I’m happy to present my interview with Serge de Moliere. His book is White Heat.
(blurb and excerpt below)
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Hi Serge, Thanks for stopping by to talk a little about your writing! Let’s jump right in. On your latest novella, where is the story set? How much influence did the setting have on the atmosphere/characters/development of the story?
The story is set in Northern Canada, which is critical for this piece. As it opens, the female protagonist is fleeing from her abusive husband in a blizzard, which makes it very difficult for her to travel on foot. She becomes trapped in the frozen ice and loses consciousness. Since it is essentially a desolate wilderness, there is no one around who can help her. Luckily, a man happens upon her. Rescuing her for reasons of his own, he takes her back to his cabin. When she awakens, she finds herself naked in bed. There is no way to leave during the snow storm, and so she is trapped in this isolated cabin with an attractive but rather furtive stranger whom she knows nothing about. Clearly, the setting is everything in this story.
Were your characters difficult to write, or did they seem to spring easily from your mind to the page?
The characters sprung into being fairly quickly. In real life, more than one naive young woman has been attracted to a good looking man whom she falls madly in love with and then marries, only to discover too late that he is cruel and abusive. Therefore, the situation in which the protagonist finds herself is a common one and I drew on that in writing this story. What makes it even worse is that, in this case, her husband has taken her far away from her friends and family to a deserted wilderness where she has no one to turn to except him. And this is what prompts her to flee into the icy snow.
How often does your muse distract you from day to day minutiae?
When I’m in the middle of a story, ideas may rise up even at night. When they do, it’s usually a good idea to get them down as soon as possible. Left untended, they may drift off and be lost. And strangely, sometimes the most exciting possibilities pop into your mind unexpectedly.
Do you enjoy research? Or is research a necessary evil?
Research is often necessary and especially any time an author really wants to invigorate a character or setting. For example, in the classic novel “Grapes of Wrath”, the author actually visited the locale and many of his descriptions of people and settings were not imagined but were depictions of reality although a bit modified perhaps. That is what made that novel so vivid and memorable.
The limits of my own brain are terribly finite and the only way to expand the worlds and characters I create in stories is by doing research. The fun is in finding out about new locations or characters and increasing your knowledge base. For example, when writing “Hurts So Bad” I had to research back injuries and physical therapy in order to present a more realistic story. If I just made it all up, it would have been incredibly inaccurate. And oftentimes the input of a great editor is invaluable in this.
Do you listen to music when you write? Does music ever influence your writing?
Music can inspire creativity at any time. Favorite songs or melodies often influence writing, whether happy, sad or otherwise. For example, in one story that’s not yet published, a song by Cristina Aguilera definitely affected my writing. It may affect the disposition of a character or alter the mood of the story entirely. And, of course, when dealing with romance and love, music is especially evocative. As a writer, I can not only use it to spur imagery in my mind, but I can literally incorporate it into the story. For example, in another still unpublished novella, jazz music plays an important role.
What do readers have to look forward to in the future from Serge de Moliere.
My latest novella will be released in the next few weeks. It is entitled, “Hurts So Bad”. Briefly, it’s about a young, attractive African American woman who has suffered a back injury after her very first horseback riding lesson. She is quite frustrated by her disability and makes the difficult decision to go for physical therapy due to recurrent and severe back pain. What happens when she does is a surprise beyond anything she might have anticipated.
Thanks again for stopping by, Serge! Readers can discover more about Serge de Moliere here:
A frigid wilderness. A blazing encounter.
In the frigid wilderness of Northern Canada, Carol treks through the snow, desperate to escape her violent and obsessed husband, Dugan. Unprepared for the harsh conditions, she soon finds herself trapped in the ice. She’s rescued by Josh, a loner who has fled society for his own reasons, and he brings her to his isolated cabin.
Carol and Josh are trapped together in the cabin as a snowstorm rages outside. Soon neither of them can fight their building desire, giving in to the temptation of shared heat and intimacy. Josh is nothing like the man Carol fled. He brings out feelings in her she’d long since suppressed.
But Dugan is hunting for her, and he plans to have his revenge on any man who dares share her company…
Buy White Heat here:
An Excerpt from White Heat
The wind wailed like a demon releasing centuries of hatred in its dying breath.
Carol was half buried in the melt; strands of her strawberry blonde hair were now frosted white with icicles. Her weight had been too much for the glacial mush, and her body had slid in and lodged tightly in the freezing wetness. Now she was trapped.
She knew he was tracking her, as if her scent was an irritant that inflamed his senses; he would not let her escape him. She imagined his nostrils flaring wide, the black hairs sticking out of his nose like tiny spikes as he fumed and clenched his large fists. As he had emphasized many times, he “loved her” and their marriage was for “life.” If she ever let her dislike for his brutal treatment slip out, the cruel beatings he delivered taught her to pretend otherwise. After the final, horrible beating, when he fell sound asleep after ramming her painfully several times, she had slipped out of the cabin as quietly as she could.
It had been nerve-wracking as she quietly gathered the few essential items, one eye alertly on his prone body, fearful he might awaken at any moment. Grabbing his cell phone had been a last minute impulse. It was on the small night table right next to the bed where he lay, and she had been terrified when he snorted in his sleep and turned over. But, at last, she was out the door and stumbling in the snow, heedless of the weather and the gathering storm.
The marriage had been a mistake. She should have known, but he was so good looking, with that chiseled chest and chocolate brown eyes; and so chivalrous…at first. She ignored that small voice warning her about his temper, his suspiciousness, and his fascination with her tits and ass that bordered on obsession. He persuaded her to move to northern Canada with him, out to the middle of nowhere where he and she could be together alone, away from what he referred to bitterly as her “frickin’ family.” He wanted them to live out in the wild where he could be a real man, foraging for his woman as his ancestors had. Like a lovesick fool, she had agreed.
Shortly after they arrived, looking around at the snow-blown landscape, feeling that freezing cold that crept in under the door and then under her covers as cold and viciously as a rapist, she realized the trap she was in. But it was already too late.
He kept the keys to the only car—an old sedan with a stick shift that she didn’t even know how to drive—locked up in a steel safe, along with her driver’s license, birth certificate, jewelry, and her smartphone. He was not about to risk losing her.
“You’re mine,” he said somberly, as he snapped the safe shut and kissed her roughly on the lips.
Later, he fried a slab of fatty pork for dinner, even lit two cinnamon-scented candles colored like pale ivory that he knew she would like. He placed these in two long-stemmed glass candleholders he had filched from her parents. Putting these on the table next to a small, plastic vase filled with artificial roses was his idea of a romantic evening. Despite the haplessness of his effort, he still might have won her over by his well-meaning intention.
However, it had become clear to her—in a way that it had not been before—that she was hostage to his sordid sexual urges and to his temper. His uncontrollable rages could surge up out of a serene moment, just like a tsunami rose up without warning from the rolling waves of a calm, tranquil sea.
The worn canvas backpack containing a cellophane bag of stale trail mix, a tepid bottle of water, a flashlight, a change of underwear, gray wool socks, a small pocketknife, a heavy cardigan, and his smartphone were all she had grabbed in her haste to get out. The phone was safely encased in a waterproof plastic bag. Carol had not wanted to take any chances on it getting sodden and damaged in the storm. Now there was no way she could reach it.
Her blouse and sweater were soaked, and she could feel her breasts, still bruised from his lovemaking, as lumpy and cold as two frozen snowballs. It was so cold that she could not feel most of her body beneath the waterlogged clothing. She felt the icy fingers of death creep up her thigh, then wrap her tightly in greedy hands. The sensation burned her flesh like pieces of dry ice.
The pain gradually dulled as, against her will, she felt her eyelids grow heavy.
Eventually they drifted closed.