I wrote my first novel about a dozen years ago or so, a 150,000 word epic fantasy, chock-full of wish-fulfillment MarySueisms, which I was–fortunately—able to recognize before it went too far into the world. But the most wonderful thing about that novel was the fact that I had written a novel. A long one, too, that actually wasn’t that bad of a story either, even if it really wasn’t quite publishable. After that I knew I had it in me to write a novel.
There were others. I wrote about 60,000 words in a month in a novel dare (this was before the days of NaNoWriMo) and I never looked back at it. After that, I concentrated on short fiction for a while, and then even stopped writing completely for about five years.
But I eventually came back around to it and started in on a collaboration–another grand and sweeping epic fantasy that was kicked in the teeth about halfway through by Hurricane Katrina, the subsequent recovery, and the relocation of my collaboration partner. However, I was back in the writing groove, and so I started in on a crime thriller. I made it about halfway through that when I realized I was bored with it, and decided to go with something more fun. I was working in the morgue at the time, and started to wonder what a pathologist would make of wounds caused by a supernatural creature, and how such wounds would be explained away.
And that’s when I started writing Mark of the Demon.