Beala T. Keeney Author

The following interview is with Belea T. Keeney, author of Lure of the Wolf in The Beast Within.

Hi, Belea. Could you start us off with a little info about yourself? We here on the forums are so used to seeing text and avatars that it can be easy to forget there are human beings behind the words. What’s a day-in-the-life-of-Belea Keeney like?

A: I wish I could say it was terribly exciting and filled with drama and danger to go along with the book’s theme, but, um, it’s not. I edit and proof for a living so most days I’m working on other writers’ material?words, words, words. Just me and the screen.

I live in a semi-rural area so when I am done with work, I try to get out to the barn and horse around. Missy, a retired Thoroughbred is my current ride, and she’s a big ol’ sweetie. At home, listening to the owls hoot at night and seeing the occasional fox or bobcat tickles me no end.

What initiated your interest in writing?

A: Probably Miss Thigpen, my third-grade teacher. She assigned a story project, and I did one really fast — totally blowing if off — and she handed it back to me with the notation, “You can do better.” And I did. And, believe it or not, it was a werewolf story!

As a writer, what do you find is the most challenging part about crafting fiction, and how do you overcome it?

A: Evoking character without Info Dump-ing. That’s a tricky line to walk because readers need to understand certain things about a character and how to show that without veering into lecture can be tough. The more I write, the more I see that sometimes, depending on genre and tone and length, the less you say, the better for the reader.

Any personal experiences where you might’ve felt like a character in a horror novel?

A: Actually, when I was about three, I supposedly fell into a hole while wading in some shallow water. I distinctly remember looking up and my hands not reaching the surface. To this day, I remain un-convinced that something didn’t grab me.

You’re an editor with Torquere Press and Samhain Publishing. Are there any words of wisdom you could pass along to writers on how to polish their manuscript?

A: Probably the biggest issue I see with new writers is too much backstory too soon. Readers don’t need to know the history of a place or someone’s life story in the first pages of a story or book. They need interesting characters doing interesting things in an interesting way. And in general, characters waking up or going about their normal, everyday life is never going to be a compelling start.

For more experienced writers, I would say one issue I see consistently is not using scene setting to do some of the work. A setting can help evoke character, mood, subtext and, of course, place, all at once. One writing exercise I sometime assign students is to write two pages of dialogue then place that dialogue into two entirely different settings. A marriage proposal dialogue set in a butterfly garden with birds chirping and a burbling fountain is going to have an entirely different feel and tone than that exact same marriage proposal set at a father’s graveside in a cemetery with snow on the ground and bare trees looming over the grave.

Writer’s block strikes sooner or later; are there any home remedies or writing exercises you use to stave off the dreaded curse?

A: Do something physical that lets your brain focus on something else entirely. For some folks, that’s yoga or running or kayaking. For me, it’s riding horses. It gives my head something specific to track on and lets my subconscious clank away unencumbered.

Where can we see more of your work?

A: “The Tale of Trapper Tommy,” which also happens to be about a werewolf encounter, is available for audio download at Sniplits.com, and it’s in the small-press anthology, Florida Horror: Dark Tales from the Sunshine State. That’s it for my Belea stories. My romantic smut, written under a pen name, does much better. Ahem.

When the submission call went out for Beast Within, what was the first idea that came to mind? What made you choose the were-creature in your story?

A: “Lure of the Wolf” was actually inspired by a visit I made to Dahlonega, Georgia in the late 90s. Through happenstance, I scored a really cool house-sitting gig for an isolated campground there, and it was so dark and creepy at night that the writing came pretty easily. For the universe, I just extrapolated a bit on current trends in predator species. Depressingly, most of them will probably be gone from the wild by 2040.

Could you give us a non-spoiler synopsis of your story Lure of the Wolf?

A: When a librarian meets a werewolf who has lost his pack, her life changes in ways she never imagined.

Thanks, Belea!

A: Thank you and to the readers; I hope they enjoy the anthology.

And now, here’s an excerpt of Lure of the Wolf from The Beast Within:

LURE OF THE WOLF, BY BELEA T. KEENEY

“I think there’s a werewolf living in my azaleas,” Vivian Postlewaite said to her sister one Saturday morning in early April.
“They’re not your azaleas, Viv. They belong to the college,” Angela replied.
“Well, I fertilize them every summer; I prune them. I’m the one who takes care of them.”

The sisters were pawing through a thrift store. Vivian held up a pale turquoise cardigan with an embroidered rose on the left side. The rose was delicately stitched with creamy silk at the center of its blossom, and graduated threads of wine, pink, and mauve for its petals. And so soft. She rubbed it against her cheek.

Angela glanced at the sweater. “Ooooh, that’s dreadfully frumpy. It looks like something a librarian would wear.”
“I am a librarian.”
“Well, you don’t have to dress like one. When I ask you to come with me to find clothes for the theater group, I don’t expect you to buy clothes for yourself.” Angela held out a bright red circle skirt. “Don’t werewolves migrate north in April? I remember the news doing the regular little spiel about them just around tax time. It’s illegal to harass them, they’re a protected species, blah, blah, blah.”
“I always watch that coverage. The hundreds of them together, loping up to the mountain path?”
“You wouldn’t find it fascinating if you had children,” Angela snapped. “They’re just a bunch of mutants. Good riddance, I say.”
“There hasn’t been a recorded werewolf attack on a human in over fifty years,” Vivian protested.
“Recorded or not, they’re dangerous. I’m glad the president approved the funding for those programs, all of them. The Vampiric Studies Office, the Lycanthrope Commission. For God’s sake, it’s 2045. At least now someone is keeping an eye on them. When I think of the way you and I grew up, with them running around ?” Angela sighed dramatically, like the former theater major that she was. “It’s a wonder we never ran into one of them back in the day.”
“Maybe this one was separated from its pack,” Vivian said. “It’s left quite a lot of rabbit bones and fur. I filled up nearly half a trash bag yesterday?”
“Just call the Commission. They’ll send out a trapper and you’ll be done with it.” Angela held up a ghastly lime-green shirt. “How about this one?”
“It’s a little bright, don’t you think?”
“It’s colorful. I’m buying it.” Angela flounced to the payment scanner.

Vivian fingered the turquoise sweater, then put it down regretfully. Maybe it was cashmere. An old-fashioned sweater for an old-fashioned girl. Its label was long gone; it was just a cast-off now, someone’s throwaway.
Vivian sighed and left it behind.

***

A week later, Vivian stepped through her back gate, where a forty-acre botanical garden had been abandoned and forgotten by Dahlonega Community College’s administration years before. It was technically the school’s property, but Vivian considered this section her own. Among mature rhododendrons and azaleas, camellias and magnolias, she’d set up feeders, birdbaths, and managed a twice-yearly fertilizing schedule that took an entire weekend.

Vivian relished every morning as she gazed over her picket fence and sipped her coffee.
Dahlonega, Georgia sat at the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains. Vivian had settled into her position at the college library with relief thirty years earlier. Angela was nearby, just down in Atlanta, if overbearing in her older-sister-knows-best sort of way.

Vivian bought her tiny cottage, once the caretaker’s residence, when the college subdivided some of its land during a funding crunch in the 20’s. It suited her, with its old-fashioned operable windows and wood floors. She painted her rooms lilac, sage, and pink; she grew roses over twin arbors in her backyard, and lived a life as quietly as expected of a librarian who’d never married.

She ambled through her azaleas, her steps soft on pathways decades deep in oak leaves. Never mind that it was a Saturday, never mind that she could have come anytime during the day. She’d waited until dusk. The half-moon shone through the oaks’ greening branches. Some of the azaleas were still in bloom; whoever had originally planned the school’s gardens had done it so that the azaleas would be in flower for nearly four months of the year. Rich tones of fuschia, pink, salmon, and violet flowered on the shrubs or lay on the ground in soft death. The spotted and striped flowers bloomed last, hybrids that required a bit more warmth in the soil to burst forth.

A four-step footbridge rose over the tiny stream that trickled through the property. Vivian plopped down on it with a sigh, then tugged off her shoes, her knees creaking. She rubbed her callused heels.
I’m getting old. Lugging those realpaper books around and being on my feet all day. She dangled her toes in the foot-deep stream. The icy water helped soothe the ache in her pudgy feet. A soft breeze from the north pushed her gray hair off her forehead.

She counted the smooth stones at the bottom of the streambed. She’d learned it from a yoga teacher ten years before, back when she was still willing to get on the floor and do stretches in front of other people. Clear your mind, count something universal and eternal, let it all go ? At two hundred and thirty three, the dirty smell of rot made her look around. The werewolf stood ten yards away from her, upwind, its nose buried deep in salmon-colored azaleas. It faced away from her, golden pelt looking rich and oily. Its shoulders were broad, the deep chest and wide back looking enormous. Nearly two meters tall, its clawed hands drew up a flower-loaded branch to its face. Vivian thought she heard it inhale deeply. He likes the flowers, too.

The werewolf stood on broad wolf-paws, claws curled into the oak leaf mulch, its legs shifting a little to balance its enormous torso. Those long legs could run up to thirty miles per hour, according to the Xenospecies book she’d read long ago. Vivian’s heart lurched like a jumping frog. She gasped.
The werewolf whirled around to face her. Shredded leaves and azalea flowers drifted to the ground. Vivian’s face and chest flushed?yes, clearly a male werewolf?and its large ears swiveled towards her. His mouth opened, long white canines gleaming in the moon’s light. He had orange eyes that stood out from his golden fur like volcanoes.

He can hear my heartbeat. He knows I’m scared.

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