Yesterday, I posted the final installment in a series of character profiles from my upcoming novella, Blood in the Past. This week’s focus is on my main character, Lyla Kyle. I didn’t tell you squat about her, did I? Hmm. Well, I guess I can tell you that her story begins with her discovering her mother’s dead body. Something within in her snaps. She blames her father, thinking his careless indiscretions finally took their toll on her mother. Suddenly, Lyla’s no longer daddy’s little girl. Uh oh.
Now, I like to think as authors we all give our characters snippets of our own personalities. I’m not saying I’m a revengeful, temptress/serial killer, but there are a few similarities.
- I gave her olive skin and dark hair, in my likeness. Although, I regretfully admit that Lyla is taller and skinnier than me. Oh well.
- Lyla started out in science, then turned to art. Specifically, she was Pre-Med, then a surgical resident. After her mother died, she quit her last year of residency and turned to painting and sculpture, something that filled the void of her loss. She eventually does some…interesting things with that art, but I don’t want to spoil it for you. Myself, I started as a Design Major, then switched to a Biology Major. Now I find myself reverting back to my creative side.
- Lyla is more of a loner, just like me. That doesn’t mean people don’t still gravitate toward her. Especially her male friend, CJ. (I might do a profile post of all the supporting characters, so you’ll learn about him later).
- In the full-length novel, Blood in the Paint (coming later this year), the reality of not having either parent in her life really hits home for Lyla. Both of my parents are deceased, so my own feelings really shine through there.
- Lyla holds SERIOUS grudges. So do I. But, thankfully, I’m not a psychopath. 🙂
Now it’s time to enjoy some Lyla-ness, on the house!
Lyla bent each leg and thoroughly dried the soles of her sneakers on her pants legs. Without squeaking wet shoes, she tiptoed through the kitchen, down to the basement, pausing to grab a candle from the emergency kit at the top of the stairs. The circuit breakers in the old house were notorious for their fickle nature, so she switched off the main breaker in the fuse box, drowning the house in complete darkness. Lyla paused in the spot where she’d overheard her aunt’s suspicions only days ago. With her ear toward the ceiling and the house above, she strained to hear any indication of her father’s stirring over the din of rain pelting against the house. She heard nothing, so she removed the hypodermic needle from her over-sized bag, almost sticking herself as she fumbled for it blindly. “Here I come, Daddy,” she said in a sing-song whisper, creeping back up the stairs.