serial horror novel at the Winston-Salem Writers

Remember I talked about a sekrit project that I was working on? Well, it's got the all clear now.

Jennifer Stevenson of the Winston-Salem Writers organizes serial novels that are posted on their web site. The way it works is this: someone writes an initial chapter, then every two weeks a writer takes up the challenge and writes the next chapter. So every two weeks, you're getting a new installment from a different writer.

If you really want to see how different styles can come together, you'll want to check these out. The Winston-Salem Writers have already done a romance Safe At Home and a mystery Cheerwine is Fine. Now they are going to try their hands at a more gothic story, one of horror.

I was asked to write the first chapter for a horror novel, and I don't know if you recall, but back in the Spring, I attended a writing workshop at StellarCon headed up by author Allen Wold. At that workshop, I wrote the hook for a short-story. That hook was the seed I used to come up with the first chapter in a serial novel entitled Rady.

The chapter is online now. I'll be following along and posting links to subsequent chapters as members of the Winston-Salem Writers contribute to Rady. I'm thrilled to be a part of this project and I can't wait to see what they come up with!

You can find the Winston-Salem Writers here.

Meanwhile, check out the first chapter of Rady:

Grandma’s Bible lay unopened on the kitchen table between Jimmy and his granddaddy. The pebbled black cover, worn smooth by her hands, reflected the dull glow of the florescent light that buzzed like an angry hornet. Granddaddy glared at the book like it had been the one to kill her, not him.

He sat in the kitchen chair, rigid as his funeral suit. Jimmy sat across from him, his own suit an ill-fitting dark blue affair that sat rumbled and sad on his gawky teenage frame. He desperately wanted to loosen his tie, but he was afraid to twitch in case granddaddy would see it as a sign of disrespect.

Although every window in the farmhouse was open, the humid night air refused to move. A gypsy moth battered the screen by the chair where grandma used to sit; ivory wings drove the heavy body toward the light it would never reach ...