The Paranormal Romance Guild gives a five-star review: “The characters were wonderful, there were secrets, lies, betrayal and surprises. Reading this book was a view of what happens to an honest and devoted man who loves someone who can only bring him down.”
TTC Books gives four purrs: “This is a fabulous vampire story. You have the darkness, they are evil, yet you can’t help fall for them….If you like dark story, great world building, dark vampires, twists and a gripping heart wrenching story this is for you.”
GLBT Bookshelf gives five stars: “I found the book irresistible; it’s for the reader who likes a cross between the techno-thriller and hunt/chase story….The science is very credible – one of the facets of the book that makes it so different. The setting switches from Boston to the Potes region of Spain (Bay of Biscay coast, in the north), and back to Boston, and we get a close-up look not only at the vampire community that’s trying to make a place for itself alongside humankind, but also at the ancient European community that’s all about blood and the willingness of humans to succumb to addiction and self-destruction.”
A “newborn vampire”—when I saw this quote out of context, the term newborn struck me. Being newborn is to experience everything anew, with wonder. It’s to be present, in the moment. We hold on to that ability in childhood and often lose it as adults. Maybe a vampire provides a path to rebirth, whether good or bad.
Is the vampire’s path to rebirth part of their lasting appeal?
Rebirth As Passionand Wonder
I hear the terms melodrama and purple prose often used in critiques of vampire novels, and the critiques aren’t incorrect. However, isn’t that, at least for one segment of the vampire genre, sort of the point? I know it’s why I read vampire novels—for the chance to experience the lushness of life, the miracle of things we hardly see anymore, the chance to be naively poetic and to wonder at everything.
New love—whether love of another person or love of history or art or cooking or mathematics—is infused with passion, focused and dedicated, wondering at each new feature learned. Emotions are intensified, senses in tune.
Is the vampire’s path a rebirth of knowledge or love?
It was for me when I first read Anne Rice’s novels as a teen. And it is for me as I write my vampire short stories and novels now. I’ve also heard the appeal of melodrama attributed to escapism. I don’t deny luxuriating in the sensual world might be escape from daily living and even from finding refuge in something grander. But I find that often in vampire stories, vampires do come to find something beyond themselves, turn to something ethical or sublime. It’s a journey this rebirth.
Of course, vampires appeal to writers and readers for other reasons too: power, immunity, vengeance, immortality. But for this moment, I’m looking at these particular words from Anne Rice, reassured that vampires in fiction are still around for a reason.
Beside the Darker Shore is available in ebook or paperback at most online retailers. Universal Buy Link.
I’m no longer sure there is an appeal to vampires that’s any different from the appeal of other antiheroes, such as pirates or cowboys/girls or folks in uniform or witches and warlocks.
One reader says the appeal of vampires is the heightened senses conveyed in their stories, another says it’s the bad boy allure, another says it’s their immunity through power, and still more call it the aspect of danger or the tortured soul or the gift of eternity.
Vampire as the Antihero
Couldn’t most of these appealing traits be applied to any antihero? Someone who is set apart whether by job or by personality or by general essence? There is something different about them. A challenge to the norm. We have to step out of ourselves and what we know, take a chance, take the risk in following them.
The desire to take a risk isn’t necessarily the same as liking the “bad boy” or “bad girl.” Look how many have fallen in love with the good vampires of Twilight. But vampires do offer something different and, perhaps, on some level, also recognizable. Is that what makes the desirable antihero?
What is it that makes one reader develop a passion for the vampire antihero and another the pirate and another the lone space cowboy? Maybe it reverts back to people’s first awakenings of sensuality or first taste of adventure.
The Sensual Awakening
When I was fairly young, my older sister sat me down to watch Christopher Lee as Dracula. I saw something I’d never seen before—a man bent over a woman who leaned her head back willingly, opening her neck to his lips. I saw something in their eyes that I’d never seen in kid-TV. Sensuality. Heightened pleasure. It looked a little dangerous but irresistible. A bit like sex.
For someone else, it might have been the cowboy sweeping the wild-haired woman up onto his horse. Or maybe that look on the pirate’s face when she saw the reward of his travels: adventure. Maybe a lifelong passion derives from our first taste of something new, something that sets the adrenaline pumping and imprints in our memory.
The sensual awakening. Photo courtesy of cottonbro on Pexels.
Stories imprint in our memory. Something sticks. I’m not sure we always realize where our desire comes from, but our peculiar passions are part of our growth. Vampires have not only grown into our different cultures, they have grown into our individual psyches. Vampires are frightening creatures of the night, on the one hand, and also the night’s intriguing potential.
Like the werewolf, vampires have held a lasting appeal. I imagine all antiheroes do, in whatever dress they wear. They offer something different though recognizable, something to take us out of ourselves while seeing further in. They require a step away from safety, with the promise of adventure, the promise of good or of wicked pleasure—which perhaps comes in knowing more of ourselves.
I wanted to write a story about a vampire guitarist. A friend scoffed: “If I had a nickel for every story about vampire guitarists…” Despite this quick dismissal of whatever need or passion was driving me to the sensuality of the vampire and the sensuality of music, I had to examine the idea that the story has already been written. I had to ask, What are recurring myths, and why do we read them?
Authors often hear that every story has already been written: the same love stories told again and again, the epic heroes on their quests, the rags to riches fantasies, the tragic hero’s fall. Joseph Campbell’s idea of the monomyth, for example, describes the basic patterns of the hero’s journey as it appears time and again in books and in movies.
Do Stories Have to Be New?
So what’s the point of writing if an author’s allowed only to write something never done before, and yet everything has been done before? How do we define new? A werewolf guitarist? A vampire drummer? I’m deliberately trivializing because I can’t imagine dismissing anyone’s story idea without knowing what compels the writer to write it and how the writing of it might bring something new to life—or something old to life again.
Many writers, at some time or another, strive to retell myths and fairy tales and legends. Maybe they want to extend characters and story lines from the ancient myths or even from their favorite TV series. It isn’t only authors. Think about novels you’ve loved, paintings that have provoked you, or songs that have stirred you. The evocation, the act of love for the story makes people want to extend the experience.
Myths and fairy tales pervade time and cross generations. Photo courtesy of Francesco Frilli on Pexels.
The Comfort of Myths
A good story lives beyond the final word. A good story transcends cultures and generations. However people have changed in society, something remains the same at the root. Myths and fairy tales are retold because, in them, people recognize the basic human traits that pervade culture and time. And in recognizing that, there is comfort.
What we are, we have already been. Names change. Quests change. Gender changes. Nationality changes. The journey to a foreign land becomes the journey into the psyche. The battle with the giants becomes the battle with oppressive bigotry.
Are we justified in our fear of great power if we witness that same fear and the struggle to overcome in the ancient myths, still being told? What in stories of gods coming down from heaven to mold our fates can be found in tales of youth fighting society’s expectations or the questing soul coming to peace with the path life has drawn? A fairy tale resonates in different ways for each person, each generation, each culture, depending on circumstances of place and time. A single story can be retold, reinterpreted, reimagined, relived a thousand times.
Gimmick or Truth?
While we fight for individuality, for the way to say something fresh, I want to be careful in defining what fresh means. If the goal is to say something new, the result often feels more like a gimmick, the work contrived and conniving. Maybe it’s not saying something new that matters but reliving what’s old and what resonates in that universal way—telling stories that makes us part of our history and our present and assures us a future as human beings.
Stories don’t die unless we forget them.
What if we do forget the old myths and fairy tales? What will that make us?
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“Eight writers modernize ancient mythologies in Distorted, proving that not every story has been told” (or at least not told in quite this way). Available from Transmundane Press. “Tantalizingly bloody tales featuring human pitted against beast and gods, with the true majesty and horrors of the afterlife, with love and death and desire…”
Blog writer Patricia J. Esposito is author of Beside the Darker Shore and has contributed to Distorted the short story “Where the Arrow Flies,” a retelling of the Apollo and Daphne myth, in which thwarted love seeks its failed cure.
She walks with her sister down the apartment complex sidewalk. In the green, four teen boys bat a volleyball around. They look; she looks. She talks quickly to her sister about their visit. Rapid talk. And while her mouth says things like, “She looks healthy, happy.” Her mind says, “Hot boys. Don’t look. Don’t look.”
Their shirts are rolled up to their chests. Brown skin darkened already by summer sun. One has the Bruno Mars hair (why, guys, why?) but cute nonetheless. Eyes flicker. She talks and walks faster.
Past them now, she nears the parking lot. At the first row of cars, she stops to give her sister a hug and kiss. The four, at a distance now, stand still in a line, as goodbyes are said, and she and her sister head to their separate cars.
She gets in and sighs with relief. Phew, hot. And the volleyball comes winging, then bouncing over, through the lot, to roll in the car space next to hers. Bruno Mars comes jogging over to retrieve it, bending, standing outside her window. She rummages through her purse till he moves on. She drives away.
How genre can change a story:
Fantasy: As he bends for the ball, the string around his neck slips out of his shirt. A flash of turquoise. I gasp and look away. It’s a polinar. There’s nothing I can do but stare ahead as he tucks it back into hiding.
Western: He twirls the ball on one finger and swaggers over. Sun glints off his buckle. He nods without a smile and moves on, taking the empty sidewalk into shadows.
Erotica: He picks up the ball but makes no move back to his friends. Standing, shirt rolled up his chest, he flips the ball hand to hand. His dark eyes stare. I unroll my window.
Mystery: It was a ploy. Obviously. The ball had to be kicked to reach this far. But they couldn’t know what was in my trunk. David said he’d put it there before sunrise.
Literary: I looked away as he bent for the ball. His shoulders were too broad to call him “kid” anymore, but still, who wasn’t susceptible to the mockery of peers? He deserved space to collect himself. In this complex, eyes pried through slitted window shades, and mean grins slammed the doors. He walked head up.
Romance: He snatched up the ball and sheepishly smiled. What had he done to his hair? I thought and couldn’t help but smile back. I could see him moussing it up, laughing at himself in the mirror. But that memory was two years old already.
Choosing genre or story first:
How much does genre choice influence our stories? I know some people write a specific genre regularly. It’s what they read; it’s what they write. Some writers, however, aren’t aware at the initial writing stage what genre they’re aiming for. I tend to blend genres, and see many publishers asking for this blending.
Readers do have expectations when they choose a western or romance or mystery, but readers are also adventurers. I say write the story first, the true and honest thing. Then tweak if necessary. The result might surpass all expectations!
“Esposito has a vivid and delicious power of imagery reminiscent of Ray Bradbury; every dewdrop sliding off every blade of grass and the crackle of every autumn leaf resonates in a narrative that flows like sweet, dark wine. The story takes us from the streets, harbor-side parks and alleyways of Boston to the villas and forests of Spain in a tale of political ambition, moral conflict, love and insatiable animal passion.”
“Complex and unpredictable, this one will keep you guessing, like an on-going nightmare landscape of sultry silver moonlight. Go buy this one.”
[Author’s note: The review is so beautifully written, and I’ve found the author has many of his own works out. You might like to check those out too! I know I’m going to.]
“Beside the Darker Shoreis different. It is not your usual vampire tale. There is no sex in the book, per se, but it is one of the most powerfully sensual books I have read. When humans offer their blood to vampires, the eroticism of the bloodletting has no need for sex. When Stephen is in the throes of his addiction for donating, he is lost to everything but that act in that moment. Ms. Esposito beautifully conveys the addiction and the yearning for the giving through her words…I liked the characters. While there are villains inBeside the Darker Shore, they are not the stereotypical villains of vampire novels…I hopeMs. Esposito is planning a sequel or prequel. There are many unanswered questions and these are characters that have not left my mind since I finished the book.”
I was very happy to hear that my vampire novel was chosen as Reviewer’s Choice for December at Two Lips Reviews, where the reviewer had this to say:
“Beside the Darker Shore is different. It is not your usual vampire tale. There is no sex in the book, per se, but it is one of the most powerfully sensual books I have read. When humans offer their blood to vampires, the eroticism of the bloodletting has no need for sex.
“While there are villains in Beside the Darker Shore, they are not the stereotypical villains of vampire novels. There was no right or wrong. There is an air of ‘what is best for me’ for each character. … For the pain each of these men brings to the other, it is hard to dislike any of them. Each is fighting for what he believes …these are characters that have not left my mind since I finished the book.”
For more of the review or to see what other novels were selected for the Reviewer’s Choice Award, visit
In Romania, the Varcolaci vampires hunger, not for the red blood flow of humans, but for the light of the sun and the moon. Sometimes depicted as small animals, but also as pale and parched humans, one legend has it that they’re created at midnight if a woman spins without candlelight. They travel wherever they like on the thread of this midnight spinning, as long as the thread isn’t broken, and an eclipse is the Varcolaci satiated by that lost sun or moon.
Arturo de Rosa was born in the year 965, Cordoba, Spain. He currently resides in Potes, Spain, but is visiting Boston on the urging of his human blood prostitute, Stephen. In this scene he’s walking the street of the vampire community’s leader, envisioning Alec Marshall, whom he knew in those early years in Cordoba.
Excerpt:
Arturo strummed the cool wrought-iron rails, and sniffed at the row of potted flowers that sat stiff and brown. The lamplight blurred in the descending fog. He paused, closed his eyes, then looked up at the house.
“Alexandros,” he whispered.
His vision broke at the sound of footsteps.
“If you’re looking for Alec Marshall, he’s at the State House gala tonight.”
Arturo remained staring at the house. “Not at all. I’m looking for something sweet to suit my fastidious palette. Not one human … not one has walked this street tonight.”
The vampire stepped forward. “No. You see …”
As Arturo turned, the vampire stopped, marking a distance between them.
“Simple hunger,” Arturo said.
“Yes … you see … Le Cauchemar isn’t far. You’ll find bank blood there. Or livebloods.”
“Livebloods? Ah, blood prostitutes, you mean. But I have one already.”
This vampire was young, his skin still somewhat porous, not the white sheen that he and Alexandros now had, and his heart beat with erratic weakness. Four humans with torches could overpower and easily kill these community fledglings.
Still, he seemed to be making an attempt here, this staunch community supporter. And in that he resembled Alexandros. “At some of the clubs, you’ll find humans who give blood freely,” the vampire continued, “or for a price, but the bank blood is available …”
Ignoring him, Arturo stroked the iron rail and gazed back at Alec Marshall’s redbrick home.
“Sir, if you haven’t registered at the department …”
The fence was built with perfectly spaced iron spears, the tips wet but gritty to Arturo’s touch. “Comprende, I sculpt with subtle, sloping lines, nothing as sharp as he’s chosen. Nor anything as refined as the symmetry his house commands.” Arturo sighed dramatically and finally turned to the vampire. “It has made me pause to consider.” He then brushed his hands down his coat. “But mostly, I’m famished. There are humans here, no? In this fine habitat you made?”
The vampire backed up farther. “You’ll need to register. You’ll need to …”
Laughing, Arturo pulled off his long coat, and draped it over the railing before Alec’s home.
“Nine hundred years. That’s how long I’ve battled your careful and conscientious Alexandros Mersecal. I know his many names. Is he still as beautiful?” Smiling, Arturo held up his hand. “Shhh…. Say nothing. My imagination conjures better.”
Then leaving the coat, Arturo disregarded the vampire and headed back down Bethany Street under thin lamplight, a pale yellow gauze that roused his taste for skin.
At the corner, he turned back. “South, would you say? Will I find your humans if I go, say … this way?”
The young vampire turned and, quickening his pace, headed back where he’d come from.
Arturo watched bemused. “City of proselytes, Marshall belongs only to me.”
