On July 22, 2011 I met Claire Darling for the very first time. At the time, Claire was an 18-year-old high school student by morning, horse trainer by every spare hour after that. She quickly became a friend of mine because she's sarcastic and self-deprecating, a good soul. Two-and-a-half years and three books later, she and I are pretty tight. I've fought for her to fall in love and I cried with her (over and over) when her heart was shattered into pieces. She's struggled and she's endured. She's no Super Woman, but that's why she's real. Well, real is a relative term, but you know what I mean.
Over the past couple of years, I've come to adore good guys Liam and Graham. I've loved to hate all those shady characters--Rayna, Rowan, and Maureen. Maybe you've found the strings of your emotions tugged by one or more of them, too. If that's true for you, then I thank you for investing yourself in my humble words.
There's so much I want to say, but so much I can't because I don't want to give anything away. That, and I'm so overwhelmed by the day that I don't know where to begin and where to end.
Maybe Liam says it best in the last paragraph I wrote today that brought the third and final novel to a close:
"With any luck, tomorrow his big heart will eclipse anything he lacks. At least, this is what I pray as I stare out at the stars strung in the deep blue. I want him to find his own place to belong, because I’ve found that place for myself, a home, and I’m homesick."
Like Liam, I've found a home in Hope Creek and I'm already homesick.
Thanks, guys, for everything you've given me. You'll never know what you've done for me.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
A Doll For Daphne
I press my lips together and follow him as he leads the way toward the nuns in the back. He’s so focused he doesn’t realize a soft doll slips from one of the bags under his arm and falls to the ground.
“Liam!” I call out. “You--”
A girl with brown ringlets framing her round cheeks runs toward the doll before I catch Liam’s attention. She looks both ways to be sure no one sees her, then snatches it up and into her arms. The doll fits perfectly in the crook of her arm and a smile brightens her face.
“Hey! Little girl!” I say.
She freezes and clutches the doll tightly to her body. Her fearful blue eyes dart to me and back to the doll as I step toward her.
“Hey!” I repeat, coming closer. From a few yards away I can see the tremble in her shoulders. The little girl drops the doll and runs from me.
I stoop down and pick the doll up from where she’s landed in a heap. There’s a smudge of dirt on its plastic cheek and I wipe it away with my thumb. Liam’s over talking with the nuns, and he glances my way.
“That girl--who is she?” I ask when I reach them. I don’t wait for introductions. One of the nuns, the younger one with round spectacles and a pointy chin, looks like she really wants to give me a quick lesson in manners.
“I’m sorry, dear?” The older nun says, wrinkling her forehead beneath her habit.
“There was a girl, maybe four years old. Curly brown hair, blue eyes--or at least, I think they were blue.” I scan the yard as I describe the little one.
The older woman smiles, bouncing the child on her hip. “Ah. You must mean Daphne.”
Do I mean Daphne? I have no idea.
“She ran from me. Do you know where she might have gone?”
The thin, bookish nun nods towards a strand of trees near the rear of the property. The trees are short and sparse, obviously very young, and don’t offer much shelter. A little form huddles at the base of the one in the middle, facing away from us.
I peel back the corner of the foil around the cookies and grab a couple, then hand the tray to the young nun. When I reach Daphne’s hiding spot, I find her with her knees tucked into her chest. Tears streak her face, which she presses to her knees.
“Can I join you?” I ask. I don’t expect an answer, and she doesn’t disappoint. I sink to the grass, leaving several feet between us. “My name is Claire. They told me your name is Daphne.”
She remains quiet except for a soft shudder.
“Daphne’s such a pretty name,” I continue. “A pretty name for a pretty girl.”
The little girl raises her head to glare at me. Blossoms of crimson burn at her cheeks. “Go away.” She hides her face again.
I place the doll next to her gently, so gently I’m not sure she knows I’ve done it. “That’s a nice doll you have there.”
Daphne brings her head up again and starts to say something angry. Our eyes connect and I glance down at the doll laying next to her. She looks down, too, and then back at me.
“It’s okay, pick her up.” I say. “I brought her for you. I knew you would take very good care of her.”
The girl scoops the doll into her arms again and snuggles her little cheek against its plastic face. Her eyes squeeze shut in joy. When she opens them again, I smile. “Would you like a cookie?”
She nods and tentatively takes the cookie from my outstretched hand. Daphne reminds me a lot of Taran--flighty, suspicious, and upset. Like Taran, I don’t push her. I eat my cookie as she eats hers. When it's gone I stand up and slip away. She doesn’t follow behind me like the horse does, but that’s okay.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Right Away, Great Captain!
I'm guilty of turning on an album and leaving it on repeat for days. Months, even. My husband hates this about me because he and I tend to have very opposite tastes in music (him: Anything Country. Me: Florence + the Machine, which is totally a genre, by the way!). Though it's not working at the moment, we had an iPod jack in our room where we could plug in our iPods or phones and play our music over speakers in the ceiling or on the porch.
At some point while Moe was sick, I turned on Right Away, Great Captain and left it on. I remember walking away from his still-warm but lifeless body on the grass and wandering back to the house wondering what could possibly be left without him. The only thing to do was crawl into bed in the middle of a sunny day and cry. Right Away, Great Captain crooned me to sleep on that horrible, beautiful day. I let it play on in the days to follow because it held Moe and I together, this thread of mournful music.
Tonight I'm getting ready to say good-bye to one of my characters and I don't want to because it's like letting my boy slip through my fingers again. My heart hurts and it feels right to play Right Away, Great Captain! again to pull myself back into the grief.
It's no more than two lines into the first song before I can see him stumbling and feel his slick neck against my cheek. The curl of dread tightens in my belly as I watch the vet check his pupils and slowed breathing over and over and over until he is satisfied and I know it's done. I'm broken, with pieces that will never go back together quite right.
Sixteen months and it surprises me how sharp the pain still is and how little it takes to bring me back to that good-bye. That is the power and wonder of art.
Oh. How will I ever do this?
At some point while Moe was sick, I turned on Right Away, Great Captain and left it on. I remember walking away from his still-warm but lifeless body on the grass and wandering back to the house wondering what could possibly be left without him. The only thing to do was crawl into bed in the middle of a sunny day and cry. Right Away, Great Captain crooned me to sleep on that horrible, beautiful day. I let it play on in the days to follow because it held Moe and I together, this thread of mournful music.
Tonight I'm getting ready to say good-bye to one of my characters and I don't want to because it's like letting my boy slip through my fingers again. My heart hurts and it feels right to play Right Away, Great Captain! again to pull myself back into the grief.
It's no more than two lines into the first song before I can see him stumbling and feel his slick neck against my cheek. The curl of dread tightens in my belly as I watch the vet check his pupils and slowed breathing over and over and over until he is satisfied and I know it's done. I'm broken, with pieces that will never go back together quite right.
Sixteen months and it surprises me how sharp the pain still is and how little it takes to bring me back to that good-bye. That is the power and wonder of art.
Oh. How will I ever do this?
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Joy
Do you know joy? I do.
I hear it in the giggle of the girl bouncing along with her pony's trot.
Do you know joy? I do.
I see it in the grin of the man whose legs cannot move him, but his horse can.
Do you know joy? I do.
I feel it in the happy step of an animal connecting with their human.
Do you know joy? You should.
The Problem
Liam
When I finally felt steady enough to rejoin Alfie, he'd moved on to replacing a broken fence board in one of the paddocks. He didn't say a word about my breakdown, and I’m thankful for it. I helped him in silence, holding the plank steady as he secured it to the fence post with a hammer and several nails. Alfie was getting on in years, he shouldn’t be doing this work on his own.
When I finally felt steady enough to rejoin Alfie, he'd moved on to replacing a broken fence board in one of the paddocks. He didn't say a word about my breakdown, and I’m thankful for it. I helped him in silence, holding the plank steady as he secured it to the fence post with a hammer and several nails. Alfie was getting on in years, he shouldn’t be doing this work on his own.
He took a breather after the next board was up, and stared off towards the few horses still living here.
“Tell me about the horses, Alf. It’s nice to see you, but they’re why I’m here.”
Alfie swiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand then gave a short nod. “I hated to bring you back, y’know, but with Rowan out of the picture, I didn’t know who to ask. Besides, you always were better with the horses than him. He’s got a wicked temper, that one.”
“That he does.” I agreed.
We walked down the fence row until we stood in front of one of the few occupied enclosures. “We’ve got six horses still here, but no one with any horse sense at all wants to help with them, especially the one mare in particular.” I turned my head in the direction he's looking, toward the rear of the paddock to our right. When she noticed us watching, the dark horse inside snapped her body into alert, her head high, eyes wide, and ears pricked. Minus her sun-bleached coat from living outdoors, she was a nice-looking horse and would make someone a fine jumper. The bone structure was all there, I could see it, but so was the fear. The longer we stared, the more her terror echoed back. Without taking her eyes or ears from us, she shrank back against the fence.
“That’s Tarantella.”
I scrunched up my face. “Tarantula? Like the spider?”
“No, no. Tarantella. It’s a dance--Spanish, you know?” Alfie hummed a tune and snapped his fingers as he crossed and uncrossed his arms a couple of times and shuffled his feet. It looked like no dance I’d ever seen or probably would ever see again, thank heavens.
With a shake of my head, I said, "You'd better stick to horses, Alf."
He chuckled and stopped dancing, "Anyway, Tarantella... she was going by the name ‘Taran’, but some of the kids started on with calling her ‘Spider’, so you’re not so far off.”
Spider wasn't a friendly kind of nickname. I wasn't sure what to think about that.
I unlatched the gate to her paddock and walked inside. Taran pinned herself up against the boards of the fence in response, but otherwise regarded me with curiosity. “She looks all right,” I said, fastening the gate closed behind me. “So, then, what’s the problem?”
It happened then, quite literally, with the blink of an eye. The dark horse studied me for all of three seconds before blinking her eye and charging after me. There was no time to fumble with the gate--she’d be on me before I could have made it that far, anyway. My only option was to climb the fence, and with any luck I would be faster than her. With thundering hooves at my back, I launched myself at the fence and scrambled over. Taran clamped her teeth around the heel of my boot before I could swing it over. The old man was doubled over laughing at me dangling in a rather unpleasant position, with one leg in safety, the other in a wild horse’s mouth, and my crotch somewhere in the middle.
“That,” He sighed, wiping the tears from his eyes, “is our problem.”
Friday, November 1, 2013
Grab On and Go For It! - An Interview with Rebecca Lamoreaux
Three-year-old Rebecca Lamoreaux wanted to be a writer. Writing, at her young age, translated into etching circles into the margins of her books with crayon. She loved dreaming up fantastic tales and then retelling them to others. The magic of stories had clearly captured her heart.
Her grade school teachers nurtured Rebecca’s love of storytelling. When she was about seven years old, she was selected to participate in a special program for students who showed promise in writing. Through this program, Rebecca remembers finishing her first story. She has been writing ever since.
Though she has dabbled in all kinds of genres, she mainly writes fantasy, romance, historical fiction, and magical realism. Her historical romance novel, Lord Hyacinthe, is scheduled for publication through Pandamoon Publishing in April of 2014.
Rebecca places high value on sharing within the writing community, but she did not always feel that way. For years she viewed other writers as competition and feared her ideas might be stolen if she confided in the wrong person. Her perspective changed when a friend contacted her in November of 2012 and invited her to join a group of authors on Facebook. The Authors Think Tank group on Facebook became Rebecca’s first experience with a community of writers committed to helping other writers. So impressed with groups such as the Author Think Tank, she sought out more writing communities. Rebecca joined ANWA, American Night Writer’s Association, a network for women writers who are also affiliated with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The best thing she did for her writing career was attending writer’s conferences. After meeting other writers at an ANWA conference, Rebecca’s writing improved because of the influence of her growing writing community. And when a publisher came across her novel during a contest on Twitter, a panicked Rebecca turned to her community to help tighten up her story and help her land her book deal.
Rebecca’s advice to me, a floundering writer staring down self-publishing after turning down a book deal? “Grab on and go for it!”
She knows what she’s talking about.
***
Check out Rebecca’s blog out at http://rebeccalamoreaux-anauthorinprogress.blogspot.com, or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AuthorRebeccaLamoreaux
Sunday, October 27, 2013
I Don't Want to Fight
The young couple doesn't see it coming, their convertible top down and wrapped up in the warmth of the day. My family and I see it, though.
We're waiting in a line of cars at a stoplight when half a dozen guys pile out of a car ahead of us, and it's clear they're up to no good. Some of the men have wrapped their knuckles with thick chains, and others clutch empty beer bottles by their necks. They're stalking towards the cute couple who haven't noticed them yet, and my stomach twists with realization.
My son-in-law, Bert, jumps out of the car before we can stop him. My daughter claws at his shirt and tries to scream some sense in to his brain, but it's no use. Bert's always had a strong sense of justice. Either that or he doesn't put much value on his own life.
The light changes and the convertible speeds off before the thugs reach them, but their group is still looking for a target and they set their sights on the most likely target: Bert. It happens in slow motion, but it still happens. One of the guys smashes his bottle over Bert's head and blood trickles in his face.
I don't want to fight. There's three times as many of them as there are of us. I'm not much of a gambler, but those odds aren't good, even with a firecracker like Bert on your side. Like it or not, though, I can't leave him out there alone. They'll kill him. With a backward glance at my wife, daughter, and young son, I bolt from the car and into the battle. I still don't want to fight.
Two-to-one. If we survive this, I might kill Bert myself.
I don't see the guy until he's clocked me in the side of the head and I'm sprawled on the ground. He brings the pointed toes of his boots to my face and kicks me over and over, sending spikes of pain through my jaw and behind my eyelids. It's not enough to him that I am on the ground, that I didn't want this fight. It's obvious that he won't stop until he's made his point clear. As far as I'm concerned, the point of his shoe has done quite enough talking.
Elise flies from the car and launches herself on the back of my attacker. On her way out of the car, she grabbed the closest thing in reach, a can of oil, which she now uses to hammer away at his thick skull. She stuns him long enough to give me a chance to stagger to my feet, but I can't stop him from wrenching her free and kicking her in the face with those horrible, awful boots.
I didn't want to fight.
We drive ourselves, licking our wounds, to General Hospital. Bert needs stitches, and I'm not sure what Elise and I need. A uniformed officer comes to arrest us for beating up a group of men, but his mouth and the charges drop when he surveys our assortment of injuries.
A couple days later our friend Benny takes in Elise's cuts and bruises and asks us to name names. "You'll never hear from those guys again," he vows. I don't doubt Benny one bit, and I appreciate the gesture, but I don't tell him anything.
Our bruises haven't healed up before one of the smaller thugs struts into the store. He's alone and looking for another fight. The tips of Bert's ears flame as he orders him off the property. I keep an eye on the man as he slinks away toward the restaurant next door. A wave of rage courses through me and I think how easy it would be to get my revenge on just one man, the runt of the bunch. With a shake of my head, I turn away from the window where I have a clear view of him glaring over at us.
I don't want to fight.
We're waiting in a line of cars at a stoplight when half a dozen guys pile out of a car ahead of us, and it's clear they're up to no good. Some of the men have wrapped their knuckles with thick chains, and others clutch empty beer bottles by their necks. They're stalking towards the cute couple who haven't noticed them yet, and my stomach twists with realization.
My son-in-law, Bert, jumps out of the car before we can stop him. My daughter claws at his shirt and tries to scream some sense in to his brain, but it's no use. Bert's always had a strong sense of justice. Either that or he doesn't put much value on his own life.
The light changes and the convertible speeds off before the thugs reach them, but their group is still looking for a target and they set their sights on the most likely target: Bert. It happens in slow motion, but it still happens. One of the guys smashes his bottle over Bert's head and blood trickles in his face.
I don't want to fight. There's three times as many of them as there are of us. I'm not much of a gambler, but those odds aren't good, even with a firecracker like Bert on your side. Like it or not, though, I can't leave him out there alone. They'll kill him. With a backward glance at my wife, daughter, and young son, I bolt from the car and into the battle. I still don't want to fight.
Two-to-one. If we survive this, I might kill Bert myself.
I don't see the guy until he's clocked me in the side of the head and I'm sprawled on the ground. He brings the pointed toes of his boots to my face and kicks me over and over, sending spikes of pain through my jaw and behind my eyelids. It's not enough to him that I am on the ground, that I didn't want this fight. It's obvious that he won't stop until he's made his point clear. As far as I'm concerned, the point of his shoe has done quite enough talking.
Elise flies from the car and launches herself on the back of my attacker. On her way out of the car, she grabbed the closest thing in reach, a can of oil, which she now uses to hammer away at his thick skull. She stuns him long enough to give me a chance to stagger to my feet, but I can't stop him from wrenching her free and kicking her in the face with those horrible, awful boots.
I didn't want to fight.
We drive ourselves, licking our wounds, to General Hospital. Bert needs stitches, and I'm not sure what Elise and I need. A uniformed officer comes to arrest us for beating up a group of men, but his mouth and the charges drop when he surveys our assortment of injuries.
A couple days later our friend Benny takes in Elise's cuts and bruises and asks us to name names. "You'll never hear from those guys again," he vows. I don't doubt Benny one bit, and I appreciate the gesture, but I don't tell him anything.
Our bruises haven't healed up before one of the smaller thugs struts into the store. He's alone and looking for another fight. The tips of Bert's ears flame as he orders him off the property. I keep an eye on the man as he slinks away toward the restaurant next door. A wave of rage courses through me and I think how easy it would be to get my revenge on just one man, the runt of the bunch. With a shake of my head, I turn away from the window where I have a clear view of him glaring over at us.
I don't want to fight.
Rear View Mirror
I expect him to pass her by.
He doesn't, and I should have seen it comin'. My older brother, Joe, never missed an opportunity to tease me. Then again, he didn't pass up a chance to flirt with a pretty girl, either.
"Cut it out, Joe!" I growl through gritted teeth. Heat creeps up from my neck to my cheeks, and the sprinkling of freckles there fade into red. There's only so far I can shimmy down in the Model A's bench seat to hide myself from her sight. I'd like very much to slug my brother for his fooling.
"Hey, Toots!" He calls out the open window to the dark-haired girl walking behind our car. "Want a ride?"
She doesn't even give him the satisfaction of looking our direction, which, in a way, makes his grin broaden. Instead, she trains her deep brown eyes on the gravel immediately before her own two feet. We all know that even if she wanted to ride with a troublemaker like my brother or mortified me, she'd have to pass it by her daddy. Besides, she's nearly reached her destination and doesn't need our kind of help, if you could call it that.
I steal a peek in the mirror and watch her curls bob in time with her determined march. If I wasn't so mad at Joe, I'd thank him for giving me more time with her. Not that we ever really spent time together. My brothers and I watched her walk past our house on her way to her job at the golf course all the time. They watched, maybe, but I salivated. Someday I'd work up the nerve to ask her on a proper date, but today wasn't going to be that day, thanks to my obnoxious brother.
He doesn't, and I should have seen it comin'. My older brother, Joe, never missed an opportunity to tease me. Then again, he didn't pass up a chance to flirt with a pretty girl, either.
"Cut it out, Joe!" I growl through gritted teeth. Heat creeps up from my neck to my cheeks, and the sprinkling of freckles there fade into red. There's only so far I can shimmy down in the Model A's bench seat to hide myself from her sight. I'd like very much to slug my brother for his fooling.
"Hey, Toots!" He calls out the open window to the dark-haired girl walking behind our car. "Want a ride?"
She doesn't even give him the satisfaction of looking our direction, which, in a way, makes his grin broaden. Instead, she trains her deep brown eyes on the gravel immediately before her own two feet. We all know that even if she wanted to ride with a troublemaker like my brother or mortified me, she'd have to pass it by her daddy. Besides, she's nearly reached her destination and doesn't need our kind of help, if you could call it that.
I steal a peek in the mirror and watch her curls bob in time with her determined march. If I wasn't so mad at Joe, I'd thank him for giving me more time with her. Not that we ever really spent time together. My brothers and I watched her walk past our house on her way to her job at the golf course all the time. They watched, maybe, but I salivated. Someday I'd work up the nerve to ask her on a proper date, but today wasn't going to be that day, thanks to my obnoxious brother.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Daniel the Draw-er Makes a Friend
“Did you make any new friends at school today?” Mom asks, smiling up at me as she wipes crumbs from the counter. Every day it’s the same question, and every day I give the same answer. They say adults are supposed to be smart, but maybe no one told Mom.
I grab the carton of milk and take a gulp before she notices, then wipe away my milk moustache with my sleeve. Today I feel dramatic, so I puff up my chest and place my hands on my hips like a superhero before booming, “Annie is the only friend I need!”
If I owned a cape I would make sure it flapped in the breeze behind me the whole time, but capes weren’t on the shopping list for school clothes this year. Mom looks disappointed. I’m disappointed, too. Capes are cool. Not as cool as samurai swords or skateboarding dogs, but still pretty awesome.
“Daniel. Annie is a nice girl, but it’s not healthy to have only one friend.”
Parents always said stuff wasn’t healthy for you. Candy bars weren’t healthy. Staying up all night watching t.v. wasn’t healthy. Now being friends with Annie wasn’t healthy? Unless Mom meant the time Annie sneezed right in my face and I ended up sick in bed for two days, I didn’t understand how having a friend could be bad.
“Really, Daniel. What if Annie moved away? Then you wouldn’t have any friends.”
“She’s not going anywhere. She told me so.”
Her face grows serious. “Promise me you’ll try to at least talk to the other kids.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I roll my eyes, but make sure I turn my back to her first. Mom hates it when I roll my eyes. Only she can roll her eyes and get away with it. “What’s for dinner?”
“Meatloaf, your favorite!”
Gross! I stick out my tongue and make a gagging noise.
“I was going to warn you that Tommy’s in the living room waiting for your sister, but since you’re being a smarty-pants, maybe I won’t...”
Tommy. Ugh.
My sister Lila’s latest boyfriend was the worst one yet. He plays in a band and has just enough hair on his chin to make it look like he’s super-glued a caterpillar there. Tommy also likes to call me “buddy” and punch me in the arm. I figure he can't remember my name. When we first met, Tommy called me Fritz for an entire day before Lila finally put a stop to it
I tiptoe down the hall past the living room door, but knock into the coat rack with my backpack. Like a hungry lion, Tommy pounces, jumping over the back of the couch and directly in front of me. Great.
“Bud-dy!” He punches me in the arm, as always.
“Ow!” I whine. Before he can hit me again, I slip off my backpack and hide my arms behind it like a knight with a shield.
“What’s up, big guy?”
I try to answer him, but it’s kind of hard since he’s put me in a headlock, his skinny forearm pressing into my windpipe. Up close, Tommy smells like microwave burritos and cat litter. He rubs his knuckles on the top of my head and I yelp. When the torture portion of our meeting ends, he lets me go and acts like nothing ever happened.
“Lila says you’re a draw-er.”
I’m pretty sure he means artist, but my head and arm still hurt so I keep my mouth shut.
“Uh, I guess so,” I shrug.
Tommy smiles, making the caterpillar wiggle. “Well, keep practicing, buddy. Maybe if you get good enough you can draw a cover for Revenge of the Lunch Lady.”
I back around him so I can keep an eye on his hands. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
Like that’ll happen. Revenge of the Lunch Lady was the name of Tommy’s band, and their biggest show so far had been at the bowling alley. No one had been able to hear them over the thumps of bowling balls and crash of falling pins.
The rest of the way to my room, I think about Mom’s words, What if Annie moved away?
It’s impossible to imagine life without my best friend. While all the other girls at school dress in pink and smell like flowers, Annie always smells like peanut butter and wears her brother’s old jeans. Back in kindergarten she ate an earthworm and that’s when I knew she was the one.
The other kids tease us and say we’re going to get married when we grow up. They make kissy noises when we walk past together, but that’s gross. I don’t want to kiss Annie. Annie eats earthworms, after all.
Mom’s being silly. Annie’s not leaving.
Once I reach my room, I sit down at my table and get to work. Dad put my table in front of the window so I could look out and draw nice pictures of trees and birds, but mostly I use the window as a launchpad for paper airplanes and plastic parachute men. Instead of trees and birds, I draw animals and monsters and super-awesome machines nobody else has thought of yet. My favorite was a robot named Pi-zzabot that could bake a pizza and do my Math homework at the same time. I drew a toaster that could tie shoes and smear peanut butter on bread for Annie, too, but I still think Pi-zzabot is better.
Today I want to finish the animal I’ve been working on for a few days. I mean, I guess he’s an animal. His head is round and soft like a teddy bear with shiny black eyes, but he’s no ordinary teddy bear. The rest of his body will have long tentacles like an octopus--once I finish.
In the middle of drawing Octobear’s third oozing tentacle, my pencil lead snaps off. I growl and fling my wounded pencil out the open window before I realize that was my last pencil.
Lila’s in her room with her door open when I stomp by. She leans in close to the mirror on her dresser and dabs at her eyelashes with a tiny black brush. Girls are weird. You’d never catch me poking myself in the eye with anything to make myself look pretty.
I peek my head in her room. “Hey, you got a pencil?”
She stops and looks at me with the brush hovering near her eyeball. I flinch and look away. Even though Lila is my sister doesn’t mean I want her to become a cyclops or wear a patch over her eye.
“No, Daniel,” she replies. “I do not have a pencil.”
Who died and made her an English teacher all of the sudden? She probably needed to help poor Tommy out, not me, since he couldn’t even come up with a better word than “draw-er”. I stalk away, taking back all the nice things I’d ever said about her, which weren’t that many.
I want to ask Mom about pencils but Tommy and his fists still lurk in the living room. Octobear needs more legs, but if Tommy punches me one more time my arm’s going fall off. Without my arm, it’ll be hard to draw.
The only other place to look is the attic. I’m not really supposed to snoop around up there because Mom says I make a mess. This one time I found a bunch of brand new action figures Dad hadn’t even opened yet. His face turned purple when he found me playing with them a few days later. Since then, the attic has been off-limits for me. Octobear needs me, though.
It takes a while, but I find a box of old art supplies buried under a fake Christmas tree and a bin of my old baby clothes. The stuff inside the box is mostly junk. I push aside a stack of paper with brown water spots and small containers of dried-up paint until I feel something smooth and wooden. The wooden thing ends up being a case, and when I open it up there’s a half-used pencil wrapped in green velvet. Yes! Why anyone would put a plain old pencil in a box like that, I don’t know, but Dad is weird and keeps his toys in boxes, too. With a shrug, I toss the box to the side and hurry back down to my room.
I finish drawing the last of Octobear’s limbs and start on a cat who will have a jetpack on his back - I’m saving that part for last! - when Mom calls me down for dinner. The meatloaf is extra dry tonight and Dad talks for a whole ten minutes about some market on Wall Street, wherever that is. As soon as I choke down the last awful bite, I run back to my room, ready to send a cat into orbit.
Only one problem. There’s a cat on my desk and he looks kind of familiar.
The cat stands up and puffs his snowy fur. “Hey, pal,” he says.
I rub my eyes and blink, then look over my shoulder towards the stairs where the rest of my family is still talking about James Bond or something. I knew this day would come--Mom’s meatloaf had finally driven me insane.
“Not gonna answer me?” He closes his yellow eyes and shakes his head. “That’s fine. But do me a favor, kid?”
My mouth hangs open. If I try to speak, the words get stuck inside of me.
He turns to the paper lying on the desk next to him and I see an empty space where his back should be. With his paw, he pats my cat drawing on the page.
“Finish drawing me.”
I slam the door behind me and run downstairs as fast as I can. Mom said she wants me to make new friends, and I guess I had.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Disconnect.
I've been struggling for a while trying to make sense of things. Purpose. Relationships. Life.
Before you get all worked up, nothing's going on. Not even once have I been tempted to buy a convertible or hire an exotic pool boy even though I'm speeding head-long into that age bracket. Observing the lives of those around me reveals those tales usually don't end well. Besides, I don't even own a pool. Details, details.
This post probably won't make a lot of sense, but they rarely do. This blog is about working things out. I see it as a bonus if I write something and it happens to mean something other than random words on a screen. Of course, I welcome your ideas and feedback if you dare to leave a comment. Contrary to the title of this blog post, I really do wish to connect with those of you who take the time to read this nonsense.
Back on point.
I spend a lot of time thinking through scenarios, especially when I'm in plotting or writing mode for a novel. Characters take shape within my mind, and I assign to them a host of flaws and (usually) redeeming qualities. They act, they react. They show compassion, they show contempt. It's an undeniably odd way to spend one's day, creating people and then watching them take over and navigate their triangles, circles, and various other geometric designs. I do not envy God.
My real life is no less strange than those I craft. If I were at liberty to share even the roughest outline of my family's past, you probably wouldn't believe most of it. If I asked for your family's story, complete with cobwebs and skeletons, I'm sure it would be just as sordid. No one is immune from controversy and conflict. If we were, we probably wouldn't have many true, close friends. Stumbling and falling and then picking yourself back up again, especially with the help of others, tends to plant the seeds of empathy. It allows our ears to remain open and our mouths to stay shut. It makes us more than just human, it makes us alive.
Sometimes we forget how to put ourselves in the shoes of others. We must not forget. To forget that others need to connect with us is to forget how to truly live.
My brother stopped by a few days ago. He and his wife are involved in a network marketing-type endeavor which focuses on self-help and coaching (good things, certainly). One of the recorded talks he listened to applied to me and my writing path, and he asked if he could stop by. As we sat on my front porch, rocking on my rocking chairs and trying to ignore the mayhem inside the walls of my house, he shook his head.
"I've been trying to let God talk to me in that still, small voice," my brother confessed. "He usually has to shout at me." He felt God laid that particular CD on his heart, intended for me, so I could tell him our sister was in the hospital and scheduled for surgery in the coming week.
"What is wrong with our family?" He asked, voicing a thought that has rolled around in my head frequently. All I could do was shrug. If I knew the answer, it would be fixed already.
A minute later, I asked how his step-daughter, a freshman in college, was doing.
"She's sick. They have her running... But, anyway, I really wanted you to listen to this CD."
And that was that. I love my brother. I'm as guilty of this as he is, or just about anyone else. We ask to be let in while simultaneously slamming the door. We disconnect ourselves from others, and for what? I'm sure whatever is on the CD is interesting, possibly even life-changing; however, it cannot rival the genuine sharing of struggle and concern. A sister struggling with health issues. A niece burning her candle at both ends trying to figure out a new stage of life. Someone else enduring the day with a difficult spouse or an unwell child.
I am guilty of this. The guiltiest, maybe.
And I wonder... Is God sitting, pen in hand, considering the plot to our story and wondering about story elements--conflict, story arc, resolution? Though He knows the end to our novel, does a twist or turn ever surprise Him? Does He write our characters together, only to have us change the lines and the scenes into something unrecognizable?
Before you get all worked up, nothing's going on. Not even once have I been tempted to buy a convertible or hire an exotic pool boy even though I'm speeding head-long into that age bracket. Observing the lives of those around me reveals those tales usually don't end well. Besides, I don't even own a pool. Details, details.
This post probably won't make a lot of sense, but they rarely do. This blog is about working things out. I see it as a bonus if I write something and it happens to mean something other than random words on a screen. Of course, I welcome your ideas and feedback if you dare to leave a comment. Contrary to the title of this blog post, I really do wish to connect with those of you who take the time to read this nonsense.
Back on point.
I spend a lot of time thinking through scenarios, especially when I'm in plotting or writing mode for a novel. Characters take shape within my mind, and I assign to them a host of flaws and (usually) redeeming qualities. They act, they react. They show compassion, they show contempt. It's an undeniably odd way to spend one's day, creating people and then watching them take over and navigate their triangles, circles, and various other geometric designs. I do not envy God.
My real life is no less strange than those I craft. If I were at liberty to share even the roughest outline of my family's past, you probably wouldn't believe most of it. If I asked for your family's story, complete with cobwebs and skeletons, I'm sure it would be just as sordid. No one is immune from controversy and conflict. If we were, we probably wouldn't have many true, close friends. Stumbling and falling and then picking yourself back up again, especially with the help of others, tends to plant the seeds of empathy. It allows our ears to remain open and our mouths to stay shut. It makes us more than just human, it makes us alive.
Sometimes we forget how to put ourselves in the shoes of others. We must not forget. To forget that others need to connect with us is to forget how to truly live.
My brother stopped by a few days ago. He and his wife are involved in a network marketing-type endeavor which focuses on self-help and coaching (good things, certainly). One of the recorded talks he listened to applied to me and my writing path, and he asked if he could stop by. As we sat on my front porch, rocking on my rocking chairs and trying to ignore the mayhem inside the walls of my house, he shook his head.
"I've been trying to let God talk to me in that still, small voice," my brother confessed. "He usually has to shout at me." He felt God laid that particular CD on his heart, intended for me, so I could tell him our sister was in the hospital and scheduled for surgery in the coming week.
"What is wrong with our family?" He asked, voicing a thought that has rolled around in my head frequently. All I could do was shrug. If I knew the answer, it would be fixed already.
A minute later, I asked how his step-daughter, a freshman in college, was doing.
"She's sick. They have her running... But, anyway, I really wanted you to listen to this CD."
And that was that. I love my brother. I'm as guilty of this as he is, or just about anyone else. We ask to be let in while simultaneously slamming the door. We disconnect ourselves from others, and for what? I'm sure whatever is on the CD is interesting, possibly even life-changing; however, it cannot rival the genuine sharing of struggle and concern. A sister struggling with health issues. A niece burning her candle at both ends trying to figure out a new stage of life. Someone else enduring the day with a difficult spouse or an unwell child.
I am guilty of this. The guiltiest, maybe.
And I wonder... Is God sitting, pen in hand, considering the plot to our story and wondering about story elements--conflict, story arc, resolution? Though He knows the end to our novel, does a twist or turn ever surprise Him? Does He write our characters together, only to have us change the lines and the scenes into something unrecognizable?
Friday, October 4, 2013
Lightning Crashes
This morning Mr. Ohboy was in the kitchen while the boys got ready for school. I chose to hide in the bedroom, mainlining chocolate chip cookies for breakfast. I tried to ignore their conversations as I hadn't stumbled my way to the coffee pot yet. Then I heard my husband telling our children - the very same children who insist upon wearing noise-canceling headphones during rainstorms - about his grandfather who was struck by lightning on two separate occasions while sitting in a recliner in his study.
He clearly hadn't thought this one through. The kids already practically burrow beneath our skin when they hear the slightest rumble of thunder. If there is no longer safety indoors, thanks to Great-Grandpa Ohboy's magnetic legacy, I'm not sure of our next move. Fall-out shelter?
"STOP!" I yell. "DON'T YOU DARE TELL THEM THAT STORY!" Mr. Ohboy can't hear me or he's become immune to the distinct frequency of my nagging. Perhaps he can't hear me because I've deafened him over the years. Whatever the reason, he finished his story (and the kids added their own gems about tornadoes ripping off your skin. Boys!).
On Fridays I visit my grandparents and clean their house for them so they don't have to. We chat a little as I work, and then talk more when we sit to eat lunch together. Today I mentioned my family's desire to record some of their stories so we would be able to hold pieces of them long after they leave us. My grandmother furrowed her eyebrow and declared that it sounded like a lot of work. Besides, she and my grandpa remembered things differently.
Of course you do, Grandma. You're married, after all.
Somehow conversation turned to my husband's grandfather, the human lightning rod, and then to my friend's mother who was struck by lightning while milking a cow (is that where fried cheese curds come from?).
"That happened to my mother," Grandma announced.
Before my grandmother came into the world, her mother miscarried another baby. With no little one to feed, her chest became engorged to the point where fluid gathered in her legs. They referred to this as "milk leg", and they believed the swelling in the legs was the milk running down and filling up the lower extremities. My great-grandmother was advised to wear some kind of rubberized stockings, likely some sort of compression stocking, to help with the swelling.
A storm blew through soon afterward, and she ran outside to bring one of the cows into the shelter of the barn. Lightning filled the air with electric charge and stung the ground at her toes. Great-grandma's rubber socks saved her life. In the years following, she would conceive and give birth to a fiery baby girl, my grandmother.
The more I think about the lightning strike, the compression stockings, the baby lost, the branches of the family tree that may have never sprouted, I am amazed. And this is why we tell our tales - the good, the bad, the seemingly boring. In the telling and retelling of our stories, we reveal the everyday tragedies and miracles that affect us all.
But, still, Mr. Ohboy probably needs to keep that whole lightning striking indoors thing under wraps.
He clearly hadn't thought this one through. The kids already practically burrow beneath our skin when they hear the slightest rumble of thunder. If there is no longer safety indoors, thanks to Great-Grandpa Ohboy's magnetic legacy, I'm not sure of our next move. Fall-out shelter?
"STOP!" I yell. "DON'T YOU DARE TELL THEM THAT STORY!" Mr. Ohboy can't hear me or he's become immune to the distinct frequency of my nagging. Perhaps he can't hear me because I've deafened him over the years. Whatever the reason, he finished his story (and the kids added their own gems about tornadoes ripping off your skin. Boys!).
On Fridays I visit my grandparents and clean their house for them so they don't have to. We chat a little as I work, and then talk more when we sit to eat lunch together. Today I mentioned my family's desire to record some of their stories so we would be able to hold pieces of them long after they leave us. My grandmother furrowed her eyebrow and declared that it sounded like a lot of work. Besides, she and my grandpa remembered things differently.
Of course you do, Grandma. You're married, after all.
Somehow conversation turned to my husband's grandfather, the human lightning rod, and then to my friend's mother who was struck by lightning while milking a cow (is that where fried cheese curds come from?).
"That happened to my mother," Grandma announced.
Before my grandmother came into the world, her mother miscarried another baby. With no little one to feed, her chest became engorged to the point where fluid gathered in her legs. They referred to this as "milk leg", and they believed the swelling in the legs was the milk running down and filling up the lower extremities. My great-grandmother was advised to wear some kind of rubberized stockings, likely some sort of compression stocking, to help with the swelling.
A storm blew through soon afterward, and she ran outside to bring one of the cows into the shelter of the barn. Lightning filled the air with electric charge and stung the ground at her toes. Great-grandma's rubber socks saved her life. In the years following, she would conceive and give birth to a fiery baby girl, my grandmother.
The more I think about the lightning strike, the compression stockings, the baby lost, the branches of the family tree that may have never sprouted, I am amazed. And this is why we tell our tales - the good, the bad, the seemingly boring. In the telling and retelling of our stories, we reveal the everyday tragedies and miracles that affect us all.
But, still, Mr. Ohboy probably needs to keep that whole lightning striking indoors thing under wraps.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
The Earth Bleeds Red by Jackson Baer
Please stop by Facebook to support fellow author Jackson Paul Baer as he reveals the cover to his novel, The Earth Bleeds Red, which debuts next month. The following image is his spiffy new cover and a little bit more about his book.
Scott and Jessie are a couple in love. Ashley, their only daughter, is 17-years old and has vanished; leaving behind nothing but a pool of blood. Her strange disappearance is quickly thought to be a homicide. Her cozy, northwest town is stunned when police find the body of another girl at the bottom of the Willamette River. The eerie signature found on the girl links to a monster dubbed the Hail Mary Killer. While Scott searches for Ashley, the FBI feels convinced that she is the killer’s latest victim.
In spite of three other bodies with the same distinct marking, no one prepared themselves for the discovery in southern Oregon. Local hikers stumble upon a car in the mountain brush and a tattooing needle with an evil history surfaces inside. A cabin appears nearby with another gruesome discovery. Scott finds some solace in his friendship with Father Henry as he and Jessie try to salvage their marriage and move on beyond the loss of Ashley. The FBI finally catches a break when they unearth the dark past of the Hail Mary Killer’s family. What emerged in his basement is more terrifying than anyone could have possibly imagined. What happens to the Miller family and Father Henry will shake your soul and keep you reading till the last page.
Scott and Jessie are a couple in love. Ashley, their only daughter, is 17-years old and has vanished; leaving behind nothing but a pool of blood. Her strange disappearance is quickly thought to be a homicide. Her cozy, northwest town is stunned when police find the body of another girl at the bottom of the Willamette River. The eerie signature found on the girl links to a monster dubbed the Hail Mary Killer. While Scott searches for Ashley, the FBI feels convinced that she is the killer’s latest victim.
In spite of three other bodies with the same distinct marking, no one prepared themselves for the discovery in southern Oregon. Local hikers stumble upon a car in the mountain brush and a tattooing needle with an evil history surfaces inside. A cabin appears nearby with another gruesome discovery. Scott finds some solace in his friendship with Father Henry as he and Jessie try to salvage their marriage and move on beyond the loss of Ashley. The FBI finally catches a break when they unearth the dark past of the Hail Mary Killer’s family. What emerged in his basement is more terrifying than anyone could have possibly imagined. What happens to the Miller family and Father Henry will shake your soul and keep you reading till the last page.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Questioning
Four months ago I sent an e-mail ending my business relationship with the publisher courting me. It wasn't easy to say no to a sure thing. Every day I wonder if I made the wrong choice.
My novel had a projected publish date of mid-October. A month from now, a dream could have come true. Maybe.
Their first round of novels were supposed to launch in July, but I am not sure if that happened. I keep tabs on some other authors who have signed with this company because I'm anxious to see what happens. For them, things seem to be moving forward and they are pleased with the process.
I still made the right decision, right?
Just kidding. I know I did what I felt made the most sense at the time. Still, I'm so ready for my novels to find an audience beyond my circle of family and friends. That's something that requires patience, but, frankly, I skipped that line when virtues were being passed out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
My novel had a projected publish date of mid-October. A month from now, a dream could have come true. Maybe.
Their first round of novels were supposed to launch in July, but I am not sure if that happened. I keep tabs on some other authors who have signed with this company because I'm anxious to see what happens. For them, things seem to be moving forward and they are pleased with the process.
I still made the right decision, right?
Just kidding. I know I did what I felt made the most sense at the time. Still, I'm so ready for my novels to find an audience beyond my circle of family and friends. That's something that requires patience, but, frankly, I skipped that line when virtues were being passed out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Part 2 of the Story You Wrote.
From the corner of my vision, I catch movement inside the restaurant. The woman at the table is on her feet, shoving the large book into a tote bag. She is following me, I'm sure of it. I don't know how I know this for certain after the nonsense with the cashier, but I know it. Before I step off the curb and cross the street, I shoot one more glance over my shoulder towards her. Our eyes meet through the glass, clear, despite the bubbled layer of window tinting. The blood in my veins chills at the hardness of her expression and the hurried way she slings the bag over her shoulder. I run.
Unfortunately, I run right into traffic, breaking the cardinal rule of kidhood.
The white sports car--the one about to take me out at the knees--squeals to a stop. The bumper pushes my calf hard enough to knock me off my feet and onto its scorching hood.
"Hey, jerk! Get off my car!" The driver yells, and he fumbles with his seatbelt like he's going to get out of the car and finish the job the car didn't.
Despite the heat from the engine on my bare arms, all I can do is stare at the young man through the windshield. I recognize him, I recognize that ridiculous pompadour hairstyle, but the shock from near-death has erased his name from my memory.
"GET. OFF. OF. MY. CAR!" His eyes are deadly. The dark-haired girl in the passenger seat looks frightened and embarrassed, her pink lips pressed together in an apologetic smile. The pieces click together too slowly. I raise myself from the hood and slide off the side.
Finally, it comes to me, and my heart drops into my shoes. "I'm so, so sorry, Mr. Bieber. I didn't mean to--"
The look on his face as I scrape across the hood is one of pure malice. I cringe and drop to my feet on the asphalt, unwilling to acknowledge any damage I'd done to the sports car. Somehow I'd scraped up just enough for a dumb taco filled with meat of questionable origin. There was no chance I'd ever be able to afford a new paint job for The Biebs.
He clenches his jaw and slams his aviator sunglasses across his face. "I don't need this publicity. Leave me alone." Without another word, without promise to make my life miserable, he speeds away.
The dark-haired girl turns to watch me, and all I can think is, "Why, Selena? Of all people... Why him?"
My very next thought is to keep running.
Unfortunately, I run right into traffic, breaking the cardinal rule of kidhood.
The white sports car--the one about to take me out at the knees--squeals to a stop. The bumper pushes my calf hard enough to knock me off my feet and onto its scorching hood.
"Hey, jerk! Get off my car!" The driver yells, and he fumbles with his seatbelt like he's going to get out of the car and finish the job the car didn't.
Despite the heat from the engine on my bare arms, all I can do is stare at the young man through the windshield. I recognize him, I recognize that ridiculous pompadour hairstyle, but the shock from near-death has erased his name from my memory.
"GET. OFF. OF. MY. CAR!" His eyes are deadly. The dark-haired girl in the passenger seat looks frightened and embarrassed, her pink lips pressed together in an apologetic smile. The pieces click together too slowly. I raise myself from the hood and slide off the side.
Finally, it comes to me, and my heart drops into my shoes. "I'm so, so sorry, Mr. Bieber. I didn't mean to--"
The look on his face as I scrape across the hood is one of pure malice. I cringe and drop to my feet on the asphalt, unwilling to acknowledge any damage I'd done to the sports car. Somehow I'd scraped up just enough for a dumb taco filled with meat of questionable origin. There was no chance I'd ever be able to afford a new paint job for The Biebs.
He clenches his jaw and slams his aviator sunglasses across his face. "I don't need this publicity. Leave me alone." Without another word, without promise to make my life miserable, he speeds away.
The dark-haired girl turns to watch me, and all I can think is, "Why, Selena? Of all people... Why him?"
My very next thought is to keep running.
TO BE CONTINUED...
What Happens When Friends Give Me Random Words To Write About...
I wanted to write, but I didn't know what to write about, so I asked you. The list of words you so, uh, graciously offered are as follows:
Where's Waldo?
soup tendinitis
gun
cigar
beer
pink smile
Bieber & Gomez
dogs/monkeys riding horses
fragulous
Jaws
Godzilla
shark/dino porn
Taco Bell
Moon
South Park Chef
Jedi squirrels
So, without further ado, here is your story
"They're coming, you know." The cashier hisses then pauses to shoot an anxious look left, then right, like we're being watched. Judging by the thickness of his round glasses, I imagine all that movement of his beady black eyes must be dizzying. He doesn't seem to be the least bit bothered, though, and instead leans closer toward me over the counter separating us. "The government doesn't want us to know--they're in on it, too!"
A line of perspiration beads on his forehead at the edge of his red-and-white striped knit hat. He's crazy, I'm sure of it. You'd have to be crazy to work behind the counter of a Taco Bell in a long-sleeved shirt and a winter hat. It must be a billion degrees in here! Lucky for me he's not the one handling the food, because the thought of him sweating in my Hard Taco Supreme makes me gag a little.
Sure enough, a couple over at one of the tables in the corner of the restaurant is watching us. They consult a big book in front of them like it's a field guide or something, then point and stare like they've spotted a Dodo bird or a unicorn. I'm neither of those things, just a hungry girl with not enough money to buy anything at a burger place. Kind of pathetic, really, and not the kind of thing that would earn me any kind of notoriety. Still, the couple keeps looking our way. Now they're not even trying to pretend they are interested in something else.
The couple's attention, paired with the cashier's conspiracy theories, make my stomach roll. Before things get any more weird, I take my change from the counter and snatch the paper bag from his outstretched hand.
"Uh, thanks for the... tip." I mumble as I turn away.
"Repent, for the Kingdom of God is at--" The door seals behind me, cutting off his words.
Where's Waldo?
soup tendinitis
gun
cigar
beer
pink smile
Bieber & Gomez
dogs/monkeys riding horses
fragulous
Jaws
Godzilla
shark/dino porn
Taco Bell
Moon
South Park Chef
Jedi squirrels
So, without further ado, here is your story
***
"They're coming, you know." The cashier hisses then pauses to shoot an anxious look left, then right, like we're being watched. Judging by the thickness of his round glasses, I imagine all that movement of his beady black eyes must be dizzying. He doesn't seem to be the least bit bothered, though, and instead leans closer toward me over the counter separating us. "The government doesn't want us to know--they're in on it, too!"
A line of perspiration beads on his forehead at the edge of his red-and-white striped knit hat. He's crazy, I'm sure of it. You'd have to be crazy to work behind the counter of a Taco Bell in a long-sleeved shirt and a winter hat. It must be a billion degrees in here! Lucky for me he's not the one handling the food, because the thought of him sweating in my Hard Taco Supreme makes me gag a little.
Sure enough, a couple over at one of the tables in the corner of the restaurant is watching us. They consult a big book in front of them like it's a field guide or something, then point and stare like they've spotted a Dodo bird or a unicorn. I'm neither of those things, just a hungry girl with not enough money to buy anything at a burger place. Kind of pathetic, really, and not the kind of thing that would earn me any kind of notoriety. Still, the couple keeps looking our way. Now they're not even trying to pretend they are interested in something else.
The couple's attention, paired with the cashier's conspiracy theories, make my stomach roll. Before things get any more weird, I take my change from the counter and snatch the paper bag from his outstretched hand.
"Uh, thanks for the... tip." I mumble as I turn away.
"Repent, for the Kingdom of God is at--" The door seals behind me, cutting off his words.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Monday, August 5, 2013
The Creek
I couldn't tell you what it is about the forest that calms me. Maybe it isn't the forest, at all, but the murmur of the river against the time-worn pebbles. Or maybe the melody of the birds flitting from branch to bank, the cicadas joining in with their staccato rhythm. Perhaps, even, the aroma of pine sap, damp earth, and moss drew me here--especially on days like today. Mostly, I liked the quiet. No one offered me advice or asked for my help out here. No one spoke at all unless you counted the babble of the water, and I didn't.
Tally snorted and took a tentative step from the shore and into the edge of the creek. I patted her shoulder as she took another swishing step, thankful for the distraction. I'd fought so hard to keep him from leaving, but, in the end, none of it mattered.
Tally snorted and took a tentative step from the shore and into the edge of the creek. I patted her shoulder as she took another swishing step, thankful for the distraction. I'd fought so hard to keep him from leaving, but, in the end, none of it mattered.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
The End of the Middle
7/31/13. In the middle of the night, I typed the last sentence of my Young Adult novel "In the Middle". I celebrated and felt free and easy for approximately half a day, then I flipped back open my laptop and fixed a section that didn't feel exactly right. Because that's what writers do--they always feel like something could be fixed or rearranged for more impact. It's a sickness. A strange and wonderful sickness.
The beginning of August marks the end of July's Camp NaNoWriMo, 31 days of writers worldwide creating. Campers are encouraged to pick their own word count goal (mine was 26,364 words, oddly specific because that magical number brought my novel to 50k words) and go for it. I rounded out July with 38,406 words (62028 words in total), 12k above my goal. I'll take it.
In March I began this journey with Lucy, an orphaned teenager burdened by the weight of her parents' deaths. Lucy was angry and unpleasant, scarred and in pain. She wasn't the only one in the little town of Mitte who struggled with loss and regret. In the Middle forced me to look at death and remorse from a handful of angles, mourn with each person, and then offer a bit of hope. Perhaps it will never be published, let alone read and understood by an audience, but recording their story took me on a journey I will always remember.
To Lucy, Oliver, Jasper, Perdita, Letty, Duke, Magnolia, Tessa, Johanna, Norman, Millie, Sadie, Angus, Sal, Bud, Vera--even Derek and Tanya... Thank you for waking me up.
The beginning of August marks the end of July's Camp NaNoWriMo, 31 days of writers worldwide creating. Campers are encouraged to pick their own word count goal (mine was 26,364 words, oddly specific because that magical number brought my novel to 50k words) and go for it. I rounded out July with 38,406 words (62028 words in total), 12k above my goal. I'll take it.
In March I began this journey with Lucy, an orphaned teenager burdened by the weight of her parents' deaths. Lucy was angry and unpleasant, scarred and in pain. She wasn't the only one in the little town of Mitte who struggled with loss and regret. In the Middle forced me to look at death and remorse from a handful of angles, mourn with each person, and then offer a bit of hope. Perhaps it will never be published, let alone read and understood by an audience, but recording their story took me on a journey I will always remember.
To Lucy, Oliver, Jasper, Perdita, Letty, Duke, Magnolia, Tessa, Johanna, Norman, Millie, Sadie, Angus, Sal, Bud, Vera--even Derek and Tanya... Thank you for waking me up.
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