Hello friend! I am excited to host author V S Nelson today about their second book, The Archivist. This is a supernatural fantasy on my TBR! Let’s welcome the author! An excerpt from the book can be found after the interview. 🙂

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Get to know the author: V S Nelson

Welcome to Armed with A Book! Tell me and my readers a bit about yourself!

I live in the UK in a city called Winchester, which is famous for being the capital of Wessex, a kingdom that existed before England was unified. I write under a penname because my real name is boring and common. V S Nelson comes from my daughter, Violet, my cat, Sabrina, and another of my cats, Nelson. Interestingly, there is another author called V S Nelson, but her books are very different to mine – you know, the ones with bare chested men on the front covers. Not my sort of book.

I work as a physicist and when I’m not working, spending time with my family or volunteering for a youth organisation, I try to find some time for writing. The Archivist is my second novel.

What inspired you to write this book?

In early 2010, my friend Fay died. She was only 24 and I took her death hard. I have always been an atheist, and have never believed in an afterlife, but when Fay died, I knew I wanted something more. I wanted a way for something to remain beyond just memories. 

That same year, my grandfather died. I visited him in hospital. Many of my family were there, and we knew we were there to say goodbye, but my grandfather could barely speak. There was so much he wanted to say, but he was too ill to get the words out. His death felt awkward and unfair, robbing him of the ability to share his final thoughts. 

The Archivist, and everything in it, came from my frustration with the unfairness of death. It’s a personal fantasy, I suppose, but one I expect others will want for themselves. 

How long did it take you to write this book, from the first idea to the last edit?

Ten years! The deaths that inspired it were not turned into a short story until 2012 titled The Boy with the Face of Death. A few years later I expanded this story into The Archivist. However, I realised that the story I had was not what I wanted and made the decision to completely re-write it – quite an undertaking. Once that was finished, I sent it to my beta readers and then put it through all the rounds of editing required before publishing it. 

My next book won’t take ten years! I’m hoping for two…

What makes your story unique?

Archivists. They are a unique creation, a person who can take someone’s essence in the final moments before death. They keep the dead inside them, walking afterlifes that project the faces of the dead over their own, allowing those who remain to talk with their loved ones. But their lives are difficult, their faces cannot be remembered, even by them, and the pull they have on the essences of other people can be strong enough to kill. It’s a lonely life being an archivist.

What’s something you hope readers would take away from it?

I want readers to be aware that our lives are finite, that archivist are not real and that all the wonderful thoughts they have about people won’t wait for a deathbed speech that may never come. 

If you want to do something, do it. If you think someone is fantastic, tell them they are fantastic. Life is short, don’t waste it bottling everything inside.

Do you have a favourite quote or scene in the book that you find yourself going back to?

I love the start of chapter 25, where The Archivist is standing in a field surrounding by ghostly forms of all the dead he holds inside himself. There’s something quietly beautiful about the way he inspects them, like he is unsure exactly what they are. In that chapter it feels like he’s reverted to a child and has been presented with something he doesn’t quite understand. It’s a moment of peace before the everything gets hectic towards the end.

What is something you have learned on your author journey so far?

Write the stories you want to write. Don’t try to force your story to fit what’s currently popular. Writing stories is about sharing ideas and resonating with your reader, it’s not about making money. If you want to make money, be an investment banker.

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Book Excerpt from
The Archivist

Chapter Four: Sun-young

Why are the lights in this room brighter than the Sun? I shield my eyes as I slide my legs off the armrest. My mouth tastes like I’ve gargled bin water. I guess I should have chewed gum before I fell asleep. A crunch breaks the silence. I move my hand away from my eyes and fight the light. He’s sat across from me, one glove off, eating a packet of crisps.

‘Souls of the dead not enough?’ ‘Apparently not.’

He finishes, not offering me any, and produces a tissue from inside his jacket pocket to wipe his fingers clean. The crisp packet is laid on his lap, where he smooths it flat and meticulously folds it before tying it into a neat knot. He drops both it and the tissue into the bin next to him.

‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

‘I didn’t realise I was supposed to.’

‘You’re a big boy,’ I say, ‘you should’ve figured it out.’

He wasn’t there the day after we first met. I waited all evening, but the only person who appeared was an old man. He saw me, smiled, then vomited over himself and passed out. I had to call someone from the reception phone to come and get him.

The only reason I kept going back to that waiting room was because I had nowhere else to be. I always made sure Laure was safe before I left, each night spent with a different friend. It’s become normal. With both of her parents missing, possibly dead, there’s no end of families willing to take her in.

And what was it all for? So I could hang around in an empty hospital like some obsessed stalker? I’m sure the only reason he’s here is to hand over a restraining order.

I pull my pathetic self up and steal my own bag of crisps. I bet he paid for his.

‘What’s with the fancy gloves?’

Today’s gloves are dark green. Leather. He slides the second one on and places his hands neatly on his lap.

‘I am a fancy person.’ I snort. He smiles.

‘You don’t like gloves?’ he asks.

I eat my crisps. ‘Thick fluffy ones in the winter. Yours are serial killer gloves.’

‘Then they are perfect.’

‘I thought you saved people’s souls.’

‘Only if that is what you believe,’ he says. ‘Archivists are not unique in their claims of divinity.’

‘So you’re a fraud?’ ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

He studies the clock on the wall and my eyes follow. It’s nearly one. ‘Somewhere to be?’ I ask.

He shakes his head and removes his gloves. Apart from his face, his hands are the only glimpse I get of his skin. He studies them like he’s stoned, marvelling at the way his fingers bend.

‘Facets are drawn to me. I can see yours twitching inside you. They are excited that I am so near. The ones by your left shoulder poke through your skin, trying to rip themselves from your essence and dive into mine. You have an injury there. It has healed, but not perfectly.’

I rub my shoulder. That one was a door handle.

He leans forward, reaching for me. ‘The closer I get, the more your facets want me. They work themselves into a frenzy, eager to flee your body. You feel a deep sense of dread. Just by sitting close to me, you are aware that something is not as it should be. You are thinking about death. You feel it approaching. An inexplicable sense that soon something terrible will befall you. That feeling is because of me, and the closer I move, the stronger that feeling becomes.’

A gasp rushes into my mouth. The walls of the waiting room close in and the light that was so oppressive when I woke up is now dim. I try to move, but it takes all my energy to push myself away from the Archivist and back into my chair. I’m heavy, a girl of lead, and I will grow heavier the closer he comes until the chair collapses and I fall through the floor.

He’s still talking, but his words have slipped away. All I hear is buzzing.

Flies, desperate to feast on my rotting body.

It’s so cold I can barely think, but I can’t see my breath. Am I still breathing? I can’t feel myself breathing. I try to drag my arms across my chest but they won’t move and I’m crying, and his face is right in front of mine as tears freeze, crystalising against my cheeks. I want to vanish. I curl over and scream. I make no sound.

My hands are on my face and I’m warm again. The room is light, and so am

I. My cheeks are wet and I frantically wipe them dry with the sleeve of my jacket.

‘Fucking hell.’

‘I took that too far. I apologise.’

‘Fucking hell,’ I say again, angry and happy and confused all at once. I’m breathing heavily, but that’s a relief considering what I just went through. I can’t help myself from smiling, so relieved to be back in this shitty waiting room. ‘Does that always happen?’ I ask.

‘When I project the face of a person, family members want to touch it and hold me like I’m their father, or sister, or wife, so I have to repress the effect, but it is difficult and I cannot do it for long.’

‘Could you have killed me?’ ‘It is possible.’

He slips the gloves back on. ‘What do the gloves do?’

‘Your facets wanted me because I was close. But you are healthy, so they would not have left your body. It is different if I touch you. If my skin contacts yours then our facets will connect, and when I pull away yours will be removed and a part of who you are will be ripped from your body.’

‘So what you’re saying is that you can only touch dead people?’ ‘And people who are going to die.’

‘Not much of a dating life.’

He looks away and moves his feet like he’s ready to leave. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t fair,’ I say hurriedly.

He relaxes into his seat and looks at me square on. His face is a wonderful surprise every time I see it.

‘When I take possession of a person’s essence, that person dies. This is because their body is weak and the essence is ready to leave. If the person is healthy, and I touch them, then I only pull some of their facets from their essence, with the rest remaining safely inside the body. If I keep those facets, then a link is formed between me and the essence.’

‘Don’t they snap?’

‘The facets I see are long silver threads coiled inside you. They are ethereal, not physical, so while I perceive them to have length, that is only the image that my mind creates. Other archivists visualise them differently, as jewels, whorls of golden dust or brilliant flashes of light. What I see is only a representation of something my brain struggles to understand.’

‘So you could take some of these facets from a person and then, when they die, their essence would come to you, no matter where they were?’

‘For a time, but facets are thoughts and ideas and feelings. They are changeable. If the facets that connected me to a person were a memory, and that memory was forgotten, then the link would be lost. Some connections could last hours; others, years. There is no guarantee that when a person dies, the link will remain.’

The smile is still on my face. Those few moments when I felt so close to dying are now a lifetime ago and the difference between then and now has elevated me to a sensation that’s bordering euphoric. I feel lucky to be alive, as if after a near-death experience. Every day from this moment will be a precious gift. And yet already I feel the effect he had on me fading, my mood floating down like a leaf in autumn.

‘Can you show me one?’

He leans forward and a sudden wave of despair grips me before he realises and settles back. The immediate rise in my spirits is like a drug hit.

‘One of what?’

‘The face of a dead person.’

He doesn’t respond and, for the second time that night, I’m convinced he’s grown tired of me. I should know better. What he does isn’t a party trick. I turn around and grab my jacket as I mumble an apology.

When I look back there is someone else sitting across from me.

The face is frozen and, despite my sense of self-preservation, I lean closer. I don’t feel the dread I expected and know he’s holding it back like a pack of rabid dogs on fraying leads. The woman has hair that frames her face, though it’s only there from the front as further round the back of his head it blends seamlessly into his. Her hair is soft and feels as real as any hair I have ever felt. I cup a thick blonde lock in my hand and lift it up, testing its weight. It’s there, even though I know it can’t be because it would be impossible for anyone to grow so much hair in less than a second.

‘Enjoying yourself?’

I scream and rip my hand away. The woman smiles. It’s kind.

‘I only ever see my husband or children, so I thought he must have made a mistake, but you didn’t complain so I decided to leave you to it. I hope I’m not here as some party piece to impress a date.’

‘It’s not a date.’

‘I see.’ She nods as she speaks, her hair gently bouncing against her face and his shoulders.

‘What’s it like?’

‘Being dead?’ she asks. ‘Not what I’d been led to believe, but then isn’t that always the case? It’s not that I was religious and felt let down by death, I was just expecting something more final. You see, there’s nothing in-between. No one tells you that, though who these days expects to run into an archivist? I had dismissed them as frauds, but it turns out my husband believed and so here I am, proven wrong. Again.’

‘Don’t you want to be there?’

She frowns, fine wrinkles gathering at the corners of her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t say that. It makes it easier on my boys. They’re only ten and eight and even though they knew I was dying, we didn’t have enough time together before the cancer chained me to a bed. Because there’s no in-between, I notice the changes more. It’s only been a month and Ryan has a new haircut and Jason’s wearing clothes I didn’t buy him. As the gaps between visits get longer, I’ll slowly become a chore and then a burden.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I feel stupid for saying it, but she’s looking at me like she expects a response and it’s all I have.

‘I’m sure David will remarry,’ she says. ‘Not straight away, but eventually. He’s only forty-three, I can’t expect him to be alone forever. I wonder if he’ll introduce me to his new wife – the new mother of my children. Perhaps I’ll even see my boys get married. The Archivist could wear a dress and fascinator and sit next to David and his new wife in the front row. Ryan might have children; I’m not sure Jason will. Maybe I’ll get to meet them.’

She sighs. It’s strange how impassive his body is. People touch their face when they speak, especially during awkward conversations like this. I imagine her running her fingers through her hair or cupping her cheek with her hand while she thinks. Instead, her face is stranded, left to deal with this pause alone.

‘I know that won’t happen,’ the woman continues. ‘The time between visits will grow and so will my boys. They’ll get used to me being dead and seeing me like this will just make it worse. One day it will be the last visit. They won’t tell me. Afterwards, they’ll stop paying the Archivist, he’ll release me and that’ll be it.’

‘I could talk to you.’

‘That’s sweet, but it’s my burden, not yours.’ ‘Can I take your picture?’

‘Of course.’

I pull out my phone and take her picture. The face on the screen is hers. ‘I can feel him pulling me back. I think it’s time we said goodbye.’ ‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

‘Karen.’

Her face is sucked into his. He moves again, looking at me from eyes I had forgotten until moments ago. I glance at my phone. The face of the woman has gone. It’s now his face in the picture.

‘Where did she go?’ I ask, holding up my phone. ‘She was never there.’

‘But I spoke to her.’

‘You thought you spoke to her, but it was always my face.’ ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Your senses were being manipulated. It is like pain. You feel it because your brain is told you are injured, but if that signal is blocked, the pain disappears. What I do is the same. I reach into your brain and tell it you see the face of Karen Moore, who died aged forty-two from ovarian cancer. I tell it that you hear her voice. I tell it that you touch her hair. But none of that happens and you sit there in conversation with no one but me.’

‘Does that mean you couldn’t hear her?’ ‘I could. It manipulates my senses too.’ ‘I don’t understand. Is it real or not?’ ‘It is as real as you want it to be.’

I know what I saw when Karen’s face appeared over his. My imagination is not creative enough to produce something with such detail. Even when I try to conjure up a face in my mind so I can dream about that person, it’s always hazy. That was the face of someone who lived and died. It was real. The same is true of the feeling that came over me as he moved closer. That was real too. Far more real than I wanted it to be.

‘I believe you.’

He says nothing, knows there’s more to come.

‘And I want you to do it to me,’ I say. ‘I want you to take my face.’

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Interested?

Find The Archivist on Goodreads, Storygraph, IndieStoryGeek, Amazon. I am excited to dive into it and share my thoughts. 🙂

Thank you for hanging out with us today. Connect with V. S. Nelson on Twitter, Instagram, Website, Goodreads, Amazon.

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