EDWIN COPPERPOT nearly done! New excerpt, Teaser Tuesday!!

I realized recently that I started writing EDWIN COPPERPOT on June 7th. Somehow, in the middle of that night, the idea for the story hit me. No longer able to sleep, I got up and started this novel. I must have been dreaming about something dark, funny, romantic (it seems that dead rotting folks can have romance too) and oh yes, a bit gruesome, because what's the point of being deceased if you can't have some creepy, ghoulish excitement now and then? I love black comedy and Edwin has no shortage of that.

So, completing a book in three months...hmmm...how do I feel about that? Well, great! Clearly, when I finish the last chapter (hopefully this week) the editing begins, but I'm really proud of old Edwin--really proud. This book is me in every way from start to finish and the story seemed to write itself at times. A lot of research went into it, more than you'd think, so I suppose this is a historical fiction too.

EDWIN COPPERPOT questions everything. Where life actually ends and what happens when we die. Do we have a chance to better ourselves, maybe even change our fate? Is death really death or just another layer of life? Can we go back to the world of the living? Heaven and Hell...yes, that's in there too I'm afraid. What's a book about dead people without a little fire and brimstone?

I've posted a new excerpt below, hope you enjoy it!

xoxo - Hilary

The fog had dispersed. Edwin sucked in a deep breath, holding it in for a moment. He stared up at the high moon which punched the dark like a glowing beacon of optimism. He came upon the café, hoping against hope that Maura would be there, sitting at their usual table, musty book in hand, but with all that had transpired, he could only guess where she might be. He peered through a window, trying to spot her.

With any luck, if Maura wasn't there, Bunny Black and Percy Poole would be. Maybe they would know her whereabouts. The two were always chattering about some silliness or another, babbling on about topics that made little sense to anyone but them.

The last time Edwin made the unfortunate mistake of sitting with them sans Maura, they jabbered on endlessly about the many varieties of decaying spiders the café had to offer. Bunny brought up the question as to which part of the spider its web expelled from. Bunny suggested its mouth, while Percy insisted it was the other end. Needless to say, this heated tête-à-tête went on for what felt like an eternity, until Maura at last arrived. Seeing the pained expression on Edwin's face, she quickly explained spiders' silk is released from their spinnerets, having nothing to do with their mouths or their backsides. Edwin chuckled as he skimmed the room for her. Thank God for Maura Lancaster.

It was a funny little café. One of those peculiar places where if you sat in a certain spot, you could distinctly hear the conversation coming from another. From time to time, when their usual table was occupied, Maura and Edwin would slink to a corner by the door, and snicker wildly as they sat behind a dead fig tree, listening to the colorful conversations of the kitchen in crystal clarity.

On one such occasion, an irate Scottish cook admonished Didier, the stubby little French waiter, with the personality of mud, for mixing up all the orders. Instead of defending himself, Didier merely grunted back at everything the cook said, grunting louder with every insult. Consequently, the cook's ire rose to a whole new level of Scottish fury, producing arcane vocabulary, presumably curse words, Edwin and Maura deduced could only be from the days of William Wallace.

There was yet another spot, three tables down from where he and Maura usually sat, slightly hidden from view. If you sat just near the front of the cafe, just under the washed out painting of Henry VIII, you could hear every syllable uttered at this veiled table as distinctly as if the speakers were sitting next to you. A group of surly Frenchmen frequented the spot, but as Maura and Edwin knew very little French, the conversations were not nearly as intriguing as the kitchen banter, barring the times when the Frenchman snorted raunchily, laughing about some lewd anecdote. Even with a French tutor from Paris, Edwin never learned to speak a lick of French, but somehow managed to recall the translations of all the dirty words.

Craning his neck, Edwin eyed the table. The Frenchmen were not seated their today. However, Maura Lancaster and Charlie Redgrave were.

Edwin held himself back from interrupting them, not certain what he might do. To be sure, clocking Redgrave in his oily puss would be gratifying, but it would only incense Maura and after the party, the conversation they'd had, he knew such a move would not be wise, however pleasurable. If there was one thing he learned from his father, it was how to throw a devastating punch. He opted to eavesdrop instead, not exactly noble, but far less messy.