series that my husband Â– a true Scot Â– will watch with me.
How do you relax?
When IÂ’m not at my desk, IÂ’m with my children most of the time: building Lego castles, baking cupcakes, drawing and colouring and painting, planting flower seeds, reading picture books at the library, hunting bears at the park Â– itÂ’s not rock Â’nÂ’ roll, but I love it.
When the kids are finally in bed, I get an hour or so to myself. I commandeer the snuggle seat in the living room, which has a seaside theme and lots of paintings of Devon and Cornwall from the Whistlefish gallery (www.whistlefish.com), and I get lost in a fictional world, either via a boxset or a novel.
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Megan-Tayte/e/B00TDH4XLS
Once upon a time a little girl told her grandmother that when she grew up she wanted to be a writer. Or a lollipop lady. Or a fairy princess fireman. Â‘Write, Megan,Â’ her grandmother advised. So thatÂ’s what she did.
Thirty-odd years later, Megan is a professional writer and published author by day, and an indie novelist by night. Her fiction Â– young adult romance with soul Â– recently earned her the SPRÂ’s Independent Woman Author of the Year award.
Megan grew up in the Royal County, a hop, skip and a (very long) jump from Windsor Castle, but these days she makes her home in a village of Greater Manchester.Â She lives with her husband, a proud Scot who occasionally kicks back in a kilt; her son, a budding artist with the soul of a palaeontologist; and her baby daughter, a keen pan-and-spoon drummer who sings in her sleep. When she’s not writing, you’ll find her walking someplace green, reading by the fire, or creating carnage in the kitchen as she pursues her impossible dream: of baking something edible.Â