Contemporary fantasy author Christine Amsden chats with me about her new novel, Knot of Souls.
Bio:
Christine Amsden is the author of nine award-winning fantasy and science fiction novels, including the Cassie Scot Series.
Speculative fiction is fun, magical, and imaginative but Christine believes great speculative fiction is about real people defining themselves through extraordinary situations. She writes primarily about people, and it is in this way that she strives to make science fiction and fantasy meaningful for everyone.
In addition to writing, Christine is a freelance editor and political activist. Disability advocacy is of particular interest to her; she has a rare genetic eye condition called Stargardt Macular Degeneration and has been legally blind since the age of eighteen. In her free time, she enjoys role playing, board games, and a good cup of tea. She lives in the Kansas City area with her husband and two kids.
Welcome, Christine. Please tell us about your current release.
Knot of Souls is about two very different souls trapped in a single body who must work together to solve multiple murders before it’s too late – before they can no longer tell where one of them ends and the other begins.
What inspired you to write this book?
The idea for Knot of Souls came at the end of 2020, after a year of working social media for two state senate campaigns. Politics is always fraught, but in the midst of a global pandemic, trolls were out in force, leaving me wondering how two opposite sides could ever come together on anything. In November, I sat down at my computer, stared at a blank cursor for a minute, and typed out three words:
Write something happy.
Joy got a name before she got a plot!
Now, it’s hard to write something you don’t feel, and I didn’t feel happy at the time, but I did manage hopeful. The key hope I wanted to ignite? That two very different beings at cross-purposes can find a way to work together, and even become close.
Excerpt from Knot of Souls:
From Chapter 1
Joy
The first thing I realized, after I died, was that my body could walk and talk and no longer needed my help for any of it. I was in there, able to look through my eyes and hear through my ears, but even the simple task of aiming my gaze had slipped outside my control. I was a passenger inside my own mind, an observer along for the ride.
Kristen had been right, I thought numbly as I struggled to make sense of my new reality. Had it only been lunchtime today when she’d told me I’d never get ahead if I didn’t learn to assert myself? “Take control of your life,” she’d said, “or others will take it for you.”
She couldn’t have been thinking of anything quite so literal. Whatever was happening to me, it wasn’t because I’d failed to advocate for a promotion at work or refused to ask out a coworker.
Right?
My body reached my car and slid behind the wheel. A rattled thought—not my own—cursed as it tried to understand how the contraption worked. How much can cars have changed in only a century? Visions accompanied the thoughts, memories—again not my own—of a classic car, gleaming black and elegant, its top down, my bobbed hair whipping around my face as I laughed with glee, a white-faced young man at my side gripping the door, begging me to slow down. I did not.
Which brings me to the second thing I realized, after I died: I was no longer alone inside my own mind.
Whoever was in there didn’t seem to have noticed me yet. Fine. I slid into the smallest corner of my brain I could find, ignoring the intruder as they struggled to figure out how to work an automatic transmission. Maybe they’d get frustrated and give up and go find someone else’s body to possess.
Holy shit! I’ve been possessed by the ghost of someone who died in like 1930.
But why?
I tried to remember what had happened, but the images danced just out of reach. I recalled that the night had been unseasonably cold for October, the chill biting through my inadequate jacket as I hurried to my car, parked in a garage two blocks away from the shelter where I’d been volunteering. Hugging my arms around my torso for warmth, I took a shortcut through an alley and …
There was a noise. I’d startled, my heart pounding in my throat, already on edge because of the argument.
Wait. Back up. There’d been an argument. That seemed significant, but my scattered thoughts couldn’t piece it together as yet, not when a bodily intruder fumbled at the gearshift of my two-month-old Hyundai Accent with only fifty-eight “low monthly payments” left to go.
Low is such a relative word.
My beautiful new, inexpensive (also relative) car jerked suddenly backwards out of its parking spot as the voice in my head grew angrier and more frustrated and … afraid. I saw flashes, images I didn’t understand of multi-colored ghosts who seemed to be singing. The more they sang, the more desperate I felt as fear, my own and somehow not my own, made it hard to breathe.
We streaked across the nearly empty parking lot in reverse, almost colliding with the only other vehicle in the place—a red SUV with scratched paint and a dented front bumper suggesting it regularly attracted unwanted attention from other cars. I tried to scream, but didn’t have control of my voice. I tried to hit the brakes, but instead the possessing spirit shifted from reverse to drive without stopping. The grinding of gears made me want to weep, but we came to a stop, breathing heavily, muscles tensed as if in expectation of attack.
They destroyed her. They tore her apart.
What exciting project are you working on next?
My next novel project is called The Spaces in Between (working title), and it’s my first attempt at a young adult book, although I confess to having chosen the young adult genre situationally. The thing is, I lost my central vision between the ages of sixteen and eighteen (especially when I was eighteen), and my main character is going through the same thing. Stargardts can affect children as young as ten, and it can take as long as the mid-thirties to culminate, but in my life, in my lived experience, it happened fairly rapidly and mostly over the course of a single year. The book is still fantasy, despite drawing on some real experiences.
When did you first consider yourself a writer?
I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember. I wrote stories as far back as the third grade, and finished a novel draft (never published) in high school. It wasn’t until I went to a writer’s boot camp in 2003, though, that I considered myself an author.
Do you write full-time? If so, what’s your workday like? If not, what do you do other than write and how do you find time to write?
Writing is my primary occupation, which doesn’t mean I spend 40 hours a week on it. I used to, but I’ve long-since recognized that there are problems with the concept of a 40-hour work week and, especially in a creative field, sticking too rigidly to a clock can lead to burnout. So I write for 2-3 hours every weekday (excepting holidays and vacation). I also do some freelance editing. I’m involved in writer’s groups. During election cycles, I’m usually helping in one way or another. I read a lot. I’ve recently learned Braille. I play chess. I walk daily and do yoga …
What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?
I like to write with tea and candles.
As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?
A writer! Also a nun, and an astronaut, and a teacher, and have six children (not sure how I squared that with taking on the habit, but I wound up compromising on two kids).
Anything additional you want to share with the readers?
I hope you love the book!
Thanks for having me.
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