Madeleine's Writing Workshop

Scribbling Furiously...

2009-05-20T19:35:00.002-05:00

My Muse, who is beloved, so, so very beloved, is gracing me with her presence. Were she not so...umm...fickle, though, I might tell her that the 70s called; they want their music back. All evening long, it's been a steady diet of "Music Box Dancer" chased with some Captain and Tennille.

If that's what it takes, then I'm all in.

A Map to Lead Me From the Forest

2009-05-14T21:27:00.003-05:00

Show me a roomful of writers, and I'll show you a roomful of ways to organize and plan a novel. Before I wrote my first book (and even after--who am I kidding?), I studied the process of many writers looking for "the way." I even tried some of them on for size. Jenny Crusie constructs elaborate collages for a character...Diana Gabaldon works strictly in "chunks", each saved as a separate document to be combined late in the writing process...some construct detailed outlines...some must write straight through the story...others write in a stream-of-consciousness flow...

What ended up working for me was an amalgamation. I slogged my way through the story in my head and made a list of scenes I knew needed to be included to move the story along. From there, I was free to write in whatever order worked best for me. Inspiration often struck in random spots through the story. For this second book, I had already made extensive notes for a sketch of the story, even going so far as to write out bits of a few scenes.

Now, though, the plan is set. I've completed my List of Scenes to Include. What a weight to have that done. It'll not only be a guide, but it has already helped me flesh out areas of the story I knew were lacking in development. Happy, happy, joy, joy!!!!!!

A Get Fuzzy Giggle

2009-04-30T18:34:00.002-05:00

My favorite comic strip is Get Fuzzy by Darby Conley. It's about an ad-man named Rob Wilco, his Siamese cat (with Attitude) named Bucky, and his dog Satchel (who, bless his heart, is sweet but a little slow sometimes). I've had it delivered to my e-mail daily for some time now. You've got to go check them out. Go on. Just come back here when you're done.

Sometimes it makes me giggle, sometimes it makes me roll my eyes, and sometimes, on those days when Bucky is in rare form and Satchel just doesn't get it, or on the more rare occasions when Satchel has reached his limit, I laugh until my gut hurts and my face is awash with tears. Today's strip didn't make me cry, but I absolutely loved the comparison in the punchline and had to share: "...would be about as popular as the Lance Armstrong float in a Bastille Day parade."

Tee Hee Hee...Oh, Ewww

2009-04-29T18:13:00.002-05:00

I found this joke just now and thought it was too funny. Now, as a child, I was (for that matter, I still am) more fond of the cute and furry--NOT the slithery and scaly. It's still funny, though. Go check it out. While you're there, have a look around. Worth your time...trust me.

100

2009-04-27T17:11:00.003-05:00

I thought perhaps that my 100th post should have some momentous content. What, though? Questions of craft? A new short story? Another section of my first book? Deep philosophical thoughts?

Shortly before my brain burst into flames from all the possibilities, I remembered a quote I read earlier today. Really, it wasn't anything new; an author compared trying to be a cook by looking at pictures of food with someone trying to write without reading. I have to love the formula: do something I love, love, LOVE to do so I can get better at something else I love to do.

Now, I've always been a voracious reader. It was really the only reason I wanted to go to school. My little child's mind had it all figured out: go to school, learn to read, leave school and read about everything else I needed to know. Alas, it didn't work out that way (a whole other post that I'm not getting in to here), but my love for reading has continued unabated.

So, what am I reading? Thanks for asking. I visited a little book re-sale shop this weekend (too close to closing time, so I'll return soon) and found a couple of non-fiction titles. First, I saw Born on the Fourth of July. I saw the movie years ago, but reading Kovic's own words was quite powerful (Hmm, book was better than the film; go figure!). It was a quick read, and I've moved on to another book I picked up: Elegy for Iris by John Bayley.

I also saw this movie when it came out in 2001. I haven't gotten far enough in this book to make a judgment about which version is better, even though I think I already know my answer, but I am touched by Bayley's descriptions of his wife and his style.

Finally, I picked up Citizen Soldiers by Stephen E. Ambrose. I haven't started reading this yet, but I chose it because I've not read very much about World War II. That needs to change. I read World War One by S.L.A. Marshall some years ago, which I would recommend to anyone looking to research The Great War, but I'm embarassed to say that I've not read much in detail about World War II. Watching Band of Brothers was interesting and entertaining, but I need more. It's no substitute.

Looking at this list, I realize I'm boning up on my non-fiction reading, not fiction, like what I'm writing. I almost felt guilty, thinking I wasn't even taking my own advice. I thought about it, though, and realized that it's all good. I can still learn craft in the non-fiction. I'll be adding in a spot of fiction, though, for good measure.

So, what are you reading?

Brain Hard at Work

2009-04-22T17:20:00.003-05:00

The past two days, I've managed to do something that's usually difficult for me: come up with workable ideas for short stories. My mind tends to work more along the long, drawn out path of novels. Not the fast-paced racetrack of short stories.

I've discovered that, for the most part, the ideas come more quickly if I follow the "What would happen if..." formula. Having such a question virtually guarantees a solvable conflict and gives specific purpose to the story. None of them are so complex, either, as to require an entire novel to work out. I now have nine solid ideas, and I'm stoked! I'm not ditching the novel, mind you, just branching out.

Digging through my archives, I discovered a bit of serendipity. If I had but waited until Tuesday of next week to develop one of my ideas, it would be exactly a year from the first time Odelle had come up on my radar. Her story is much more fleshed out now. She's shared some of her back story with me, let me know just how her main conflict came to be, and made me chuckle at the...folksiness with which she speaks. I'll be listening carefully to capture her just right.

My First Book--Scene Twenty-One

2009-04-21T18:41:00.006-05:00

Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey on down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start. It's been a while since the last installment, so it might be helpful.

Go on. We'll wait for you.

Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Twenty-One.
*******
“I know you’ll want to take Lela with you. She can drive you up to Dallas, right?” he asked as we walked towards the door. Despite the fact that both he and Mabel had both tried to teach me to drive, I still would not willingly take the wheel.

“Something can be arranged,” I said, not bothering to tell him that Lela had also been working on me to accept the money. He didn’t need to know everything, right? She would be on my doorstep at nine.

“Oh, by the way,” he said as he reached for his hat, “Waylon and I are having supper at the café. He told me you ladies were planning a day in Dallas, and neither of us can cook. We poor men have to eat, don’t we?”

With admonitions to mind their Aunt Emily and not break anything, Lela and I sent Ruth and Waylon Carl into the vastness of Dallas’s Neiman Marcus department store. The trio disappeared toward the children’s department, and I gawked at rack after rack of the latest fashions hung ready for anxious buyers.

I tentatively began searching the racks for just the right dress when a sales lady approached us.

“May I help you, madam?” she asked us politely.

“I’m looking for a dress to wear for a special occasion,” I said. I’d never been to such a large store and was more than a little unsure just where to begin.

“Cotillion or cocktail party?” the sales lady asked.

Cotillion? What on earth was a cotillion? I certainly knew my little Baptist wedding would not be a cocktail party, but was it a cotillion. Somehow, I thought probably not. What should I say?

“A small wedding,” Lela said, rescuing me.

“Ah, yes. Madam might like to look at these dresses, then.” She led us to a stand of dresses several feet away. We dutifully followed.

“Thank you. I believe I shall find something quite nice,” I said. I appreciated the assistance but felt uncomfortable with the woman.

“Very well.” The sales lady blended into the surroundings and once again disappeared.

Lela and I pawed rack after rack, searching for a dress. “You know,” she said, holding up a striped dress. I shook my head, and she continued, “after we’re done with this, we should go over to the lingerie department and find someth—”

“Shhh! Do you want someone to hear you?” I hissed, moving closer to her. “What about this one?” I asked, hoping to distract her. What was she thinking?

“Maybe,” she said. “Or this?” She held up another dress.

I took both dresses, and we headed toward the dressing rooms. Picking up the conversation once I made sure no one else occupied any of the dressing rooms, I said, “I might could understand paying for a nice dress, but it just seems a shame to spend a lot of money on something that’s not meant to be worn for very long.”

Lela snickered. “Chloe, honey, that’s the whole point. Besides, he gave you the money and told you to spend it on something special for the wedding. I think that qualifies.”

I stepped out of the dressing room to model the first dress. “What do you think?”

Lela eyed me speculatively. “It’s nice, but it doesn’t seem right, now I see it on. Try the other one.”

I nodded, completely in agreement after catching a view of myself in the mirror, and shut the dressing room door to try on the other dress. “Somehow, I think I could wear a potato sack to bed, and he’d still be interested,” I said, pulling the dress off over my head.

“No, sweetie, that’s for after the honeymoon,” Lela said, laughing.

“Stunning!” she said as I opened the door. “That dress is absolutely gorgeous on you! You just have to buy it.”

I twirled around. “Really?”

“That’s it, Chloe. That’s the one.” She was adamant.

I looked down, appreciating the small flowers on the fabric and delicate lace work around the collar. This shade of lavender was a particular favorite of mine. Still not a fan of the fashion trend toward drop waists in dresses, I had to admit this one looked nicer than most I had seen.

“It’s so pretty, but where else would I wear it?”

“Who knows? As a doctor’s wife, you might have all sorts of places to go where you could wear it,” Lela said.

I retreated into the dressing room a final time. “Okay, I’ll get it,” I said. I changed back into my own clothes and went to pay for the new dress.

Once we reached the lingerie department, I tended towards long, conservative gowns. Lela worked hard to convince me to buy something much racier, preferably with more lace than fabric yet not much of anything at all.

“You know,” she said as she held up a red silk teddy, “I wonder if Waylon’d go wild if I was to wear this to bed?”

I looked at it, and my eyes bugged. “Are you kidding? He’d likely never leave you alone!” She smiled, one corner of her mouth quirking up, and hung it back on the rack.

“What about this?” I held up a gown.

Lela frowned and shook her head. She leaned close and whispered, “His grandmother might wear that to bed, but if you actually want sex, I wouldn’t count on it. Not with that.”

“Potato sack, Lela. Potato sack. I could wear one of those, remember?” I said.

Lela had to laugh at that. “You know, I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and I’d have to agree. Still, you should drive him wild with anticipation. That’s why you wear one of these,” she said, holding up another garment. This one was, I had to admit, a reasonable compromise between her earlier offer of the red teddy and my granny gown.

She sighed, and half under her breath she said, “I wish Waylon still looked at me like that.”

I looked up at Lela, seeing a sadness quickly flash in her eyes before it disappeared again. “What’s going on?” I asked, taking a step towards her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

She shook her head and tried to turn away. “You wouldn’t have said that if everything was okay. You two still having problems?”

Lela had occasionally confided in me about the difficulties she and Waylon had experienced after the devastating stillbirth of their daughter almost two years ago. I leaned my head against hers and said, “Oh, honey, still?”

She looked around and pulled away. “Not here,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You’re getting married. It’s a happy time! Let’s get you something for that honeymoon.”

I gave her a pat on the arm and moved away. After more than an hour, I finally settled on three different items I liked and Lela approved. The sales lady wrapped my purchases in tissue and handed me the bag. Dan’s stack of bills significantly reduced, we set off in search of our children. I thought we could all do with a picture show before heading home.

Organized Spontaneity

2009-04-18T09:46:00.000-05:00

What's this video got to do with writing, you ask? Not a blessed thing. Except, well, pardon me. I have to go watch it one more time. Be right back.

It's a fine piece of performance art that manages to look spontaneous, even fooling onlookers. It brings back memories of when I watched The Sound of Music for the very first time. After seeing this video, in fact, I had to watch the real thing again. Julie Andrews made my heart sing. Hubby might have enjoyed it more if I hadn't felt the need to sing along with every song.

Giving credit where credit is due, I originally found this link at The Eleventh. You should go visit her. She's one of my must-reads every day, and the only individual's blog that I read that is updated every. single. day.

Remembering Titanic

2009-04-15T17:23:00.002-05:00

On this date 97 years ago, 1,517 people lost their lives as the R.M.S. Titanic slid beneath the icy waters of the North Atlantic. The story of this magnificent ship and its untimely demise has held my interest since before Dr. Robert Ballard re-discovered its wreckage on September 1, 1985, and long before Leo and Kate graced its decks on the silver screen.

Tonight, I intend to raise a glass and say a prayer for the lost souls. Join me, if you please.

Becoming a Dog

2009-04-15T08:00:00.000-05:00

Oh, by the way, she has a name. Lulabelle. She's a little dog--little in stature, little in weight, that is. Big, though, in thoughts, big in attitude, and big, as it turns out, in appetite.

Her personality is revealing itself to me as the story progresses. The experience is different, I have to say, than writing from the human perspective.

A Comforting Visit From My Childhood

2009-04-14T18:30:00.007-05:00

Books have always been friends for me. I was fortunate enough to grow up in an environment that fostered this love from the beginning. With the notable exception, however, of taking The Bastard to school without a brown paper bag as a cover. After all, no good girl would say such a word. And what, my mother worried, would people think about me reading a book with that word as its title? I did eventually win the battle and completed the entire Kent Family Chronicles in no time flat.

I inhaled books, sucking the marrow from their bones and spitting out the carcass.

From an earlier time in my life, though, one author holds a special place in my heart. Judy Blume. Many ignorant people who likely (1) haven't even taken the time to read her books or (2) don't even remember how confusing adolescence can be have tried through the years to ban her books from libraries. I read and re-read her books as a child.

Peter, Margaret, Sheila, Linda "Blubber", Davey. They all gave me an understanding that I was not alone in the feelings, the questions, the emotions that I had. A few days ago, I found a book that let me know, once again, just how much of a sorority Blume devotees are. If you loved Judy Blume books, or if you love someone who loved Judy Blume books, get thee to a bookstore and BUY THIS BOOK! You'll thank me. Really.

In Which I am Ashamed

2009-04-14T17:53:00.005-05:00

Good heavens, I never intended to give up this blog for Lent. Other Things in Life have kept me from writing as much as I would like, but skipping out on posting here like I have is a point of great frustration for me. After all, blades are sharpened on whetstones by careful, repeated application, not by having a carver lay them side by side.

Not that I ever had a large following to begin with, but the small handful of readers that have visited here deserve better than that. If you've been showing up here only to see the same post staring you in the face, you're not alone here anymore. I'm back. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.

Saturday Sixer

2009-02-21T06:00:00.002-06:00

I've spent quite a lot of time this week thinking about someone very special to me. With these memories swirling around in my mind, this particular Saturday Sixer just seemed to fit. And no, nothing in it is misspelled. It's all the way I intended it to be. For a reason.

Sht! That monster stole my beloved!

What Would Fido Do? I need a WWFD bracelet.

2009-02-18T18:55:00.008-06:00

Okay, let's just get this out of the way: Fido is a stupid name for a dog. Now, I'm not always the most original about choosing names for dogs--amazingly prophetic on two occasions, but not necessarily original--but come on, people. If Fido's the best you can do, talk to me. I'll give you some suggestions. Don't doom a pooch to such a John Smith/Jane Smith existence.

What, you may ask, is she blathering on about? Thanks for asking. So, I've been thinking quite a lot lately about point of view and character development, especially in short stories. I'm working on a short story (one of at least a pair that I intend to submit to the Surrey International Writer's Conference 2009 contest) that looks at a story from a dog's point of view.

The challenge in this particular story is to inhabit the dog's mind...how does she think, what does she notice, how does she react? It sounds like it would be rather straightforward, doesn't it? Write the dog like you would any other major character. Not so much, as it turns out.

I want to go beyond a stereotypical human's idea of what a dog would think, more real, for want of a better word at the moment. While exploring and creating a character's personality, the process of "interviewing" the character, finding out what makes her tick, so to speak, I'm discovering that inhabiting the mind of a character of another species is quite a challenge--though it's one that I look forward to taking.

Now, if I only knew what her name is. Ugh.

My First Book--Scene Twenty

2009-02-09T12:00:00.000-06:00

Saturday Sixer

2009-02-07T10:00:00.000-06:00

As we sit here on the couch this morning, enjoying the lazy start to our Saturday, the doggy snuggle factor is exceedingly high. It's a good day, to be sure. With all of that warmth, here's today's Saturday Sixer:

Squeezed between him and her--heavenly!

My First Book--Scene Nineteen

2009-02-07T09:07:00.004-06:00

Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.

Go on. We'll wait for you.

Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Nineteen.

*******
Once again acquainting myself with the feeling of having a ring on my left hand might take a little time, but I intended to enjoy it. I waited in Dan’s office while he tended to his last two patients of the day. As we left for home, he told me the only way he got through lancing and draining a boil on the back of a hairy man’s thigh and removing stitches from the brow of a young boy who had recently tried to fly from the loft of his father’s barn was remembering the smile on my face when he slid the ring onto my finger.

We walked over to Knutson’s grocery so I could pick up a few items for our supper. Meatloaf played a starring role in the menu plans—hearty, filling, and one of Dan’s (and Ruth’s) favorites. We wanted to break the news of our engagement to Ruth before we told anyone else, and I just didn’t trust myself not to blab.

Dan walked in with Ruth draped across his shoulder—she had fallen asleep in his arms halfway home. He waved me off when I offered to take her, instead putting her to bed himself.

“It smells great,” he said, walking back into the kitchen.

While I chopped onion, garlic, tomatoes, and a green bell pepper, Dan leaned against the counter and watched. “Have you given any thought to when we might tie the knot?” he asked.

I peeled and cut up the potatoes and then mixed the meat loaf. “How ‘bout this Saturday?” I replied, patting the mixture into a loaf pan and edging it with potatoes. “I know the doctor ‘round here. I bet we could get him to look the other way about the blood test.” I smiled. With my fear of needles, I had once kidded that a blood test would be a deal-breaker.

He took the pan from me and slid it into the oven. Grinning smugly, he said, “I bet you’re right. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“That way, all we’d need to do is get the license and make sure the church is free.” I washed my hands and blotted them with a towel.

He took my hands in his, lightly stroking my knuckles. His look turned serious. “Are you sure about all this?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Too late. You’re stuck with us now.”

“No, no, no. That’s not what I meant. I just want to make sure that you’re ready. That’s all.” He led me to the living room, and we sat together on the couch.

I sighed. “Dan, I’ve thought about this for a long time. If I wasn’t ready to marry you, I would have told you that before you proposed. Don’t worry.”

His eyes softened, the worry erased. “Okay.”

“Besides, there’s no use in waiting too long to get married. We’re not young kids planning a big wedding. I figured it’d just be a small church ceremony.” Already, this wedding would have more planning than my first.

“Will there be a reception?” he asked.

“More to the point, will there be a honeymoon?”

He smiled, cradling the base of my skull with one large hand. “My, my. How quickly our mind turns to matters of physical pleasure.” His other arm wound behind my waist and pulled me close to him.

I batted him away, only half-seriously. “Daniel, that’s not what I was thinking about. I asked because—”

He loomed over me, his weight pushing me deep into the cushions and his mouth finding mine. “Maybe you weren’t thinking about it, but I was,” he said as he held my lower lip ever so gently between his teeth.

I surrendered to his kisses, tasting him, feeling how badly he wanted me. Much as I wanted to surrender to him, right there on the couch without wasting the time to walk to the bedroom, I heard Ruth stirring in her bedroom. I knew from experience that she would come wandering into the living room in the next few minutes.

“Dan, we’ve got to stop,” I said.

“We’re just getting started,” he whispered as he nibbled my earlobe. One of his hands caressed my breast with the lightest of touches.

I groaned. “Dan, Ruth’s up. She’ll be in here any minute.” I pulled away from him. “Please.”

He sighed and sat up, rubbing his lips. “I don’t hear anything,” he said. “Do I not keep your concentration?

I sat up and smoothed my dress. “That’s hardly true.” Trying to explain a mother’s sense of hearing was useless. The fact that Ruth walked in just then, Herman tucked under her arm, might have convinced him.

“Hi, Mama,” she said walking over and climbing into my lap.

I kissed her head, and Dan patted her knee. “Hey there, sweetie pie. Did you have a nice nap?”

She nodded but snuggled against me, still shaking the sleep from her system.

I hugged her and then deposited her on the couch. “Why don’t you help Dr. Dan set the table, and I’ll get our supper, hmm?” I said.

Ruth grabbed my hand before I could walk away. “Mama, what’s that?” she asked, pointing to the ring on my finger.

“Well,” I said, kneeling in front of her, “Do you remember you asked if I was gonna marry Dr. Dan? What would you think if I decided to do that? Would you like that?”

She jumped off the couch and bounced around in front of me. “Yes! Please, Mama!” She turned to Dan, her glee barely contained. “Are you gonna marry my mama, Dr. Dan?”

He wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Yes, your mama and I are going to get married,” Dan said.

“He gave me this ring and asked me to marry him. I said yes.”

Ruth held my ring finger in her tiny hands, twisting it gently to and fro as the light sparkled in the diamond. “Wow! Mama, that’s a pretty ring,” she finally said in a breathless whisper.

Dan beamed.

“When are we getting married?” Ruth asked.

“Saturday,” I said.

Ruth squealed.

“That’s exactly how I felt,” Dan said.

After supper, we went for a stroll through town. Ruth walked between us, holding hands with us both. We walked past the train depot on the way to the downtown square. As we approached it, Ruth announced, “That’s where my daddy worked before he went to the war. He worked on the big trains.”

“He sure did,” Dan said.

Ruth looked quizzically at him. “Did you know my daddy?” she asked.

“No, princess, I wasn’t here then.”

“Oh.” She thought for a minute. “Where were you?”

“I was still studying to be a doctor.”

“Did they have trains where you were?”

He laughed. “Yeah, they have trains there.”

After less than twenty minutes into our walk, Ruth pooped out and begged Dan to carry her. She continued her non-stop, one-sided conversation about whatever topic crossed her mind, but she laid her head on his shoulder as she talked. I motioned to Dan that we should head for home, knowing full well what would happen should we miss her bedtime.

“You go put on your nightgown, and I’ll tell you a story about a long-ago princess named Ruth,” Dan said as he plopped Ruth onto the couch when we got home.

“That’s my name!” she said. She sprinted into her bedroom, and Dan scooted down the couch, where I had picked up a book.

“How about a kiss?” he whispered.

I leaned over and was instantly lost in the taste of his mouth.

Ruth changed clothes in record time, and she streaked back into the living room and said, “Ooh, Mama and Dr. Dan are kissing!”

Dan sat up quickly. I laid a hand over my mouth, keeping the feel of his lips on mine and hiding a smile.

“That was fast,” I said.

“Come on, kiddo. How ‘bout I tell you the story while I tuck you into bed,” Dan said.

“Un-uh. Mama tucks me in,” Ruth said. She folded her arms across her chest and sat on the floor, pouting.

I gave her the skunk eye. “Ruth, don’t be rude,” I said.

“But you do tuck me in.” She stuck out her lower lip just a little more for effect.

“Ruth Alice Turner, do not argue with me. Go to bed,” I said. Oh, joy. The day had gone so well. I should have seen it. I should have known the whole day couldn’t end up ideally. Attitude had to show up at some point.

She pouted and stomped into her bedroom.

“I didn’t mean to cause a problem,” Dan said as I stood and stretched my back.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not you. She gets like this sometimes. She tries to push her limits. I just have to let her know where the line stops and what happens if she crosses it,” I said. “You’ll learn.”

Ruth reappeared with her hands balled on her hops. “You’re just mad ‘cause I saw you kiss Dr. Dan. Besides, I don’t want any stupid story!” She wheeled back into her room, slamming the door behind her.

I thought I knew perfectly well how I would handle a smart-mouthed teenager. That the mouth showed up ten years before I expected it caught me off guard. “Speaking of pushing the limits, she just did,” I said. I was absolutely fuming. “Forget the story tonight. Just stay right here. I’ll be back.” I marched into Ruth’s bedroom and shut the door.

Several minutes later, I walked back out to the living room.

“Everything okay?” Dan asked.

I stepped aside, and Ruth peeked out from behind my leg. “I sorry, Dr. Dan,” she said, wiping away a tear.

Dan masterfully hid a smile. “Thank you, Ruth. I accept your apology,” he said.

Ruth quickly retreated into her room, and I shut the door behind her.

“Guess the story’ll have to wait. Too bad. It was really good.”

I snuggled into his side. “Mmm. Another night.”

He wrapped his arms around me, holding me close. “Well, it’s getting late, and if I stay much longer, people might start to talk.”

In his arms, I felt safe, I felt secure, I felt loved. “I wish you didn’t have to go,” I said.

He unpinned my hair, and it cascaded over my shoulders. “Say the word, and I’ll stay, my love.”

I laid a hand on his chest. “Dan, you know we can’t.” We kissed goodnight, and I locked the door behind him.

Saturday Sixer

2009-01-31T08:00:00.000-06:00

Your poor planning cost jobs today.

Saturday Sixer

2009-01-24T08:00:00.000-06:00

Surviving that wreck? Totally your fault.

Saturday Sixer

2009-01-17T08:00:00.002-06:00

Okay, so here's a lesson in irony. I finally found my list of Saturday Sixers, and what am I posting here today? Hmm? Any guesses? That's right. This one is a new one I wrote Friday. HA! I'll use the others for future posts. As an aside, I'm aware ptomaine isn't really what's used to describe food poisoning now. Most readers should know it, I would think, and it fits.

Anyway. Enjoy.

Cooking lesson means no more ptomaine.

Thirteen Can be Lucky

2009-01-16T19:58:00.002-06:00

I continue to enjoy my tastiest Christmas present since I last left cookies and milk out for the fat man in the red suit (back when I earnestly believed in him). It's allowed me to find and read books I might not have seen in a store otherwise.

Before I go digging for freebies to load up tonight, I wanted, nay, felt compelled to share this heavenly little morsel. I know it's been a little over a couple of years since this book debuted, but thanks to Kindle, I just discovered it. On the off chance anyone else out there has been living under a rock (like I evidently have), better late than never, right?

The Thirteenth Tale is Diane Setterfield's debut novel, and it is absolutely amazing. Run, don't walk, to purchase this book. Kindle, hardback, paperback, audio CD, I don't care. Buy it. If you have to order it, check it out from the library to tide you over until it comes in.

The main character has spent her entire life in the company of old books and those who love them--but she comes with her own baggage. She has been chosen by Vida Winter, a reclusive writer, to write the author's biography. The journey on which Setterfield takes her readers digs into the furthest, darkest reaches of the pains of both women.

This novel is a mystery that balances a tightly constructed plot with beautiful imagery. I could describe her writing myself, but the narrator says it best:

There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic.

If you enjoy reading mysteries, this is a good choice. If you are a writer or if you have a deep appreciation for writing, writers, and their process, you'll love this book.

Lah, Lah, Laaaaahhh!

2009-01-15T19:36:00.007-06:00

The clouds parted, and the sun shone, a rainbow erupted into view, and the angels came forth with glad hallelujahs! Woo hoo!! It's been found! I've been doing a happy dance around my living room.

A little background first. I introduced y'all here to my Saturday Sixers. In a completely uncharacteristic move, I worked waaaay ahead and made out a long list of them one day. That ran well until I lost them. I continued writing them (because, good heavens I may lose papers but I'm not gonna use that as an excuse to give up) but never gave up looking for the original list.

Sure, the searching involved grumbling, complaining, accusing (which reminds me, I owe a very special someone an apology, I think), and--dare I say it--sorting and cleaning. No joy. Tonight, though...tonight was something special (see rainbows and sunshine above). On a completely unrelated search in a spot that I SWEAR I searched before, I found the list, along with another piece of paper I had been looking for for which I had been looking. Sorry, I just couldn't end the sentence with a proposition. It makes my left eye twitch.

All this to say that THE LIST IS BACK! It's going in a safe place for future use.

Saturday Sixer

2009-01-10T23:59:00.001-06:00

Hold my hand. Please don't leave.

My First Book--Scene Eighteen

2009-01-09T17:03:00.003-06:00

Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.

Go on. We'll wait for you.

Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Eighteen.

*******
I spent most of the night thinking about what Mabel had said and making up my mind. As the sun peeked over the horizon, a banty rooster raised his alarm from a perch near the barn, and I knew my decision was almost complete.

My trek along the lonely dirt road seemed preternaturally quiet for the first mile or so. Farmers surely were up and about by now, tending to the first of their chores for the day, but I heard no lowing cows, no songbirds chirping, no noise signifying anyone else within a mile of me had risen from their night’s sleep. Only the soft rustle of the cotton plants accompanied me until I crossed the last hill before reaching my final destination.

“Why are you out so early?” Clyde asked.

Startled to hear anyone else out, I turned to see him join me on the road. He had trekked across his field, evidently spying me minutes ago. “I could ask you the same question,” I said.

He smiled as I stopped to wait for him to catch up with me. “How’s that granddaughter of mine?”

“Hopelessly spoiled, I’m afraid.” I reached out to hug him, and he returned the gesture. “You still coming over for supper tonight?”

Clyde motioned down the road with an arthritic finger. “Got a standing domino game I’m headed to. After that, I’ll finish my chores and head on over. What you up to so early, girl?”

I took a deep breath. “I have an errand, but I got something I need to talk to you about.”

“What’s on your mind?” He raised a brow at me.

“I’ve met a man, and we’re getting serious. It’s taken me a—”

Clyde interrupted me. “Why you think you need to tell me this? You don’t owe me no explanation. You’re a grown woman.”

I stopped and took his hand. “Maybe not, but it’s important to me. I just felt like I owed it to you. I didn’t want you to think this means I loved Adlai any less.”

He slapped a thigh with his straw hat, examined the worn brim, and nodded.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t miss him,” I said.

“Lonesome, ain’t it? Even with little Ruthie, you just get lonesome for somebody else.” Clyde understood, perhaps better than anyone else, I thought, the pain I had felt. “Since my Ruth died, I’ve fought my own demons. You know all about that, I’m sure.” He didn’t wait for me to acknowledge that statement. “If you found someone that you love and that loves you, someone that makes you happy, then you’d be a fool not to take advantage.” He carefully replaced the hat on his head and looked me in the eye. “He asked you to marry him yet?”

“He’s hinted at it. I haven’t given him an answer yet.”

“Well, it’s your decision, but whatever happens, you’ll always be family, and you’ll always be welcome.”

We chatted as we walked together to the feed store, where I left my father-in-law to his domino game. I headed around the corner to the two acre fenced lot behind the little Methodist church, not knowing when I would ever again visit this memorial stone for a husband buried in a field in France.

My first stop after arriving at the train station in Willard? Dan’s office. The tiny bell attached to the top of the door tinkled, announcing my entrance. Minerva, Dan’s nurse, stuck her head out of one of the exam rooms. Her scowl quickly turned soft when she saw me.

“He’s with a patient right now, ma’am. Would you like to wait in his personal office?”

“Thank you, Minerva, yes,” I said, heading down the narrow hallway to the farthest closed door.
She held out a hand to Ruth. “I’ll watch her for you ma’am.”

Ruth dropped my hand like she’d been scalded and ran to help Minerva without even a backward glance. I smiled. “Thank you, Minerva,” I said.

Shutting the door behind me, I realized I had never been in this room before. Taking the time to engage in a little surface snooping gave me time to calm the butterflies in my stomach.

Minor chaos seemed to be the unifying theme. The office was cluttered with medical journals in various piles, charts in a mound on his desk, and textbooks crowded onto shelves. A skeleton stood on a rack in the corner behind the door—with Dan’s hat perched atop his head; I almost screamed when I saw that hideous thing but swallowed the emotion in time. His diplomas hung in places of prominence on one wall: a Bachelor of Science degree from Tulane University and a Doctor of Medicine degree from their College of Medicine.

Using the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door, I fussed for a moment with my hair, smoothed my dress, and then sat down to wait. I quickly gave up reading a nearby medical journal but not because of the first two paragraphs—in which I noted seven different words I would have needed a dictionary to understand. No, it was the illustration. Why would even a doctor need to see such things?

“I heard there’s a beautiful woman hiding herself in my office,” Dan said as he opened the door. “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, but I’m presently courting another woman.” He smiled and acted as though he might walk out again when I caught his arm.

“HA!” I said, pulling him back in. “I didn’t know you went to Tulane,” I said, motioning to the diplomas hanging in dusty frames on the wall.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said. He shut the door with his foot and swept me into his arms. “I had a scholarship, and an elderly uncle lived in the French Quarter. He let me live with him. Remind me to tell you about Crazy Uncle Larry sometime.”

I wrapped my arms around his waist and tilted my head up to kiss him. To my great relief, he did not make me wait. “I love you so much,” I said at the first opportunity—several minutes later.

“You can’t possibly know…” he said as he buried his face in my hair.

I backed away from him and held his hands in my own. “I’ve been thinking about what you said at Mabel’s and our little conversation at the café,” I said.

“Really?”

I walked over to the couch to sit, and he followed. “You’re right. Once I finally decided to date, I had to somehow know that marriage might also come along. It’s not right for me to drag you along like I have. You deserve better.”

“I don’t deserve as good as you,” Dan said, tickling my lips with his tongue. Oh, that certainly felt nice. Indeed, it did.

“Dan, I never thought I could love another man after Adlai. You, though, have been nothing but patient in your pursuit, and you’ve given me the time I need to make my decision.”

“What are you saying?”

I took a deep breath, surprised to feel my hands shake just a bit. “What I’m saying, Dr. Cosgrove, is this: Do you have anything you want to ask me?”

His jaw dropped, and I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling too much. He jerked up, turned from me, and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, there is.” He stepped past me and dropped into his chair. He rummaged through first one desk drawer and then another. He said, “You know, from the first time I saw you with Ruth, I knew you were a special woman.”

Dan stopped abruptly, smiled, and came back to sit next to me. “You intrigued me and captured my heart.” Taking my hands in his own, he said, “You are the only woman I want for the rest of my life. Yes, I have a question for you, something I want to ask you.” He knelt on the floor beside me and dug in his pocket. Between his thumb and forefinger, Dan held an engagement ring. My emerald and diamond engagement ring. He said, “Would you do me the most wonderful honor of being my wife? Will you marry me?”

I walked into his office knowing my response to this question, wanting more than almost anything for him to ask me, but it all still took my breath away. After several deep breaths, I said, “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He slipped the ring onto my finger. “I will always love you,” he said.

Organizing My Thoughts

2009-01-07T18:03:00.006-06:00

As my writing experience continues, I see just how much I've grown--or how much my writing appears to have grown on a number of levels. First of all, I recognized a need to work on dialogue (way too stilted and totally unbelievable in the beginning) and feel much better about it now. While I sense a continuing need to improve my powers of description of the setting, especially as it impacts the plot, I see definite improvement.

My process has evolved. I've tried writing without notes of any sort, just letting characters take the story wherever they chose. My writing process has, needless to say, evolved over time. For my first book (the one I'm serializing here), I worked out a list of scenes to move the plot along and thought out exactly how I wanted to tell a story--one that's been gallivanting around my brain for many years.

For my next book, I've already got lots of notes, a sketch of a plot diagram (you know, the whole exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, denouement thing...), and rough ideas for a few scenes. When listening to a writing podcast, though, I came across something interesting that really caught my attention: a plot skeleton.

A plot skeleton, as the name implies, is a framework. (Duh!) What's more, it is the framework that girds almost all those short stories, books, plays, and movies we love so much. It's more than just a plot outline. If you look here (a numbered list just over halfway down the page), for example, the author of this letter spells out the five major elements of successful fiction:

A protagonist
in a particular conflict
who faces a series of complications while trying to deal with the conflict
and then must deal with a serious crisis
that ultimately leads to a satisfactory resolution.

Longer fiction would likely repeat steps three and four at least a couple of times. Of course, darker fiction might not end in a satisfactory resolution, 'cause goodness knows most old fairy tales didn't end in a way that anyone could call happy.

Now, keep in mind that my summarization here has boiled down the author's point significantly. Go check out the whole letter, if you're interested. It's well worth the read.

I examined my newest book, the one that I'm in the process of starting, and realized that it follows this pattern quite nicely. To see how much I've learned in this whole writing process, to realize that it all is sinking deep in my gray matter and finding its way out through the ends of my fingers is most gratifying.

Saturday Sixer

2009-01-03T08:00:00.002-06:00

Since I didn't have a Saturday Sixer last week, I thought I ought to give you two this week. It's only fittin'.

Seeing him again, I wept uncontrollably.

I saw you, and I laughed.

My First Book-- Scene Seventeen

2009-01-02T08:00:00.003-06:00

Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.

Go on. We'll wait for you.

Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Seventeen.

*******
Almost a week later I still could not completely remember the police interview after the entire ordeal. Nor did I remember much about the trip to Mabel and Joshua’s farm outside of the little town of Clayton. I wandered the fields alone for hours at a time, picked yellow dandelion flowers with Ruthie, and sat on a rock outcropping at a nearby pond just staring into its serene depths until mosquitoes threatened to eat me alive. Having been briefly filled in on the situation by Lela, Mabel had not pushed me for information, choosing to simply take care of Ruth so I could be alone.

Intently focused on a dragonfly dancing along the water inches from my bare feet, I heard no one approach.

“You’re a difficult woman to track down,” Dan said as he laid a hand on my shoulder.
I jumped, not expecting to hear his voice—especially since I had not called on him before leaving town. Blocking the glare of the sun with my hand, I turned on my perch and smiled. Much to my surprise, I was completely relieved and thankful to see him. “I’m glad to see you,” I said before turning back to the pond.

“Are you?” Dan asked, sitting tentatively near me and careful not to touch me. “I only yesterday heard what happened. Are you…are you…okay?”

I shook my head. “I was so scared. I didn’t…he just…” I took a deep breath. “I only stopped shaking today,” I said.

He reached out, almost changed his mind, and then firmly and completely wrapped his arms around me. “I should have been there. I could have protected you,” he whispered into my hair.

I snuggled against his chest and breathed him in, smelling the faintest hint of rubbing alcohol overlaid with perspiration and road dust. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

“Did he hurt you?” The sound of his heart pounding in his chest almost drowned out this quiet question.

“Would it change the way you feel about me?”

He squeezed me until I thought I must surely break and planted a kiss on my head. “Nothing you could say would ever change how I feel about you.”

I took a deep breath, and through the tears that sprang up, told him the whole story.

Dan’s eyes broadcast his heart’s pain when I finally turned to look at him several minutes later. He sat quietly, holding my hands between his own, with his eyes locked with my own. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and he said, “I only wish you felt you could trust me enough to tell me when it happened. I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

“Dan, I—” I started to give him some excuse, an empty reason for leaving him in the dark, but I had none. For this man whose heart had slowly taken possession of my own, I could think of no decent explanation of why I left town without telling him.

“You feel safe here, don’t you?” He wiped the tear from his cheek and smiled.

“I suppose.”

“You feel Adlai here, and that gives you comfort.” He knew the truth.

I pulled my hands free and walked away without saying a word. The grass tickled my feet, but I could not smile.

Dan followed, trotting to catch up. He clapped a firm hand on my shoulder and spun me around. I tried to jerk away, but he held tightly.

“Chloe, don’t walk away from me again,” he said. “I’m not done talking to you.”

I took a deep breath and gave him the skunk eye; I wasn’t used to being spoken to so strongly.

“I never said there was anything wrong with you feeling comfort from being close to his family. You love them, and they love you. To tell the truth, I’m glad of it.” He lifted my chin with a finger. “I won’t ever try to take his place. Just give me a chance to love you.”

Tears pooled in my eyes, and I bit my lower lip.

He sighed and pulled me into a hug. “Come here,” he said. I collapsed into his arms and finally felt safe enough for an ugly cry. He seemed almost unsure what to do at this but simply held me tight. “I just wanted to know what it would take for you to feel that safe with me. I love you, and I want to protect you.”

I stopped crying for a moment and looked up at him. As much as I had begun to wish for it, he had never used the l-word before. “Dan?”

“Yes, damn it, I love you. I’ve known it for some time, but I didn’t want you to feel like I was trying to rush you. When this happened and all of a sudden you were gone, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. I love you, and I don’t want to lose you.”

“I love you too,” I said. Once, I had believed I would never again utter those words to another man the way I once had with Adlai.

He bent down to kiss my lips, pausing only to kiss the tears on my cheeks. Quite simply, that made my heart leap. I kissed him without reservation. “I shouldn’t have left without telling you. I don’t want to lose you either, Dan.” I reached up and ran fingers through his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere without you, Chloe.”

He did, in the end, leave without me. Only after extracting a promise that Ruth and I would return home within days, though. We parted on Mabel and Joshua’s porch. Tears pooled in my eyes, and he kissed my hand.

“When are you going to finally give in to that poor man?” Mabel asked as I shut the door behind me.

I flopped onto the couch and noticed Joshua pull his newspaper up, desperate to cut himself off from conversation. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

Mabel flipped the dishtowel she had been using over her shoulder and sat next to me. “You know exactly what I mean. Don’t play games with me, woman. He wants to marry you, doesn’t he?”
I could only nod and sigh.

“Why make him wait? Dan’s a good man. He loves you and Ruthie. The question is, do you love him?”

Joshua cleared his throat and stood abruptly, folding the newspaper carefully. “I think I’ll go check on the horses,” he said. “Goodnight.”

Mabel smiled and nodded. I busied myself picking at invisible lint on my dress.

“Well?” Mabel said after the door closed.

Tears welled in my eyes, and I nodded.

“Then why on earth won’t you say yes, Chloe?”

“It’s not as simple as before. I’ve got Ruthie to consider. She needs a father’s influence in her life, but I have mixed feelings about someone else taking that role. I mean, how would Adlai feel about that?”

Mabel laid a hand on my knee, and she took a deep breath. “Honey, that child never got the chance to know her father and how much he loved her, but you can’t let that keep you from loving someone else. It seems to me that Dan loves her more than anyone could expect him to love another man’s child.”

Deep down, I knew she was right. I also knew I loved Dan enough to spend the rest of my life with him.

“It also means letting go,” Mabel said quietly.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You have to stop thinking of yourself as Adlai’s widow and get ready to think of yourself as Dan’s wife. Honey, you don’t have to hurt like this. You have just as much right as anybody to be happy. Take it.”

My resolution

2009-01-01T00:00:00.005-06:00

For many years, I formulated resolutions for the new year that I wanted, in theory, to reach but knew I could not. The idea of setting myself up for failure time after time, year after year, is quite unappealing, though. Why do it? Because everyone else is? As my mother (and yours too, most likely) used to say, "And if everyone else was jumping off a cliff, would you do that too?"

What I've tried to do in the past few years is to make resolutions that I feel confident I can accomplish. It's not lowering the bar. It's making sure the bar isn't going to clothesline me as I leap over it. So, what's my big resolution? Thanks for asking! I've heard it's bad luck to share your resolutions, but I'll hope it simply serves to keep me honest.

I've finished book one (New Year's Eve was my deadline for that, and I beat it by almost two weeks), and I want to have at a minimum 75% of book two done--ideally, I want it finished, but I'll take 75%. I have some other, more personal resolutions. Only one or two of them are likely doable.
Find a way to increase my readership. If you're a reader here, pass the word.

May you all have a Happy New Year!

Ruh Roh!

2008-12-31T19:47:00.005-06:00

Like good ol' Scooby Doo, I had a big "ruh roh" last week. No, I didn't find a zombie hiding in my hall closet waiting to feed on my soul. Nope, no ghost, who really is just terribly lonely and wants a friend, is haunting my attic. Nothing that scary. I fell down on a pledge. Tuesday afternoon, I realized I posted no Saturday Sixer last Saturday. I let all that family-visiting, face-stuffing, gift-unwrapping fun get in the way. Mea culpa.

Since my beloved Red Raiders are playing in the last ever Cotton Bowl to be played at Fair Park on Friday, it's entirely possible I will still be focused more on celebration of the win (quick, let me find some wood to knock!). Just to make sure it doesn't get lost in the shuffle, I'll load it tonight.

Of course, if I hadn't lost that long list of Saturday Sixers I originally came up with, I wouldn't have any problem here. Grrr. I'm still looking for it. It's still hiding from me.

...And to All a Good Night

2008-12-24T13:54:00.005-06:00

Whether your idea of the ideal Christmas entertainment (sans rich food, presents, and over-the-top family excitement) tends toward this re-telling of a biblical story, Clement Clarke Moore's poem, a certain 1983 classic, or even this black and white classic, may you have a happy, meaningful Christmas.

Throughout the past couple of weeks, I've come across some fantastic Christmas blog entries that I'd like to share. This one brought back memories of my own phone call from Santa many years ago. The singing princess in this entry is better than sitting through any Christmas concert full of small children, except maybe in this bilingual concert (BTW, the video doesn't show up when viewed in Firefox--Safari, or even IE would work better). When it comes to "the Santa issue," this post really touched me. Of course, if you're interested in a fabulous (but more than a little sad) picture, go check out one angry baby. By all means, go and check out these fine folks.

Of course, it goes without saying that you should do this after you've finished checking out my stuff, right?

Merry Christmas, y'all!

My First Book--Scene Sixteen

2008-12-20T15:54:00.005-06:00

Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.

Go on. We'll wait for you.

Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Sixteen. It picks up immediately after scene fifteen leaves off. In fact, it's a continuation of the previous scene.

*******
“I’m afraid I cannot let it end that way, Chloe. I won’t.” His void, like his eyes, held no passion, no emotion whatsoever. The possibilities that introduced terrified me more than his presence. The clove oil in his pomade invaded my nostrils, and my eyes watered.

I took two giant steps back and sent up a silent prayer in thanksgiving that, under Lela’s supervision, Ruth was playing with Waylon Carl for the afternoon; I also lifted up a prayer for Max’s immediate removal. Only the first one seemed to hold, though.

He took off his jacket and draped it across a chair. Then, he methodically rolled up his sleeves, taking exquisite care to ensure unwrinkled, equal, and even cuffs on both. “I’ve thought about you every day since I first laid eyes on you. I’ve dreamed about you. I can’t stop thinking about you.” An air of dispassion pervaded all his actions, as though what was transpiring was simply a necessary occurrence—like brushing one’s teeth at bedtime or washing dishes after a meal.

“Max, what are you doing? You’re scaring me.” Try as I might, I could no longer keep my emotions completely in check. My eyes filled with tears, and I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Why couldn’t I hold myself together any better than this?

He took a step forward and stroked my hair. “My sweet, I didn’t want that. The last thing I ever wanted was to scare you,” he said.

I shuddered, his touch completely revolting. “Max, we hardly know each other. How can you be so sure you have such strong feelings for me?”

He smiled finally, but the smile held no warmth. The chill in the room could not be laid solely at the feet of early February temperatures and a poorly tended fire in the fireplace. “Would you have any coffee? It’s so cold out, and I could really use something to warm me up,” he said.

I nodded weakly and walked into the kitchen, my mind racing with ideas of how to escape and wondering where Waylon could possibly be—I expected him any minute to come fix my leaky kitchen faucet. Where the hell was he? I stalled as long as thought safe, knocking around in the kitchen, opening and closing doors and drawers, before I poured the coffee and took it to him.

“On the contrary,” he said, talking over my noises. “With all the conversations I’ve had with Jake, I feel I know you quite well. I’ve known you for so much longer than just one month. Meeting you in Clayton was my idea, you see. Jake had told me that you visited there about once a month, and he even told me that you’d be there that very weekend.” He took the coffee without a word of thanks, gulping it greedily. “He had no idea, mind you, of what I was thinking, but I already knew I must see you in person. That time we shared only confirmed what I already knew.”

Max reached out and took my head in his hands. Maybe he meant it to be a tender gesture. Under other circumstances, it might have been. He cradled the base of my skull in his palms. I struggled to move away, wanting desperately to be anywhere but here, but he would not release me. He tightened his grasp slowly, inexorably. He meant for me to know my place. “You’re finally mine,” he whispered as he leaned in and kissed me.

Simple fear and pleading be damned. Fire blazed. “I am not yours, Max. You can’t just claim me like a piece of property.” I jerked away from his grasp and wiped my mouth with my sleeve.

“No, of course you’re not property,” he said, grabbing me by the arm, “but I let you get away once. I won’t let that happen again.”

I had to buy time. With no idea whether or not I could escape from him, I needed time. If only Waylon would hurry and come to fix the leaky kitchen faucet. If I could stall Max, maybe Waylon could force him to leave. “We can still write to each other. I didn’t mean that.” My eyes darted around the room, and I desperately wished for someone to help me.

“Chloe, letters aren’t enough for me.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me against him. The fingers of his other hand, rough and calloused, wound through my hair and balled into a fist. I cried out in pain as a giant clump of hair felt as though it was about to completely detach from my scalp. “Very soon, we will be one, my love. You cannot leave me then.”

“Oh, God, please no!” I screamed, writhing in vain to escape.

His fingers closed tighter in my hair, and our noses nearly touched. I saw no life, no soul in his eyes. “Do NOT take the name of the Lord thy God in vain,” he screamed and threw me onto the couch.

“Max, please don’t. Max!” I pleaded.

“Chloe, I don’t want it to be like this. I love you. I don’t want to fight you,” he said. The same deadness lurked in his eyes, but his voice sounded as though he meant to be tender. Tender but firm. “I don’t want to fight you, but I cannot share you with another.” He toyed with the top button of my dress. “We will be one,” he said and ripped my dress open.

As the fabric of my dress rent in two, my heart dropped to somewhere south of my stomach. “Please don’t, Max.” Maybe if I made some sort of connection, found some way to talk him down from this, then maybe I would be able to escape. “Max,” I said, taking a deep breath and hopefully sounding more confident than I felt, “Max, you asked me not to take the Lord’s name in vain. I’m sorry I did that. Shouldn’t we wait, though, to…” I couldn’t even bring myself to say it without the bile rising in the back of my throat, “…to become one. Shouldn’t we be married first? In a church?”

Obviously, I had no intention of marrying him. God willing, I never intended to lay eyes on him after tonight if God delivered me from this situation. If I could just get him to—

“No. God wants us to be together, Chloe. Together, we will travel the—” His voice trailed off as his eyes, still showing no light or life fixated on my bared breasts. Was he drooling? I punched and kicked at him, desperate to escape.

He straddled me on the couch as I heard a knock at the door. “Chloe? You there? Lela reminded me ‘bout your faucet,” Waylon said.

Max leaned down and kissed me, thrusting his tongue into my mouth and trying to keep me from talking.

“Chloe?” Waylon called again.

“Help me!” I screamed, jerking my head away from Max. For this, he backhanded me. A jet of blood splattered from my lip and I cried out in pain. “Please help!” I didn’t care if he hit me again. I wanted out.

In the same instant, the front door flew open and the jamb splintered around the strike plate with the force of Waylon’s foot as he kicked it in. His eyes crazed in rage, Waylon lumbered into the room. He wielded his pipe wrench as a club, waving it over his head as he approached the couch.

Max may have raised an arm in defense, or he might have even turned to strike at Waylon. Since I buried my head in the nearest cushion, I don’t really know for sure. All I know is that I heard a sickening crunch as Waylon’s pipe wrench connected with some part of Max’s face, quickly followed by a thud. Suddenly, his weight was off me, and I was free.

Saturday Sixer

2008-12-20T15:49:00.002-06:00

In honor of having finished my first book, I thought I'd post a Saturday Sixer somewhat related. Enjoy!

*******

Could you ever want me again?

Status: Finished

2008-12-17T21:41:00.003-06:00

It's official: Draft work on my first book is finished! It's such a sense of relief to know that I've accomplished this goal. I'll continue to post bits here for those interested in knowing how the story unfolds.

Off and on for more years than I can even believe right now, I've been enmeshed in the world and lives of these characters. They've taught me important lessons about listening to characters to understand their motives and behaviors. Many times I would write a scene, struggling all the way, only to feel like the characters were standing with their arms defiantly crossed across their chests and looking at me like I had lost my everloving mind. And I had. Each time. If a character's personality wouldn't allow her to say something or do something, they taught me to pay attention to that.

I fully expect to learn even more as I continue to write. In fact, I already have extensive notes for the next book I intend to read. This is a fascinating journey, and I intend to squeeze every drop of learning from it.

My First Book--Scene Fifteen

2008-12-14T08:00:00.001-06:00

Saturday Sixer

2008-12-13T16:03:00.003-06:00

Up until now, all my Saturday Sixers have been fiction. I prefer them that way. It's really the whole point of this blog, after all. Today's is a bit different. Digging back into my past, I've come up with a six-word sentence that is the first (and likely only) non-fiction entry:

Christmas dog food--joke or lesson?

Automated Plot Creator

2008-12-11T16:48:00.006-06:00

Thanks to the Smart Bitches, I've spent way too much time at They Fight Crime! looking at randomly generated crime/mystery plots. They're completely outrageous and wholly hilarious.

A couple of my favorites:

"He's an all-American neurotic vampire hunter with a passion for fast cars. She's a brilliant bisexual hooker from the wrong side of the tracks. They fight crime!" and
"He's an impetuous hunchbacked sorcerer with a winning smile and a way with the ladies. She's a trans-dimensional renegade mermaid with her own daytime radio talk show. They fight crime!"

Now, before you make the point that I should be using the time to finish my WIP (I'm back to it as soon as I post this. Really.), that trans-dimensional renegade mermaid bit did send me to the interwebitudes for a discussion of just what, exactly, is trans-dimensional. I found a bit of reading that is a small beginning for some questions I have about time travel in science fiction. It should help with a sci-fi idea I have bouncing around in my head.

As promised, I'm off to do some of my own writing work now. After all, I'd better if I intend to keep my goal of finishing by December 31.

Saturday Sixer

2008-12-06T10:21:00.001-06:00

He laughed, "Santa's dead." I sobbed.

Update

2008-12-06T10:03:00.006-06:00

Looking at my list of posts this morning, I realized I've fallen down on the job of posting around here lately. Not good. Mea culpa. I'll post a new Saturday Sixer next, and then I'll look into adding a new book scene. Maybe some pithy musings of some sort. HA!

I originally wrote a whole long list of Saturday Sixers when I first came up with the idea. I was so proud of myself. Well, pride being what it is, it would seem that it's come back now to bite me with ginormous, blood-dripping fangs. I loaded several of them into Blogger to automatically post every Saturday. Last week's was the last one. I sat down to look for my nifty little list to load several more six-word sentences, and it is nowhere to be found. Grrr. Now I'm gonna have to really dig around and see if I can find it.

Falling down on the job because I don't have my list ain't gonna happen. Have no fear. New one is a comin'...

Saturday Sixer

2008-11-29T08:00:00.002-06:00

Nice pillow. Morning breath. Who's THAT?

Saturday Sixer

2008-11-22T08:00:00.000-06:00

How could you leave your child?

My First Book--Scene Fourteen

2008-11-18T14:37:00.006-06:00

Saturday Sixer

2008-11-15T08:00:00.000-06:00

First breath. Last. In my arms.

Armistice Day/Veteran's Day

2008-11-11T11:00:00.001-06:00

On November 11, 1918, the guns finally fell silent. The armistice, signed between the Entente Powers and the Central Powers, took effect "at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month." Our forebears laid down their arms on this day after so many millions of men laid down their lives in this Great War, this War to End All Wars.

As our own history tells us, of course, the ending of this war served only to foment the issues that led to further carnage a generation later.

May we all pause on this day to remember their sacrifice and the sacrifices of all men and women who have so bravely served our country. Thank a veteran today. One Veteran's Day a few years ago, I made phone calls and sent e-mails to the veterans I knew and thanked them for their service. It was a moving experience all around.

If anyone reading this is a veteran, I thank you.

Welcome!

2008-11-11T08:00:00.000-06:00

I've noticed, recently, a big upswing in traffic, and I'd like to welcome y'all. Hopefully, you'll come back again and again--and bring your friends. Kick back with a tasty snack and have a look around.

Drop me a line. Let me know what you think.

My First Book--Scene Thirteen

2008-11-10T17:16:00.010-06:00

Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.

Go on. We'll wait for you.

Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Thirteen (unless you're superstitious, in which case you can call it Fourteen. Don't make no never mind to me).

*******

This Christmas Eve held no promise of the next day’s celebration, no church service to attend. I only allowed Ruth out of bed long enough to add the baby Jesus to the manger scene, but she went right back with no prompting. Ruth was in her second week of whooping cough, and while her health seemed to be gradually improving, her temperature still hovered above one hundred one degrees, and she still battled debilitating coughs and occasional sneezing.

I plugged in the Christmas tree lights and sat on the couch, sipping a mug of hot cider. As I stared at the lights, I allowed my eyes to lose focus; the entire tree shimmered as a blurred mass of multi-colored lights. No one ornament or light existed. The popcorn string, a vague, white thread, wound snakelike through a sparkly blob. The green and red paper chain entirely disappeared. I wished for a Victrola record of Christmas carols but contented myself with the popping, crackling, and occasional hiss of the fire.

Quiet Christmases were certainly not usual for us, but Ruth’s contagion meant we could not afford to be around others. Ruth had eaten her final meal of the day some two hours ago, and I knew she was likely asleep for the night. I sipped the cider, relishing the warmth that spread through me.

A heavy knock at the door startled me, and I almost dropped my cup. Who would be out at this hour on Christmas Eve? “Who is it?” I asked, careful to set the cup in the middle of the coffee table.

Another knock, this one more insistent, was my only response.

“Coming,” I said. I crossed the room and opened the door to find Dr. Daniel Cosgrove standing on my front porch with both arms full.

“It sure is cold out here. Can I come in?” he asked, stomping his feet.

I threw open the screen door. “Come in, Dr. Cosgrove. Come right in.”

He rushed past me and headed right to the dining table, where he deposited his load. I hurriedly shut the door to keep in as much warm air as possible. “We weren’t expecting you tonight,” I said. “Is something wrong?”

Dr. Cosgrove swept his hat from his head and laid it in a nearby chair. “Had a Christmas delivery from the church. I volunteered to bring it over.”

“A what?” I asked.

He started removing pans from boxes and uncovering them. “Let’s see. Got a ham in here, some sweet potatoes, looks like green beans, carrots, a pecan pie, and ooh!” he looked up, a warm smile on his lips. “There’s some homemade rolls in here, and they’re still warm!”

I was flabbergasted. Having resigned myself to cold, meager leftovers, my stomach suddenly rumbled with a ferocity demanding hot, fresh food. I buried a fist in my belly and went to fetch plates. “Who is this from?” I asked, returning with two plates, an assortment of serving spoons, and two forks and knives.

“Just think of this as a Santa Claus delivery from the ladies of the church,” he said.

As an active member of the Women’s Training Union and other women’s activities in the church, I seriously doubted the veracity of his story. After all, preacher’s sister or not, Beverly Myers wanted credit for any such undertaking and would insist on conducting such an operation in person.

“Well, I certainly can’t eat all of this, and unless she wakes up coughing, Ruthie’s out for the night. Do you have somewhere to go, or would you like to stay and eat with me?” I desperately wanted company; specifically, I wanted his company, this evening.

He shed his coat, scarf, and gloves and said, “I thought you’d never ask.” While I brought in tea, he filled our plates.

“I must say, it’s so nice to have some company tonight, Dr. Cosgrove. I was afraid I’d be alone. Thank you,” I said.

He laid his fork on the side of his plate and said, “Listen, if we’re gonna share a meal, we should dispense with the formality. Please, call me Dan.”

I smiled, feeling at ease. “Then you’d better call me Chloe. I thought you’d be with family tonight, Dan.” A truthful statement, but still fishing a bit, I had to admit. I should have been prepared for his returning honesty.

“My parents are both dead, and my sister moved to Oregon with her husband. I’m on my own here.”

His matter-of-fact manner surprised me. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea,” I said. My last bite of food hung in my throat.

He shook his head and laid a hand on my arm, his touch light. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. My parents have been dead for a good number of years, and my sister is ten years older than I am, so we didn’t really grow up together.”

His thumb traced back and forth across my wrist while his smile, oh, goodness, that smile, melted my heart. I knew next to nothing about this man, so why could his slightest touch and the tiniest quirk of his mouth move me so much?

“To answer the other question you haven’t asked, I’m also unmarried. Never been down the aisle, in fact.”

I choked on a chunk of ham, and Dan was obliged to whack me between the shoulder blades several times before I could breathe again. Evidently my interest in him was more transparent than I thought. “Thank you,” I whispered. Tears streamed down my face, but I tried a feeble smile.

“So, I understand you are a seamstress?” he asked, changing the subject. “Not many women around here go out and start their own businesses.” He helped himself to another roll.

“I am,” I said. “After my husband passed, I had to work, and I knew how to sew. I didn’t want to leave Ruthie during the day, so working from home seemed a natural choice. It started out really small, but I’ve gradually been able to increase my business.” I smiled, not exactly filled with confidence but more with a relaxation. “In the interest of full disclosure, my parents and sisters moved back to Arkansas three years ago, but I am quite close to my husband’s family. His twin sister—you know Lela Pitler, don’t you? —she’s my best friend.”

He nodded. “Got a cute kid. Sure is a spitfire.”

I laughed, careful not to spit sweet potatoes across the table. “You’ve no idea!”

We ate in silence for a time. I listened for Ruth’s stirrings and was relieved, for a growing number of reasons, that she seemed to be sleeping soundly.

“Whoever cooked all this did an amazing job,” I said, finally breaking the silence.

“Thank—uh, I’ll be sure to pass the word along,” he said. He took an exaggerated amount of time to wipe his mouth with his napkin. I noticed it could not cover his involuntary grin.

I brewed a pot of coffee after the meal, and we retired to the living room. Illuminated only by the multicolor lights of the Christmas tree and the roaring log fire, we settled side by side on the couch. We laughed about stories he told from his college years; he even showed me a scar on his hand from a splinter he had one summer. “It was three inches long! And you want to talk about something that hurt? Oh wow! Right in the meat, here under my thumb. It sheared right off that log I was working and—” He rubbed his scar with the thumb of his other hand and smiled sheepishly. “Got a little carried away there. Sorry,” he said.

Conversation turned more subdued, and as the fire began to die, I rose to add a log. “It’s getting late. I should probably get home,” Dan said, unfolding himself off the couch.

I stood the fireplace poker in its stand, sorry to see our time together drawing to a close. “I can’t tell you how I’ve enjoyed the evening, Dan. Thank you.” I turned to face him. “And thank you for a wonderful supper.”

“Next time you an cook for me,” he said, his hand resting lightly on my arm.

The feel of his skin on mine aroused spontaneous warmth I had not expected, had not felt in such a very long time, and my breath caught in a staccato rhythm. He caressed my cheek with the backs of his fingers, and I leaned in to his touch, willing him to continue.

That first kiss, new and filled with the excitement of the unknown, dissolved everything as his lips touched mine. Flocks of butterflies lurched about in my stomach. So tender at first, his touch warmed me, sparking an ember deep inside me.

In Dan, I learned what it was to kiss a man confident in himself and in what, or who, he wanted. Had my mind been fully capable of thought at the moment, I would have seen the difference between what I had and what, evidently, was mine to have. His kiss grew more ardent, and I allowed myself to become lost in the moment, reveling in the attention and the passion.

Minutes later, he nibbled my lip and with a smile in his voice, he said, “I hope you’ll allow me to see you again.”

Reality flooded back. Gone from my mind were the passion and intensity. I broke the embrace and stepped away, crossing my arms. “Dan, I’m not certain I’m ready for this.”

“If you weren’t ready,” he said as he followed me and laid his hands on my shoulders, “you wouldn’t have invited me to stay for supper, and you wouldn’t have reacted like you did when I kissed you.”

Hot tears rose in my eyes. He turned me around, held my chin on his fingers, and captured my gaze in his own, refusing to look away.

My voice shook. “I’m scared.”

He enveloped me in his arms. “I promise you, Chloe, I won’t rush you.”

Saturday Sixer

2008-11-08T08:00:00.001-06:00

What do you mean, Uncle Daddy?

My First Book--Scene Twelve

2008-11-06T09:00:00.001-06:00

Ten Word Tuesday

2008-11-04T17:22:00.003-06:00

I've got the Saturday Sixers going on, but I saw this Ten Word Tuesday on iambossy and knew I had to try it (I also left it in her comments). Here's mine:

First election choices: Bush, Clinton, Perot. And I voted for…

My First Book--Scene Eleven (b)

2008-11-04T09:00:00.000-06:00

This particular scene runs quite long, so I've divided into two different posts. This is the second of the two posts

As before, instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.

Go on. We'll wait for you.

Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Eleven, part two.

*******
I stood back, ushering them in with relief. “Please, come through. Ruth is in her bedroom. Right this way.”

“I appreciate you coming so soon,” I said. “She had a temperature of one hundred three degrees last night. I believe it may be a bit higher this morning, but I’ve not checked yet.”
Ruth, snuggling with Herman as we walked into her room, stared at the doctor, her eyes wide with fright.

“Ruthie, this is Dr. Cosgrove. He’s come to see what he can do to make you feel better,” I said.
She scooted sideways across her bed, inching away from us and doing her best to plaster herself against the wall.

“Good morning, Ruth,” Dr. Cosgrove said, addressing his patient directly. “Your mommy tells me you’ve been coughing since last night.”

Still clutching her bear to her chest, she nodded. She coughed into his fur and whooped in an effort to catch her breath.

The doctor withdrew his stethoscope from his bag and sat on the side of her twin-sized bed. “I need to listen to your lungs,” he told her as he placed the earpieces in his ears, “and I need you to breathe as normally as possible, okay?”

She nodded and took two full breaths before coughing again.

“Any other symptoms before the coughing?” he asked me. After listening to her lungs and heart, he palpated lymph nodes and looked in her nose, mouth, and ears.

“She was sneezing some yesterday evening,” I said.

Minerva, Dr. Cosgrove’s nurse, had stood quietly at his side, but she began digging in his bag as I spoke. “Will she take a thermometer in her mouth?” she asked.

“Most of the time,” I said. “As long as she doesn’t start coughing, I think she’ll be fine.”

“If it is whooping cough, we can expect the temperature to be elevated for some time,” the doctor said. “Of course, she’ll be quite contagious, so it’s important you not let anyone else around her. You must stay away from others, as well, while she is sick.” He returned the stethoscope to his bag and motioned for me to join him in the doorway as the nurse took Ruth’s temperature.

“There’s a test I need to do to confirm this is whooping cough. I’ll have to swab the inside of her nose, and she’ll likely fight it; you’ll need to restrain her.”

I nodded, not at all looking forward to the fight to come. “Is there anything she can take to get through this?” I asked.

He shook his head. “The only thing I can suggest is to dose her with wild black cherry bark syrup to lessen the coughing. I brought some, just in case,” he said. “Also, when she coughs, make sure she’s sitting up. She may strain with the coughing and vomit, so that’s safest.”

“Already has,” I said.

Dr. Cosgrove nodded. “Nothing heavier than broth, then. Feed her in small portions through the day.”

“One hundred three point six degrees, doctor,” the nurse said.

“Thank you,” he said and turned back to me. “A fever is the body’s way of fighting infection, so I’m not too worried about it right now. If it gets much higher, though, you’ll want to bathe her in cold water and swab her body with alcohol to keep her cool.” Turning back to the nurse, he said, “Get me a culture swab, please.”

I sat on the bed and gathered Ruth into my arms. “Honey, the doctor needs to put this in your nose. It’ll tickle, but you must sit very still, okay?”

Dr. Cosgrove knelt beside the bed with the swab in his hand. “Mrs. Turner, I’ll need you to hold her arms and legs down and keep her body still while I do this.” He turned to Ruth and asked, “Are you ready?”

Not surprisingly, she turned away from him laid her cheek against my shoulder, and began whimpering. I sat on the side of her bed, taking her onto my lap and wrapping my arms around her arms and legs when she began to wriggle away. She screamed and fought unsuccessfully to escape. As Minerva held her head steady, the doctor swabbed one of Ruth’s nostrils quickly but thoroughly. He sat back, and I took that as my cue to loosen my grip; Ruth immediately buried her face in my breast and, crying, began coughing again.

I smoothed her hair, running my fingers through her soft curls, and kissed the top of her head. “It’s all over, Ruthie. It’s okay. We’re all done, sweetie,” I said, trying to soothe her. A tear slipped down my cheek, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Mama’s right here. Shhh. You’re gonna be just fine, baby.”

Dr. Cosgrove laid a hand on my shoulder. “I’d go ahead and give her the syrup. I’m afraid it’ll be a while before the culture is ready, though.”

“Thank you, doctor,” I said as I shifted Ruth onto the bed and kissed her cheek, promising her that I would return soon.

Ruth continued coughing, whooping in great gulps of air when her lungs completely emptied.

As I stood, Dr. Cosgrove walked back to Ruth’s bedside, rummaging in his pocket. Though she continued to cough, she was not too ill to recoil in fear when he neared her.

He smiled, his eyes softening as he knelt beside her. “I promise I won’t hurt you,” he said as he patted her on the knee. “Here.” He pulled a hand from the pocket on his white coat. “Am I forgiven if I give you this?” he asked, producing a peppermint stick, his peace offering.

She looked up at me, her eyes questioning. “Can I, Mommy?”

I nodded. “What do you say, Ruthie?”

Her nearest hand shot out and grasped the candy. “Thank you,” she said as she wrapped her lips around the tasty treat.

“You are quite welcome,” he said and then turned to me. “The peppermint will also soothe her throat for a time. It’s a bit messy, but it does the job.” He smiled, ruffling her hair and patting the top of her head.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Cosgrove,” I said, truly grateful for his prompt help and caring bedside manner. I looked at Ruth and noticed her coughing had temporarily ceased.

“My pleasure,” he said. Looking around, he said, “Minerva’s left the syrup on your dining table.” He turned to leave, I noticed Minerva already standing by the door, but then he stopped. “One other thing. Assume this is whooping cough we’re dealing with here. You’ll remember how contagious I told you this is, so please do not take her around anyone until after the whooping has stopped for at least twenty-four hours, and make sure she doesn’t still have a fever.”

“Of course. I’ll see to it,” I said.

My First Book--Scene Eleven (a)

2008-11-02T09:45:00.005-06:00

This particular scene runs quite long, so I've divided into two different posts.

As before, instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.

Go on. We'll wait for you.

Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Eleven, part one.

*******
I woke with a start sometime in the predawn hours. Ruth was coughing, but what woke me was a far more disturbing, foreign accompaniment: a high-pitched whoop. I threw back my blanket and sprinted to her bedroom.

Ruth sat up in bed, coughing violently and struggling unsuccessfully to breathe. I flipped the light switch as I raced into her room, and the look of terror in my daughter’s eyes as she wrapped her arms around herself, struggling unsuccessfully to breath between coughs, broke my heart. As her lungs completely emptied, Ruth sucked in a large volume of air with a whistling whoop.

She breathed several shallow times before coughing again and crying, “Mama, Mama.”

I rushed to her side and scooped her into my arms. “Mama’s here, precious. Mama’s right here. It’s okay. Don’t worry.” I cradled her, frightened and fevered as she was, and rocked back and forth on the bed as more spasmodic coughing again racked her tiny body. The characteristic whoop of the cough paralyzed me with fear.

Unsure what was happening, Ruth tried to cry, and tears coursed down her face, but sobs only started the coughing afresh. I struggled to calm her. She strained against my arms, needing desperately to control her little lungs. After more than ten minutes of coughing, Ruth vomited all over herself and me.

As she always had, Ruth cried at this, apologetic for making such a mess. My poor baby was exhausted, and twin rivers of snot ran down her lip.

I kissed the top of her head. “Honey, it’s okay. You don’t worry about any of this, sweetie. Mommy’s gonna get all this taken care of.” I wiped her face with the small spot still dry on my gown and picked her up, gingerly balancing a precarious hold on my gown with one hand and my grip on her with the other.

We made our way to the bathroom, where I stripped us both to our bloomers and planted Ruth on the toilet lid. Wide-necked gowns with generous, buttoned necks made the task considerably less hazardous with a minimum of mess. I wet a bath rag with cool water, squeezed the excess from it, and laid it on Ruth’s face. “Take some deep breaths, baby,” I said as I wiped her face.
I dug a thermometer out from the back of the medicine cabinet, praying silently that Ruth would hold it in her mouth without a fuss. I had no idea where the other thermometer was, and her face, hot to the touch, told me the fever was high.

Shaken by the entire episode, Ruth accepted the thermometer without question, and I went to retrieve clean gowns for both of us while she sat meekly on the side of the tub. I re-dressed quickly and checked her temperature—one hundred three degrees—before slipping her gown over her head.

“Come on, Ruthie. Come with Mommy,” I said, picking her up.

“I’m scared, Mommy,” she said, her voice a ragged whisper. “I don’t wanna throw up again. I’m scared to cough, and my throat tickles.”

I patted her back. “Ruthie, it’s okay if you do. Don’t get too scared. That’ll just make it worse,” I said.

She leaned limply against my chest and was almost asleep again before I laid her next to me in bed. Ruth woke three more times before sunrise with her coughing fits, not to mention the coughing while she slept; I barely even dozed.

By seven that morning, one touch of her forehead told me her temperature had raised since the previous night. Ruth sat sleepily in my lap as I took down her pin curls and brushed her hair. Even so, convincing her to lay on the couch with Herman while I cooked our oatmeal took no effort on my part. She endured several more coughing fits, but her breakfast’s heat seemed to soothe her, at least for the time being.

I opened the front curtain, the usual signal to Lela for our morning coffee, and waited by the door. She arrived minutes later, and I met her on the porch. “Ruthie’s sick,” I said without prelude.

She stopped on the first step. “What is it?” she asked.

“I think she’s got the whooping cough. It started last night, and she just had another fit. She couldn’t hardly catch her breath.” I crossed my arms, tucking my hands in my armpits, though it offered no help against the biting cold.

Lela backed away. “I’ll have Waylon go fetch the doctor for her. It may be a bit before he can get here, though. What can I do to help?” she asked.

“Thank you. We’re fine for now. I’ll keep an eye out for the doctor.” I sniffed, my nose running from the cold. My eyelids throbbed from exhaustion, but the cold roused me.

“Give Ruthie a kiss for me,” she said, calling over her shoulder as she scurried back across the street.

I nodded and hurried back into the sheltering warmth of the house. After settling Ruth in bed again, I took our gowns to wash. A knock at the door as I wrung the last of the water from my gown brought some small measure of relief. Drying my hands on a towel, I hurried past Ruth’s bedroom and opened the door.

Dr. Cosgrove stood on the porch, and his nurse, who had accompanied him, stood behind him. He removed his hat and said, “Mrs. Turner? I’m Dr. Daniel Cosgrove, and this is my nurse, Minerva. I’ve been told you believe your daughter to have whooping cough. May we come in?”

Final: 39-33!!

2008-11-01T22:54:00.003-05:00

This just in: Texas Tech Red Raiders have just pulled up an amazing upset. In the final seconds of what has to be one of the most exciting college football games I have ever had the privilege of watching, #7 ranked Texas Tech beat #1 ranked University of Texas Longhorns 39-33. How sweet it is!!!

Wreck 'em, Tech!

Music I Can Write To

2008-11-01T13:57:00.007-05:00

When I write, I often look for music I can have playing on my earphones. I'll play the song over and over. Always it should be something that can drown out background noise. Sometimes, like when I listen to this, it's just because I like listening to drum lines. Or maybe a particular song strikes my fancy.

This little ditty, which I concede might drive others bat-shit crazy (I can see how it might, really, I can), has been a favorite of mine since childhood. I can, and have, listened to it for hours on end because it does a fine job of drowning out background noise, but it does something else for me: it does a remarkable job of putting me in a historical state of mind (quite handy since my book is set in the 1920s). It's what's on iTunes for me right now.

It does bring to mind a thought, and thus, a one sentence story:

I always hear her perfectly sculpted nails clicking on the ivories whenever listening to "Music Box Dancer."

**Side Note: The Grammar Nerd in me requires that I change the title to "Music to Which I Can Write." I almost did make the change because I know it's grammatically correct, but today it just sounds like someone's got her panties in a twist. Thus, it stays.**

Halloween Update

2008-11-01T09:18:00.003-05:00

The candy handout was significantly reduced (less than one honkin' big bag) from last year (more than three honkin' big bags). I really thought the economy would mean more kids out looking for free candy.

On the BIG upside, no teenagers seeking to wreak mischief kept me up all night worrying and wondering. What does this mean for you, dear readers? Why do you care that my dwelling escaped tping, egging, and paint ball splattering? Why, thank you for asking. See, I'm well rested and plan to spend the rest of the day writing--not sleeping.

But wait, there's more! Tonight's the end to daylight savings time and I get an extra hour this evening! WOO HOO!!!

You can go back to eating your candy and loving your sugar high. Have fun. Anybody want another SweeTart? Yech! I've got plenty left over.

Saturday Sixer

2008-11-01T08:00:00.001-05:00

We built memories for a lifetime.

Conversing with Characters

2008-10-27T21:31:00.003-05:00

I've got a particularly difficult set of scenes at the end of my book--the climax and beginning of the falling action. A character has shown up that I've written for before, one that I knew would be there, one whose presence is crucial to resolving the conflict of the novel, one who I know fairly well.

The writing I've been doing this evening brought me to a realization: He's one hard-headed Texan. This character has very strong ideas about what he's going to say and what he steadfastly refuses to say, about what he will do and what he digs in and refuses to do. I have tried to force the issue, but the writing opened up and flowed smoothly when I stopped talking and started listening. He's more stubborn than other characters, and he's not in this story very much, but he still manages to teach me. Now, I just have to apply those lessons to the rest of the book.

Thank you, Adlai.

My First Book--Scene Ten

2008-10-26T14:35:00.003-05:00

Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.

Go on. We'll wait for you.

Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Ten.

*******
December 1921

My mouth watered at the thought of tonight’s shepherd’s pie. The pound of minced lamb lay safely wrapped in butcher paper in the bag Ruth carried. I bundled my coat tighter against the stiff north wind and watched her as we walked. She had insisted on carrying the load for me and now struggled awkwardly with it. While my toes went numb in my shoes, I welcomed the deep chill of the December air—a prologue to the Christmas season. Maybe Ruth would not outgrow the sweater I had knit before she got a chance to wear it.

The remains of the smothered fire enveloped the front room of the house with a comfortable hint of its warmth as we walked into the house. Ruth carried her package to the kitchen as I added logs to the fire and stirred it back to life.

Finally, for the first time since Ruth’s birth, I had been able to assemble my nativity scene without worry that she would tear it apart. Her incessant questions, however, might drive me to pull out every last strand of my hair.

“Mommy, can I put the baby Jesus in now?” Ruth asked. “Please?”

I turned from the fire. “Sweetie, that’s not until Christmas Eve, remember?” I said.

“Maybe just for a little bit? No one will notice,” she asked, continuing the pattern established since we first set out the scene a week prior.

“Ruthie, we’ve been over this. Baby Jesus was born on Christmas. That’s why we set it out late on Christmas Eve night.” I pulled a stray bit of hair behind an ear.

“But Mommy, the wise men look so sad. And Mary looks like she’s crying because her baby isn’t with her. We don’t want Mary and Joseph to be sad, do we?” Why did she have to use her father’s big eyes when she begged?

I almost relented. Almost. Then, inspiration struck. “Why don’t you color me a picture? That would be really nice.” Fortunately, her attention span suffered this shift. I left her to coloring and began preparations for the meal.

Ruth sighed, pulled her box of eight crayons and Big Chief tablet out from under a chair, and set to her work. “Fine,” she said with a huff. I already knew not to wish away her childhood, as her attitude already told me we would butt heads.

The five foot spruce stood in the far corner of the living room, strung with popcorn—several kernels were missing, I noticed—red and green paper chains, and what few ornaments I had collected.

Minced lamb already browned with garlic and onions and with the potatoes cubed and set to boil, I had just begun grating cheese when I heard Ruth sneeze several times.

“Ruthie, you okay?” I called over my shoulder.

“Okay, Mommy,” she said.

Maybe she got too cold on the walk home. I wondered if we should eat our supper by the fire. I lit the oven and walked into the living room to check on her.

Ruth lay on her stomach on the floor, exactly where I had left her, coloring a picture of the two of us standing in front of our Christmas tree. “Whatcha got there, punkin?”

“I drew it my own self,” she said as she kicked her feet back and forth.

“It’s very pretty. Can Mommy put this put on the wall?” I asked.

She laid her green crayon next to the paper and tapped her lips with an index finger, considering. “Can I choose where?” she asked.

I took the picture and led her by the hand. “Where would you like to hang it?”

She walked into my bedroom and pointed to the wall above my nightstand—a spot right behind my picture of Adlai in his uniform.

She nodded vigorously, and as I tacked the picture to the wall, she sneezed several more times. Now, I began to worry. Ruth had no allergies and was rarely sick. Why did I have to let her traipse through town when it was so cold outside? Clearly, the frigid temperature had made her sick. I dug a handkerchief from my pocket. “Blow,” I said, applying it to her nose, and she obliged.

“Supper will be ready soon,” I said, wiping her nose and stuffing the handkerchief back into the pocket on my apron.

Ruth shrugged and went off in search of Herman.

After supper, of which I ate too much by half, I bathed Ruth and dressed her hair in pin curls. We read a story, and when I kissed her goodnight, her skin was warm to the touch. Maybe she was still warm from the bath. Please, I thought, please let that be the problem.

I half listened for Ruth’s stirrings and sat down to read the day’s mail. My mother’s letter caught me up on the latest goings-on with the family farm—good soil, favorable weather that brought a harvest sizable enough to pay their debts, thank goodness, and a church social. Mabel’s letter shared stories of her children. Emily let me know in her own letter that she would come through town on her way back to college in Austin after her Christmas break.

The real surprise, though, was the letter from Max Whitman. Since our meeting at Mabel and Joshua’s house, I found myself wondering about him and seriously considering the option of writing a letter to him. Maybe this would be my incentive to write a return letter. He said, "Chloe, I hope you do not find me presumptuous in the writing of this letter, but you have lately been on my mind.” I had to admit that he’d been on my mind as well. “Since we met those weeks ago, I have remembered our conversations and have wanted so much to get to know you better. Your emerald green eyes have captivated my heart, and were my eternal soul not already spoken for, you would have that, too, should you but ask.”

Wow. The tone of the letter, certainly more zealous than I would have expected, shook me slightly. I continued reading. After all, his words could simply be written up to a passionate nature. “How often I find myself neglecting my studies to remember our all-too-brief encounter. Your words are like honey, your visage a priceless treasure.”

Okay, now that was completely over the edge. My words were like honey? My visage was a—what was a visage, anyway? I might laugh at it all, the sheer absurdity of his words, were they not somehow so completely unsettling. They were unsettling, and yet, there was more.

“Should you share the desire for more, I beg that you would write back to me. I truly believe we could develop a friendship, or dare I hope, even more. I shall eagerly await hearing from you. Hopefully, Max Whitman.”

More? I didn’t even want to contemplate what he might mean from that. This letter certainly sounded like nothing I would expect from someone in school to make a preacher, that’s for sure.

His neat handwriting with its bold strokes emphasized his emotion and the passionate plea. I could not deny some initial interest in him, in getting to know him better. Truth be told, our first conversation—really, our only conversation, left me with feelings I had believed long since extinguished. What he said in this letter, though, these words frightened me. He sounded too interested.

I already fought feeling a certain amount of disloyalty towards Adlai in my thoughts for Max; this new discomfort, though, coupled with not relishing the idea of becoming involved with a career military officer, made my decision for me. I would write a polite but firm letter disabusing him of any notion of my interest in him.

Saturday Sixer

2008-10-25T08:00:00.006-05:00

What happened to you, Lawrence Exeter?

Six Words

2008-10-25T08:00:00.004-05:00

As much as I love the novel-writing process, what with the opportunities for building characterization, plot twists, the longer narrative structure, and what not, there's just something about a miniature story that has captured my interest. The way an author can introduce characters, imply a conflict and plot, and leave the reader with an opportunity to infer a resolution in such a short space is incredibly intriguing.

Now, I'm not talking about a run-of-the-mill short story (though I do have one that I'm working on right now). I'm referring to something like Hemingway's Six Word Story, which he reportedly thought was his best work. I've had my own issues with Hemingway's longer works, but I'm still willing to learn, still willing to try. (By the way, I couldn't finish To Have and Have Not--got farther into it than Old Man and the Sea, but still...)

I've written some one sentence stories here before, but never anything this short. If nothing else, trimming down significantly forces me to surgically remove excessive verbosity, to ruthlessly excise anything not absolutely necessary and to polish what's left.

So many blogs have theme days, Wordless Wednesday, Thursday Thirteen, & etc. You get the idea. I'm gonna try my own: Saturday Sixers. A six-word story on Saturday. Only Saturday. After all, it can't be a Saturday Sixer if it's on Tuesday, now, can it? No, I didn't think so.

My First Book--Scene Nine

2008-10-22T11:00:00.001-05:00

Instead of giving a long list of links for you to read the previous scenes in my book, might I point you to the "Categories" at the left? Mosey down to "my first book--scenes", click there and scroll down to wherever you have to start.

Go on. We'll wait for you.

Back? Okay. Without further ado, I give you Scene Nine.

*******

I relaxed in Mabel’s rocking chair after supper, a battered Zane Grey mystery resting on my knee. Clyde dozed in a chair with Ruth curled in his lap. A knock at the door startled him awake.

“Wonder who that could be?” Joshua said, already crossing the room to open the door.

“Anyone here taking in wayward travelers, kind sir?” the man at the door asked quietly.

“You get right in here!” Joshua said, grabbing him by the arm. “Look who’s here!” he exclaimed as Jake followed him into the house.

A man none of us knew walked in behind Max. He stepped tentatively through the door and stood near the wall. We all jumped and hurried to greet the youngest Turner son and his friend.

“This is Max Whitman,” Jake said, throwing an arm around his friend. “He and I room together at seminary. Max, this is my family. Part of them, at least.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet y’all. Jake speaks very highly of you,” Max said. His hair was an unruly, mousy brown mop, and freckles painted his face in giant blotches. Even still, I thought he was cute—in a highly unconventional way.

With hands shaken and introductions made all around, Mabel disappeared into the kitchen to fix the two men a late supper. The children climbed all over their Uncle Jake, who collapsed onto the floor in a laughing, wrestling heap, like a troop of wild monkeys. Much later, after Ruth and Mabel’s son Michael were falling asleep on the floor, I took them upstairs, put them to bed, and quickly fell asleep myself.

Morning coffee with the rest of the house still tucked safely in bed and children quietly tucked away upstairs brought a relaxed smile to my face. I poured a steaming cup and stepped outside to watch the sun rise.

As the palette of the new day exploded across the eastern sky, Max strolled around from behind the house. “One of the Creator’s great masterpieces, don’t you think?” he asked, leaning his forearms across the railing.

I turned, startled from my reverie. “I had no idea you’d stayed the night,” I said. I had sought solitude to gather my thoughts before the day’s start. Less than a full dose of caffeine? Not a good start to my day. Still, manners required polite conversation.

“Slept on the couch.” He scrubbed his fingers through his hair.

I sipped my coffee. “How long are you on break, Mr. Whitman?”

He smiled simply and vaulted onto the porch. “Please, call me Max,” he said.

I watched him, stunned into momentary silence. Mabel would have boxed Jake’s ears for such a stunt, but this man, this Max, thought nothing of it. What kind of man was this, anyway? “Since we’re obviously not standing on formality,” I said, offering my hand, “then you may call me Chloe.”

He took my hand and brushed a kiss across my knuckles. My breath caught in my throat. “We must return for classes by Wednesday. We visited my home church last term, so Jake insisted on bringing me to meet his family. I must say, I am certainly glad of it.”

“Where are you from, originally?” I asked, determined to refocus his attention.

Max seemed to still not understand my lack of interest, choosing instead to sit on the glider and pat the space next to him. I stood and leaned against a nearby post. “A tiny little town in Hansford County called Spearman. It’s in the panhandle.” He pointed a finger straight toward the horizon. “As the crows flies, it’s about twenty miles south of Oklahoma. What about you?”

What could it hurt? “I grew up on a farm outside of Mayville, only a little over two hours on horseback from here. My parents are in Arkansas now, though. They moved about three years ago.”

Max stood and walked towards me. “You must really miss them,” he said.

I sipped again from my cup. The coffee was cooler now, not as likely to burn my mouth. “Yes, I do. My father was from there, and when their farm hit hard times, they sold out and moved back there with my sisters.”

“Three years ago?” he asked.

“Mmm hmm. Not long after my husband died.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, moving away, “I shouldn’t have pried.”

I shook my head. “You have nothing to apologize for. It was an innocent question.”

“It wasn’t right for me to stir up painful memories. That’s all,” he said. Max moved in, laying a hand on mine.

That my response lacked the sorrow that had always accompanied most discussions about Adlai surprised me. “It’s just part of who I am.” I smiled at him. “But I’m also the mother of a wonderful, vivacious three-year-old little girl named Ruth.”

He smiled in return. “The one I met last night?”

“The sleepy little one, yes.” My gaze turned to the rising sun, where hues of pink, lavender, and traces of orange painted the clouds. The beauty and palette of early morning never failed to amaze me and had always been my favorite time of day.

“She’s precious, that’s for sure.”

I laughed. “You haven’t caught her going at full speed yet. Thank you, though. I’m quite proud of her.” Enough about me. “What’s your story?” I asked, turning the conversation to him.

“I beg your pardon?” He seemed genuinely caught off guard.

“All I know about you is that you are Jake’s roommate, and you’re from Spearman. What else is there to know about you?”

Max blushed. “Well, let’s see. This is my final year in seminary. I’ll graduate in the spring. I’m not as young as Jake, either. I, uh, I worked in a lumberyard for a while, and I did a stint in the Marine Corps during the war.”

“My husband was in the army,” I said, volunteering information he might not have wanted to know.

“Was he? Yeah, I was a sergeant. In fact, I still am. I’m in the reserves right now. My plan is to be a chaplain. After graduating from seminary, I’ll go to officer’s training.”

“Sounds like you’ve had an interesting life,” I said. He’d already said too much. After Adlai, I could not bear taking a risk on another man in uniform—too much pain, too much uncertainty. Forget it.

“Not so much. Just more than what you might expect out of a country boy from the panhandle. Never been married, either. I was engaged once, for a short time, but that didn’t last long.”
Why he added that last bit, I was not entirely certain. I simply nodded. I knew nothing else to say. The sun continued on its well-established westerly track, and we walked back inside.

Others in the house had begun stirring to greet the day, and Mabel, usually the first in her family to rise, quirked an eyebrow at me and smiled. I simply rolled my eyes and kept walking.

Well-meaning people never hesitated to offer advice after Adlai’s death, especially with what they thought Adlai would have wanted for my future. I accepted their words with as much graciousness as possible, but Adlai’s own words in my dream brought the most comfort.

Grammar Nerdgasm

2008-10-20T22:14:00.005-05:00

I found this article, completely amazing despite your politics if you're a grammar nerd like me. Original credit for finding the article belongs here, since I'm not a regular reader of Slate--though that may have to change.

Amazing though the article may be, look at the title of the author's related book (it's at the end of the article): Sister Bernadette's Barking Dog--already an interesting title because of the apparent canine connection. It's going on my Christmas list (if I can wait that long to get it!) because it looks like the perfect companion to my other favorite grammar book. How cool is that? A whole book about diagramming sentences! Squeeee!!!

My First Book--Scene Eight

2008-10-20T16:53:00.004-05:00

My First Book--Scene Seven

2008-10-16T08:00:00.002-05:00

My Muse Has a Twisted Sense of Humor

2008-10-15T20:19:00.004-05:00

I've got a scene in a short story, related to how the book wraps up, that has been stumping me for the past couple of days. The weekend was productive on the writing front, don't get me wrong, but that's been a stumper. So last night, after two evenings of banging my head against my the computer keyboard, I went to bed.

Now, I've known for some time that my muse likes to mess with me. She likes to wait until I'm driving somewhere or in the shower to reveal ways to work out literary tangles, knowing full well I had no paper to hand to jot down these tidbits. Well, I outsmarted her last night (she says as she knocks on wood, tosses salt over her shoulder, and looks for a four-leaf clover).

Can I just say, Dearest Muse, that I'd like to interrupt this story to issue an apology. While I was typing that last sentence, Blogger went wonky on me. I was afraid I'd lost the post. I love you, Dear Muse. Really, I do. Kissy, kissy.

Okay, so last night, I laid in bed, tossing and turning. Suddenly, a Bright Idea came to me. I thanked Muse and agreed to make appropriate note the next morning. The idea returned, I acknowledged it, promised to note it the next morning, and snuggled up with my pillow. Having to get up so far before dawn makes me want to get as much quality time with that lovely little bit of heaven as possible.

No go. This time, Dearest Muse practically screamed in my ear. I gave up, stumbled to the computer, and sat down to type a few paragraphs of notes. When I was done, I made my way back down the hall and crawled back in bed, where I promptly fell asleep. Dearest Muse was happy, so I got to sleep.

Maybe one day she'll strike while I'm getting my teeth cleaned. Or at THAT doctor. Grrr.

Personal Note to my Dearest Muse: Sweetie, I do love you. Really. Pay no attention to my venting.

My First Book--Scene Six

2008-10-08T18:27:00.006-05:00

As I've said on previous scenes, in order to best understand this scene, please make sure you've read the first, second, third, fourth, and fifth scenes. Go on. We'll wait for you here. The list is getting crazy long. Next time, just look for the "my book--scenes" link in the sidebar.

You're back? Okay, without further ado, here's scene 6. It immediately follows scene 5. Let me know what you think about this scene or any others.

*******

October 1921

“I do believe you’ve jarred a couple of my teeth loose!” I said to Mabel. Smiling, she looked at me from behind the steering wheel of the Model T. I swear, she managed to find every last pothole in that stretch of road. “You’re gonna tear this car up, Mabel.” I grasped the seat back with one hand and the side of the car with the other.

“I’ve done no such thing,” she said. The gradual slowing of the car told me belied her cavalier attitude, ever. “You better be paying attention, you know. You’ll be driving us home.”

“Here, at this tree,” I said, pointing to a towering oak on our left. “The map says we’re supposed to turn right here.” Choosing to ignore her assertion, I instead watched the scenery. Mabel pulled her foot from the accelerator pedal, we slowed to a crawl, and the car lurched around the corner.

I had only to mention the letter Jeremiah Wyatt sent me, and she couldn’t volunteer fast enough to come with me. Even if she ended up making me drive back, I was still glad of it.

“Did you see how I didn’t use the brake pedal?” she asked, continuing her unwanted lesson. “I still get it confused with the reverse pedal, so it’s best to be gradual like on it.”

She was right. This could all go horribly wrong if she stomped on the reverse pedal while going forward at almost thirty miles an hour. We bickered back and forth, but she continued with the step-by-step directions. I couldn’t convince her how much I did not want to learn how to drive.

She’d hear none of it.

“You are driving on the way back, stubborn woman,” she said finally, with more determination than I was comfortable hearing. She turned once again, and we headed due north through the tiny hamlet of Barn Swallow.

Actually, to grace it with the title of hamlet, even, was a gift. Following the map scrawled out by Jeremiah Wyatt, I directed Mabel down a series of tiny dirt roads (who knew such a small town could have so many little goat paths?) until we finally stopped in front of a dilapidated cabin. Cabin? More like a shack—a shanty with dirty, faded whitewash on broken clapboards and oilskin over a broken out window. It rested on a barren plot of land just past a green house with a swayback mule tied to a post—just like the directions on the map promised.

A friendly mutt loped up to me, his tail thumping against my leg, as I cautiously stepped out of the car.

“Won’t hurt nary a flea,” I heard a child call from some anonymous location.

I rubbed the tired, old dog—part Shepard, part terrier, 100% love-child—behind the ears. He licked my hand, perhaps grateful for the attention.

“Hello?” Mabel called.

A wizened old woman stuck her head out from behind a screen door at the front of the house. “Ain’t buyin’ none,” she said, disappearing back into the house.

I stepped forward. “Ma’am, we’re not selling anything. I’m here to see Jeremiah Wyatt. He wrote a letter to my husband, Adlai Turner,” I said.

The woman stepped onto the porch and wiped her hands on her much-mended apron. “That be the same Adlai Turner that was friends with my boy Floyd over in France?”

I smiled, hoping to disarm the woman of any lingering suspicions she may have still held. “Yes, ma’am. Your son Jeremiah said something to that effect in his letter.”

“You come right on in here, then,” she said, her demeanor suddenly warming. “Jeremiah’s off fishing, but Buddy’ll go fetch him.” She whistled and waved in the direction of the tree at the edge of the lot. “I’m Eula Wyatt. That there,” she said, pointing to the rapidly departing boy, “is my youngest, Buddy.” The dog loped after him. We continued our introductions and followed her through the open door.

Mrs. Wyatt led us into her home and motioned that we should sit on the settee. Its split cane back and frayed fabric testified to many years of use—or abuse, if she had raised three boys—and left me seriously concerned about it’s ability to hold both Mabel and me. We sat politely and engaged in idle chat. I was thankful of it, too, because I had absolutely no desire to explain more than once why I had arrived without Adlai.

Fewer than ten minutes later, a tall, bearded man emerged through the door. He swept his broad-brimmed hat from his head as he looked at us. We stood to greet him.

“Mr. Wyatt, my name is Chloe Turner. I’m Adlai’s wife. This,” I said gripping Mabel’s arm for support, “is his sister, Mrs. Mabel Jacobs.”

He looked at each of us in turn, swept a quizzical glance to his mother, and looked back at us again, his face once again polite. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’m right glad your husband got my letter,” he said. He sat in a nearby chair and motioned for us to once again take our seats.

Now came the moment I had dreaded. I breathed deeply. “Mr. Wyatt, your letter arrived a couple of days ago. I regret to tell you, though, that—” I took a deep breath. Mabel squeezed my hand. “that my husband died more than three years ago.”

Jeremiah hung his head and ran his fingers through his chestnut hair. “I’m right sorry to hear that, ma’am.” From the corner of my eye, I noticed his mother draw a simple handkerchief from her sleeve and cover her mouth. She drew a sharp breath.

“Thank you,” I whispered. Mabel still clasped my hand, her support never wavering. I most certainly could not have come here without her. “My husband wrote often about Floyd. I understand they were great friends.”

“Mrs. Turner, my brother didn’t write much, but when he did, he’d talk about how friendly your husband was, even back to when they was in training,” he said. “See, Floyd was real shy, and he didn’t talk much. Your husband went out of his way to talk to him, to make friends.”

I smiled. Adlai never met a stranger.

“It’s terrible that it takes circumstances like war to make such strong friendships,” Mabel said quietly.

We all nodded in silent agreement.

After a moment of increasingly awkward silence, Jeremiah Wyatt said, “It weren’t necessary for you to drive all this way just to tell me your husband had passed,” Jeremiah said. “But it’s good to meet you.”

“I didn’t think it was the sort of thing I could tell you in a letter. Besides, you went to a great deal of trouble to hunt for our address. What Adlai did meant a great deal to your brother and then to you. It was the least I could do to honor the memory of both of them.”

He scratched his brow, and I could see a question forming in his mind. “So, he died not long after he got home, then? You did say he died three years ago.”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid he died in France. I suppose not long after your brother. From what I could understand from the letter Adlai’s captain sent me, they were attacked during a march outside Champagne.” Nightmares imagining his last moments, each more terrifying than the last, had plagued me for years, but I shared little of that dark corner of my life with anyone.
Even—especially—Lela and Mabel, who knew most everything else about me, might only guess about his death.

At moments like this, when the pain crept too close but I had to keep a semblance of control, I stared a hole in the floor until I could trust myself to speak again.

“Is that so?” Jeremiah asked. “I was led to understand that, well, when I talked to some other guys that was in Floyd’s group, they seemed to act like…” His voice trailed off.

What was this about? What did he mean? “Did someone lead you to believe otherwise?” I asked.

He looked sharply up at me, his eyes dark with pain. “No, ma’am. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that, well, when they talked about Floyd and some of the other guys that didn’t make it back, they was…” He rubbed the back of his neck with a broad palm. “They was all sad-like. When they talked about your husband, about Adlai, they was more upbeat. That’s all. I just figured that meant he was still alive.”

I nodded, as though I understood.

He glanced first at his mother and then back at me. “I didn’t mean no harm. I’m sorry,” he said.

“You had no way of knowing, Mr. Floyd. No harm done.” For the next hour, we shared stories about Floyd and about Adlai, taking laughs where we could, and I told them about Ruth.

Nearly an hour later, I noticed dark storm clouds rolling in, hiding the sun. Mabel saw them too, I noticed, and she said, “We should head for home.” Neither of us wanted to end up in a driving rainstorm stuck axle-deep in mud on a back road halfway back to her farm.

We stood to leave, and for the first time, I noticed the simple oak frame around the shadow box hanging near the door. I turned to Mrs. Wyatt and said, “That’s a wonderful arrangement.” I admired the Purple Heart mounted next to a crisp-edged photograph of a young man—Floyd, I assumed—in uniform.

“They buried my Floyd over in France, but they sent me this Purple Heart,” she said, pride filling her voice.

Jeremiah Wyatt pointed to the frame. “I made this to put it all in,” he said with a similar amount of pride.

I took Mrs. Wyatt’s hands in my own, and as my voice tightened, I said, “Words can never express the pain I know you feel,” I squeezed her hands tightly and continued, “but I also know just how proud you must also be.”

Mrs. Wyatt’s eyes watered, and she dabbed at them with her handkerchief. “Burying a child and burying a husband is the two hardest things a woman can do, and I’ve done both,” she said. She drew me into a hug and seemed reluctant to let go. “I thank you for coming today. Your company’s been a treasure,” she whispered as she finally withdrew.

I turned to Jeremiah. “I want you to know, Mr. Wyatt, that although your letter did not reach its intended target, your thoughtfulness for myself and my daughter will never be forgotten,” I said.

He shook my hand.

Mabel and I climbed into the Model T and left for her farm. Neither of us spoke for almost five miles until she abruptly pulled to the side of the road and stopped the car.

New Ways to Write Stories

2008-09-12T17:28:00.005-05:00

Technology allows writers to eschew stories written on paper. Readers are more willing to enjoy a story in many alternate formats.

You're probably assuming I'm talking about Amazon's Kindle and other e-reader technology. These are still books but with an electronic face. From the reviews I've read, these can be a fabulous alternative for those who love to read but don't want to heft around some serious poundage. Well, that's part of what I mean, yes.

Serialized online stories like Vampire Kitty Cat and the multitude of stories available on author websites all over the web are another alternative. Oh, and here too, BTW.

Sometimes I think we forget that stories can be told in less than chapters, pages, and paragraphs. I found (here) this series of photographs that, with a minimum of words, manage to present the points of view of two characters, explore their conflict, inject humor, and to reach a resolution. Read this and see what you think. Then, I'll catch you below the pics for a bit more discussion.

Now, until I did a little digging, specifically here and here, I considered the possibility that this was quite a unique conversation had by two different churches. What I've since realized, though, is that it is quite an interesting bit of fiction created, seemingly, by one person.

By the way, a little bit of irony in the last two pictures: While the last Presbyterian pic is clearly talking about rocks as stones, the "All Rocks Go To Heaven" ending from the Catholic sign could been seen as pointing out this saint, who is the Patron Saint of, among other things, dogs and dog lovers--St. Rock.
*******
By the way, I haven't forgotten about sharing my own fiction. I've been writing madly on my book, trying to get closer to finishing that first book. I promise to post another chunk. Soon. Pinky swear.

Time Travel

2008-09-11T18:48:00.006-05:00

When it comes to watching sci-fi movies, let's call it a labor of love undertaken for my hubby. Nerdgasms can be so cute on the faces of the ones we love, don't ya know? Until very recently, I've not even considered writing in the science fiction genre. However...

In working through some issues I want to deal with in a short story, I quickly came to realize that I would need a particular element of sci-fi to deal with the central conflict of the story, namely time travel. Deciding how to approach it, however, wasn't really so terribly difficult.

Now, authors treat the issue of time travel in many different ways. In "A Sound of Thunder", Ray Bradbury espouses the theory that to touch the least little thing, plant, mouse, or butterfly, is to fundamentally alter the fabric of the future and lead to drastic changes in future realities. If one thinks about this view, though, it is terribly limiting to the author. Why bother with time travel, really, if one has to tell the characters not to touch or in any way interact with anything or anyone. At least in reading this one story, one can easily reach the conclusion that time travel is too dangerous for a character to undertake. Given it's necessity in the plot, I don't think think Bradbury's theory will work for me. Maybe another time.

A completely different possibility is the Gabaldon Theory of Time Travel. Diana Gabaldon has, complete with postulate and corollary, explained her own approach to time travel, namely that free will and circumstances allow a time traveller to commit acts but can only change small elements of the future--not steer large events, as Bradbury seems to suggest.

If one wants characters to have even the slightest amount of free movement in the past or future (depending on which direction a character is to travel), it would seem that the usability of Diana Gabaldon's theory surpasses that of Bradbury's theory. My character's gonna have to move around a fair bit, so I don't really see any other way around it.

Can a Virgin Write About Sex?

2008-09-10T18:06:00.006-05:00

Well, now, let's just see what kind of Google traffic that title brings in!

What I'm getting at is that long-time adage that writers should "write what you know." It's a saying most writers have struggled with to one degree or another, and some may have had varying degrees of success in following it. George Plimpton comes to mind. To a large degree, though, I have to say I think it's just a bunch of hooey. Sometimes, that mindset is simply not practical. After all, what about sci-fi? What about historical fiction? What about...almost any other topic or genre out there?

What's a writer to do, then? Every successful writer I've ever talked to or whose words on craft I've ever read said the same thing: RESEARCH. I look bits up when a question arises. I've found cars, and doings of military divisions, and even a cool website that lets me hear the calls of so many different kinds of birds (okay, that last one isn't about anything germane to the plot of my book--but it's helpful for setting and ambiance). The coolest tidbit I've come across on the Internet, though, is a Google Books find: nursing books from the early 20th century. The most troubling bit about that one is that the advice for treating most any malady began with the directions to "First, administer an enema." Boy, that's reason enough to give thanks for the advances in modern medicine, huh?

Back to the title of the post. See, you had to know I did that for a reason...a relevant reason. Some topics just don't translate wee in learning from the printed word. This is where I depend on talking to others that know what I don't. I've talked to nurses about disease processes, former and current soldiers about military history (Did you know soldiers in World War I ate bread from a can?), tactics, and personal experiences, and a lawyer about a legal issue Very Relevant to the plot. That's just for starters. If they'll sit still long enough, I pick the brains of just about anybody with information or experiences relevant to whatever topic I have working. If they won't sit still, I've been known to walk and talk.

I don't want to needlessly constrain myself from incorporating life experiences in my writing just because I haven't experienced them first hand--or maybe even looking at an experience from a different perspective. Talking to the right people and (this is KEY) asking the right questions will, God willing, keep me from having a 40-Year-Old Virgin, describing a female breast as a bag of sand, moment.

Even if the experience wasn't mine, it better sound like it could have been. You know, willing suspension of disbelief aside, of course.

FOUND! (instead of making fiction)

2008-09-04T20:22:00.006-05:00

So, I came home from work today all fired up to attack my keyboard with a vengeance, ready for the clickety-clickety of thoughts, actions, and scenes growing in my book. Past time for more scenes to be ticked off the list of "To Be Completed." By this point, given the fire I was feeling, I should have 500 words or more done. Way more. Do I have those words? Of course not. I went Googling.

I am happy to say that I've found a work buddy from a few years ago. We used to work next door to each other. I've spent most of my evening reading her site and laughing my...um, really appreciating the opportunity for the laugh I needed. Needless to say, I'm adding Anglophilefootballfanatic to the list of blogs I read.

Tomorrow, more fiction. I'll hide in a closet to write this weekend, if I have to! Pinky swear.

Dog vs. Baby

2008-09-04T17:53:00.005-05:00

I found this video of a Dog Smarter than Baby at Dogster, and I just had to giggle. While it may appear on the surface that this cute little dog and happy little baby have nothing to do with writing, you would be oh, so very wrong. See, I've got canine help of my own in my writing. Caninus writingus helpii, I believe it's called.

Tinkering and a Lesson Learned

2008-08-29T17:24:00.006-05:00

Until I know LOADS more about coding, I'm not going anywhere near trying to mess with this template. I found one that I really like, but I couldn't easily make it work. The whole thing was a mess.

If I was satisfied with the dates on posts showing up as "Unknown, Unknown, Unknown," then it would work great. I'm not. Big surprise.

My one saving grace is that I had the good sense God gave a goose to back up my original template. It seems Blogger has gone tinkering with it in a way ~~that I'm not wild with~~ I don't like. Sorry, I couldn't handle ending a sentence with a preposition out of laziness. My right eye started twitching.

Done with tinkering now. Back to writing.

My First Book--Scene 5

2008-08-28T12:00:00.001-05:00

As I've said on previous scenes, in order to best understand this scene, please make sure you've read the first, second, third, and fourth scenes. Go on. We'll wait for you here.

You're back? Okay, without further ado, here's scene 5. It immediately follows scene 4. Let me know what you think about this scene or any others.

*******

“Mommy, why you are crying?” Ruthie asked. I had not heard her walk into my bedroom, but she stood next to me now with a tiny hand on my back. “Mommy, is you sad I climbed the tree today?”

Taking a deep breath, I wiped my face with my arm and turned around. “No, sweetie, Mommy’s not mad at you.” I moved to the rocking chair in the corner and lifted her into my lap. Small and delicately boned, Ruth had not yet grown heavy enough to make picking her up difficult—a reality that I treasured at times like this. She laid her head against my chest, and I kissed her.
“Then why you are crying? You crying for Daddy?”

I sighed. Could I not do a better job at protecting her from my emotions than this? So often I convinced myself that I kept that part of my life from her, protected her from the pain. She made me wonder now how often she may have heard me crying into my pillow. Hot shame burned in me. “Mommy had a bad dream. You know how you sometimes have bad dreams and cry?”

Ruth nodded.

“That’s all. Mommy just had a bad dream.” Not exactly a lie. Not exactly the truth, either. For her age, this explanation would work. It seemed to, at least.

Ruth thought for a moment and then thrust her stuffed bear into my face. “Does you want to sleep with Herman? Herman make you feel all betters.” Herman, a teddy bear Adlai’s father had given her the previous Christmas, accompanied her most everywhere.

“No, sweetie. Thank you, though. You sleep with Herman. Come on.” I wrapped my arms around my sleepy daughter and carried her back to her own bedroom.

I tucked her into bed and kissed her forehead. “Mommy’s all better now. Let’s go to sleep, okay?”

Ruth nodded. “Night night, Mommy.”

“Good night, baby doll.” I left her door slightly ajar and crept back to my own room.

Filled with guilt, I looked at the picture of Adlai on my nightstand. “I can’t keep doing this,” I told him as I caressed his face with my thumb. “I can’t keep that sweet little girl worried about me. I can’t let her grow up in such sadness.” Unsure of what, exactly, I would do, I kissed the picture, returned it to its place on the nightstand, and crawled back into bed.

Zelda

2008-08-27T14:30:00.002-05:00

In further exploration of the Alphabet Story Starters and One Sentence Stories, I've gone to the end of the alphabet to look at the story of Zelda.

*******

When Zelda read that article in her high school English class, she realized she shared much more than just a name with that distant relative, Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, and she cried.

My First Book--Scene 4

2008-08-26T19:17:00.010-05:00

This scene does not directly follow the third scene. That bit still needs a bit of work. Granted, it all does, I'm sure, but that bit isn't quite ready for you to read.

In order to best understand this scene, please make sure you've read the first, second, and third scenes. Go on. We'll wait for you here.

As a bit of background information (in lieu of that bit that isn't up here yet), Chloe has just finished a conversation with Lela, her best friend and twin sister of Adlai. Lela has tried once again to convince Chloe that she should at least consider dating again.

Okay, without further ado, I give you scene four:

*******

For the past six months, Lela had occasionally tried to convince me to date again, but I had never been receptive. In fact, the very idea of seeing another man in a social setting was originally enough to make me physically ill. Over time, the feelings morphed into a fear that I still would not acknowledge to anyone else. To date another man, let alone to consider matrimony, felt just short of treason.

Picking up my sewing now was an exercise in futility, so I gave up and crawled into bed, quickly surrendering to sleep. Dreams followed quickly.

I walked along the edge of a meadow, wildflowers blooming at my feet. Indian paintbrush and bluebonnets bloomed throughout, interspersed with buttercup and delicate spiderwort. Winecup grew in purple patches around the edges of my field of vision. It’s the meadow near my parents’ farm. Adlai and I visited here when we were courting. There should be a pond around here somewh—there, I found it hiding behind a screen of oak trees. I tiptoed around the flowers to find a blanket spread at the water’s edge.

My shoes, with cotton stockings carefully rolled and tucked inside, rested somewhere behind me. Water’s distortion made my feet appear somewhat disembodied, toes wiggling in chilled ecstasy. A Texas summer sun ought to bake my skin, but I felt only warmth while a breeze carried a brief scent of honeysuckle past. Heaven lives in the taste of a drop of honeysuckle juice, delicate and fleeting, resting on my tongue.

As children, my sisters and I swam in this pond. Adlai and I spent countless afternoons here when we were courting. I had not even seen this pond, though, since shortly after we married. How long ago now? Four years? Has it already been that long? A widow now longer than a married woman. Why had I come here today?

A warm, easterly breeze caught my hair, and it danced across my face. As I reached up to brush the hair from my eyes, I caught a whiff of Adlai’s scent. My breath caught in my throat as I felt his arms wrap around my waist. His whiskered face scratched at my shoulder as his full lips kissed the back of my neck. I loved the scratch of his face first thing in the morning.

“Come to me, Chloe,” he said.

I whirled around, almost losing my balance and tumbling into the pond. I saw no one. How could I hear him? Where was he? “Adlai?” I called, whipping my head first left, then right.

I stumbled back to the bank. Globs of mud caked between my damp toes. “Where are you?” I wandered towards the break in the trees where I had entered, but his voice appeared again at my right.

He whispered, “Listen to me, Chloe.” How heavenly to once again hear his Texas farm boy drawl.

I turned to ask what he meant, but the man I saw, the man whose face was close enough for me to smell his breakfast of ham and eggs, was not Adlai. He leaned in to kiss me, but I struggled away from him. His strong arms held me close, though, and his tongue parted my lips. Disgusted, I pushed away and slapped his cheek. “How dare you!” I screamed.

Again, but now from a distance, Adlai said, “It’ll be okay, Chloe. Don’t worry.”

I whirled around to see him, but a different man pulled me close. “I won’t try to take his place. Just give me a chance to love you,” he said. Who were these men? Why would they not let me see Adlai?

I fought the urge but felt myself give in. I let him embrace me. I let him kiss me. More than letting him kiss me, I kissed him in return. My knees buckled at his gentle persistence.

The feel of that kiss still warm on my lips, I woke with a start and sat upright in bed. My thin, cotton gown was twisted tightly around my waist. Sweat drenched me and plastered my hair to my neck. I could barely breathe; my throat ached with tightness. Waking with a deep longing and soft ache in my heart, so normal while I was awake, would have been a relief. Instead, I wrapped my arms around my ribs and gave in to a wracking sob reminiscent of the weeks after Adlai died.

Oh, goodness. What had just happened? I never remembered dreaming so vividly. Ever. I hardly even remember my dreams. The one dream that wakes me, that stays with me instead of fading like mist at daybreak just had to be about Adlai. After Lela’s insistence yet again that I should date, I had to dream about the one man I wanted and couldn’t have, and even he seemed to be encouraging me to find someone else.

“What do you want from me, Ad?” I whispered as tears flowed down my cheeks. If seeing me cry broke his heart, as Adlai wrote in one of his first letters from France, then damn it, why was he doing this to me?

I threw back the sheet that had covered me, untwisted my gown as I walked to the window, and raised the sash. Utterly defeated, I knelt by the window and looked up at the starry sky. Tears cascaded down my face, and I sobbed. “I give up. I’ve been doing what I thought was right, but I just don’t know anymore. Help me, Lord. What am I supposed to do?”

The cool night breeze blew across my face, drying tearstains as gooseflesh pimpled up across my body. The scent of roses wafted in as I sat on the floor and laid my head on my arms. The roses I had treasured for so long, grown from a cutting of a rosebush once belonging to Adlai’s mother, seemed only to mock me.

Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

2008-08-13T18:04:00.005-05:00

Well, the 2008 Bulwer-Lytton contest winners, dubious though the honor may be, have been announced. For those not familiar with this contest, it looks for the worst opening lines of many different genres. If you've got a strong stomach for truly awful writing, go check it out. I'll wait here for you.

Wow. That was quick. It was difficult to read, but I slogged through the whole thing. We won't mention aloud that I read all of this but had to stop after three pages AGAIN when I re-read The Old Man and the Sea. Nope. We'll just sail right over that.

My only prayer is that I never write anything so truly execrable (except if I specifically intend to) as what I read on that page.

A Cat Story

2008-08-09T20:24:00.011-05:00

I found a picture that stirred my creative juices and have decided to use it for a one sentence story.

Fiction writers draw their subject matter from myriad sources. Sometimes ideas for a story come from questions we're trying to answer. Sometimes they come from things that have happened to us or to those we know. Sometimes, though, ideas can come from a picture (I don't remember where I found it, possibly here, but if you see it and you know the copyright owner, let me know and I'll gladly give the credit!). Like this one:

Luko Worm abandoned his post after Fluffy Bot 2.1 crashed in a way that CTRL, ALT, DEL could not solve.

Eight Things Before I Kick the Bucket

2008-08-08T21:11:00.009-05:00

I got this meme over at The Eleventh. It's a blog I visit quite regularly, and I strongly suggest you go check her out--after you finish here, of course.

The title of this post is rather self-explanatory, I think. These are eight goals I want to accomplish before I...well...shuffle off this mortal coil. I've got other goals, but these seem the best to share.

1. See at least my fiction published before I turn 40. I won't tell you how much time I have to reach that deadline. So completely TMI.

2. Meet my Very Favorite Author and

3. Have her sign my copies of her books

4. That just happen to be First Editions (when I can manage to lay my hands on some)--mind you, I have copies already that I'd readily have signed, just not F.E.s

(Yes, I know I have three-in-one. It's my list. I can do it if I want to. Nyah!)

5. See my first published piece do well enough that I can have future books published (anybody seeing a theme here???)

(After reading #1 & #5, my hard drive began whimpering, and I hope it doesn't completely give up when I post the next one)

6. Document what family history information I have, dig up more, and compile a comprehensive written history.

Yup, I had to give the computer a bit of a time out after he read that last one. He cried. He whined that it was just too much. Muttered something about a Big Chief and a pencil. He's watching the parade of nations for the Olympics opening ceremony now...

7. After much sensitive diplomatic negotiations , here's a goal that does not rely on Faithful Computer's valiant work: Visit the British Isles. I'm thinking three weeks would cover all I'd like to see, but I won't be greedy.

8. Road trip to Alaska--in the summer, of course. I'm sure winter is beautiful there, but it would be too cold to get out and do any kind of sightseeing. I'd be stuck in a lodge in front of a roaring fire, simply watching the snow fall through the picture window while I sipped my cocoa...Okay, so maybe I'd be open to Alaska in the winter after all.

Uriel

2008-08-08T20:08:00.010-05:00

I first wrote about an idea for alphabet story starters here and have so far written about Odelle, Isobella, and Herb. A fourth that has jumped out at me with a story that seems to have a life far beyond the one paragraph to which I am limiting myself is that of Uriel.

Far from the angel his parents predicted in naming him, Uriel has dedicated much of his life to petty crime. For the sake of his new love, an abandoned standard poodle he's named Lulabelle, can he change his ways and finally succumb to this beauty's calming force?

BBC Top 100 Books

2008-08-03T13:37:00.004-05:00

I found this meme at Adventures in Daily Living who found it here--I don't know enough bloggers to be tagged, so I took up the challenge on this one since it was free for the taking.

Some of the books left off this list were quite a puzzle to me, I must admit, but it was fun to play. Now that I see I've only read 18 of these, it would seem that I have my work cut out for me.

As the directions were stated on AiDL,

If you'd like to participate in this meme simply copy the list and follow the instructions below. And be sure to post a comment so we can follow each other around.

1) Look at the list and bold those you have read.
2) Italicize those you intend to read.
3) Underline the books you love.
4) Strike out the books you have no intention of ever reading, or were forced to read at school and hated.
5) Reprint this list in your own blog.

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4 The Harry Potter Series - JK Rowling
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6 The Bible
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
~~28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck~~
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34 Emma- Jane Austen
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
~~57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens~~ (didn't finish it in school but am maybe interested in reading it now)
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
~~59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon~~
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
~~68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding~~ (why is this on the list?)
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
~~75 Ulysses - James Joyce~~
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
~~94 Watership Down - Richard Adams~~
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

My First Book--Scene 3

2008-08-02T10:54:00.007-05:00

Before jumping in here, might I suggest you first read scenes 1 & 2? Go ahead. I'll wait here for you to come back.

Okay, now that you're back, this scene picks up right where scene 2 leaves off. In the text, that is. Just over three years have passed since the last scene.

*******

September 1921

“Mommy, Mommy! Look at me!” Ruth cried. Ever the obedient mother, I complied promptly. Naturally. I looked up from my seat on the porch, where I had been catching up on Zane Grey’s To the Last Man, to where she ought to be. First mistake. Only Waylon Carl, her cousin, stood at the base of our sycamore tree.

“Waylon Carl, where’s Ruth?” I asked, immediately berating myself for not watching her more closely. How long, exactly, had I been reading?

The tow-headed boy said nothing but smiled smarmily and looked up into the tree, and a slow dread filled me.

I followed my nephew’s gaze to what I sincerely hoped was a sturdy branch nearly ten feet above the ground. My Ruthie, who had never been higher up than a perch atop her Uncle Waylon’s shoulders, waved. “Hi, Mommy. I a BIG girl! See?”

My first instinct was to scream and launch myself out of my chair to rescue her—followed closely by snatching Waylon Carl bald-headed. I knew he had to be at the root of this.

She showed no fear, so I swallowed my own. I tried to, at least. I waved and stepped off the porch. “You certainly are a big girl, Ruthie. Sit real still, okay?”

Thankfully, she nodded. I rested a hand on the little boy’s shoulder and gripped hard before he made good on his attempt to escape. “How’d she get up there, Waylon Carl?” I asked him through clenched teeth but still smiling up at Ruth.

He scratched his head with his one free hand and looked up at me, shrugging a shoulder. “I didn’t do nothing,” he said. “She wanted to climb like I do. I just showed her how. That’s all.”
“I go higher now,” Ruth said, grabbing a branch above her head.

“NO!” I said, perhaps a tad more forcefully than I should have. “Let’s just stay right there for now, sweetie.” My heart still pounded in my chest, and I looked frantically up and down the street for someone—anyone—to magically appear. I could never climb the tree and pluck her out. I looked up at Ruth and saw not the happy, self-assured smile of a minute ago but a flash of dawning terror. Damn, why couldn’t I portray calm assurance? “Honey, it’s okay. You’ll be fine,” I said in a renewed attempt to soothe her.

Scarcely taking my eyes off her, I bent down on eye-level with my nephew. The anger and frustration I felt with this imp had grown so far past usual, daily irritations. I clenched my jaw, and barely above a whisper, I said, “You talked her up there, and you’re gonna get her down, and so help me if she has even one scrape anywhere on her, I will wear you out right here in this yard in front of God and everybody!” I gave his arm a little shake for emphasis. “Do you hear me?”

Whether he believed me or not, I don’t know. He nodded once, though, and made right for the tree, scrambling up it like a little monkey.

“I’ll getcha, Ruth,” Waylon Carl said. He grabbed an overhead branch and pulled himself up cleanly with upper body strength I had no idea a five-year-old could possess.

“Mommy,” Ruth said. “Mommy, I want to come down now.”

I walked closer to the tree and looked up. If Waylon Carl was to have any luck in bringing her down from that tree, Ruth must stay calm. And how, exactly, could I calm her when my own stomach was flip-flopping? “Ruthie, baby, stay right there. Waylon Carl’s coming up. You can climb down with him, okay? When you come down, just put your feet and your hands right where he does.”

“Come on, cousin,” Waylon Carl said as he laid a hand on Ruth’s shoulder.

She bit her lower lip and shook her head slowly from side to side.

Before I could say anything, before I could offer one word of hope, Waylon Carl leaned in and whispered something to Ruth. She whipped her head around to face him, her eyes lit with dancing promise, and she nodded wildly. Together they skittered down the tree, Ruth obediently matching her cousin’s steps and handholds.

I breathed a sigh of relief as her little feet once again touched ground, and she ran to me.

“Mommy, did you see me? I climbed down the tree like a big girl! I knew I could do it!”

The pride I saw in her face shone like a diamond, and I smiled. “You sure did,” I said.

Waylon Carl skipped up behind Ruth and looked up at me. “I’m real sorry, Aunt Chloe. I thought she could come down by herself. I didn’t mean no harm. Honest,” he said.

Sometimes the little boy could exasperate beyond words, and frequently did, but he seemed honestly repentant. Besides, I knew he loved Ruth.

I reached out and tousled his hair. “Thank you, Waylon Carl. Just please don’t encourage her to go climb trees, okay? She’s a little girl still, and she might get hurt.”

He gnawed his lip and nodded.

“Why don’t you go on home now. It’s almost supper time, and your mama’s gonna be calling for you any minute.”

After Ruth’s bath that night and “Just one last story, please, Mommy, just one?” she finally drifted off to sleep. With her left thumb drawn seemingly magnetically to her mouth, she sucked gently, a picture quietly reminiscent of her infancy. I brushed a lock of hair from her face, kissed her tiny, upturned nose, and pulled her door nearly closed as I walked back to the living room.

The Font Wars

2008-07-26T07:00:00.000-05:00

I found this video linked on another site I visit. It's really cute (for a nerd like me), and you should check it out!

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

My First Book--Scene 2

2008-07-25T07:00:00.002-05:00

So, this is the second scene in my first book. As with the first scene, this one takes place during June 1918.

*******

Later that afternoon, as I listened to the neighborhood’s afternoon mockingbird chorus—fifteen, no, twenty different songs in succession—I sat in my favorite chair, overstuffed and almost threadbare, and watched the neighborhood children playing in the street. Ruth napped in the next room, and my own eyelids grew heavy.

The heavy scraping of a man’s boots on the uneven sidewalk broke up whatever game the kids played. That they would stop so suddenly puzzled me, and I sat up, peering out the side window near my chair. No one but two little boys, and one of them dropped the baseball he had tossed into the air. Who could it be? Adlai returning home early? Surely not. I rose and moved to the front window, kneeling against the back of the couch and looking out.

Oh, God. No. Please no.

I must have risen from the couch and walked to the door, but I had no consciousness of it.

“I’m right sorry, Mrs. Turner,” Ivan Purdloe said, his voice barely a whisper as I opened the front door to him. The ancient operator of Willard’s sole telegraph office offered no preamble to his task, choosing instead to simply hold the telegram out to me. Tears trailed down his leathered face.

In the moment that this simple old man changed my life forever, the silence of shock enveloped me. The multitudinous calls of mockingbirds, usually my favorite bird, sat quietly instead. One thousand screams in my brain, screams that must be there, pounded against the inside of my skull without a sound. Fingers trembling uncontrollably, I grasped at the doorjamb; in that moment, I dared not trust myself to stand without aid.

My knees buckled, and he reached out and held me with a gnarled hand—a painful gesture, no doubt, for his arthritic joints. “No! Not my Adlai!” I groaned. My voice, ragged with emotion, caught in my throat. Pinpoints of light flashed randomly in my eyes, and my chest felt suddenly empty, my heart ripped out by its roots by Mr. Purdloe. All color drained from my world. No further words came. Bile rose in my throat. Determined to maintain control of my emotions, I struggled to swallow.

“You’re in m’prayers,” he said.

I could only nod in reply. I breathed deeply and stood again, leaning heavily against the solidness of our house. While one hand mechanically reached for the proffered paper, the other reflexively sought the reassuring touch of Adlai’s last letter. It lay folded in the bottom of my apron pocket, its words already committed to memory.

Until he stood at my side, his bear-like arms enveloping me, I had no recollection of hearing Waylon drive up to his house or race across the street. As the husband of Adlai’s twin sister Lela, this giant bear of a man had taken it as his own job to see after Ruth and me since Adlai left for France. He wrapped his arms around me. My face pressed against his chest, and the solid warmth should have comforted me; instead, it only reminded me of the one whose arms would never again hold me.

Waylon said nothing, but held me tightly to himself and wrapped his great arms around me. Only his own strength held me upright. Taking this as his cue to leave, Mr. Purdloe tipped his hat at me and beat a hasty retreat as my past collapsed onto my present, rendering my future uncertain.

A Western Union telegram sent in the name of the Secretary of War has all the thoughtful sensitivity of a train wreck in a cactus forest. The cold logic of its necessity cannot hold the hands of those that open that damnable yellow envelope. It offered me no consolation when it informed me that my husband, my sweet Adlai, would never return to me. No comfort when I looked into the sleeping face of the infant daughter he would never meet. No peace when I finally found the words to tell his twin sister, my best friend, that the heart that first beat with hers would never beat again.

Back to the Classics, Part II

2008-07-24T14:53:00.003-05:00

True to my word, I have gone back to the classics. More to the point, I'm trying to get back into the classics. I remember now why I didn't read more than the first three pages of The Old Man and the Sea in high school. Oh. My. Goodness. It is a simple tale, which is certainly not a terrible thing, but the sentence structure and pacing felt like a children's book.

I decided to patronize my local library and check out a copy of To Have and Have Not, though. I've read a bit of it, and I really want to get all the way through it. It's not due again until the middle of next month. I'll discuss it a bit here after I finish it.

For my next dive into the classics, I'm thinking about something a little lighter, a little brighter, a little happier. I'm thinking about Wuthering Heights.

Back to the Classics

2008-06-30T15:49:00.003-05:00

I have come to wonder how I can proudly refer to myself as an English major without having read so many of "the classics." What can I learn from these great authors that will not only make me more well-rounded but will also improve my own writing?

To that end, I have made the pledge to read more of them--while not forsaking more modern works, of course.

First on my list: All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. It's certainly not light summer fare, but I quite appreciate his writing style.

I'm not sure which book will be next on my list, but I think it needs to be Hemingway. I never made it through The Old Man and the Sea in high school and have carried a vague, undefinable, and rather unsubstantiated aversion to his work ever since.

Happy Birthday, Patrick Hemingway!

2008-06-30T15:34:00.004-05:00

I found this guy while reading a post by one of my favorite bloggers. Anyway, his post is about Patrick Hemingway's 80th birthday. Patrick is one of the sons of Ernest. NPR aired an interview with him a couple of days ago, and I thought it was quite interesting.

The money quote: "...literature is what, I think, intelligent people have instead of dope."

Revisiting...

2008-06-20T08:00:00.000-05:00

A recent comment by a reader asked whether I had revised Isobella. I haven't, but my excesses in verbosity certainly make that one a prime target for my trusty red editing pencil (it'll make a heck of a mess on my computer screen, but that's okay). I've whittled it down from 54 words to 31. I don't know that I'm completely finished with it, and I could maybe even see it as a longer story. But then again, seeing a whole story in one sentence is kind of the point of it, right?

On another note, as I sit here and work on this story, I am struck by the idea of looking at Frozen Lies from a totally different point of view--How does Mary Ann Callahan McGill Simpkins react? What's behind her eagerness to re-connect with Abi O'Neil? I'll be pondering...

Here's Isobella 2.0.

*******

In a Mississippi family of fair-skinned children, questions nagged Isobella about her origins: Ferdinand, that exchange student in her mother's tattered snapshot, or Billy Earl, the man she called “Daddy.”

I Can Has Diploma?

2008-06-07T08:38:00.005-05:00

I found this over at The Eleventh, one of my daily reading spots, and decided to try my own. It seems as though they use some sort of readability metric (length of sentences, vocabulary difficulty, & etc.). Cute to know, though.

My First Book--The Beginning

2008-06-06T19:45:00.003-05:00

In addition to sharing the short stories I wrote, the biggest part of my reasoning for starting this blog was to have a forum for sharing my first book as I wrote it. To that end, this post presents what I conceive to be the opening scene. While the main character, Chloe, encounters many troubles, the purpose of the book is to examine how she deals with these difficulties and how her life works out. Let me know what you think!

June 1918

I’ve never put great stock in the idea that dreams have any sort of great meaning. Besides, trying to remember my dreams drives them from my grasp that much faster. Sometimes, though. Sometimes dreams hold on to us.

“Won’t be but a minute,” I said over my shoulder. I only wanted to change clothes after church before lunch with Lela and Waylon. The cotton stockings itched my legs fiercely, and I barely managed to close the door before clawing them down around my ankles and raking my fingernails up and down my legs. Oh, heavens, that felt good. Propriety might dictate that I wear stockings to church, but Lela knew I rarely wore them otherwise.

Pre-occupied with rolling up my stockings and wondering whether or not my baby would let me out of her sight for five minutes—not always a sure-fire bet—and let her aunt hold her, I didn’t see the man standing in the bedroom.

Catching only a glimpse of a figure near me, I jumped. An intruder? Had I startled a burglar? What would he do to me before anyone thought to come check on me? My heart pounded in my chest as the adrenaline coursed through my veins. Sparkly blue lights flashed around my quickly shrinking field of vision, and I fainted.

Some time later, I roused to consciousness as Adlai brushed a strand of hair from my face. “Hello, Chloe,” he said, caressing my cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

“Am I dreaming?” I asked. I reached out and touched his face. “Are you really here?” He looked no different than he had when I last saw him. I traced a finger through that funny little cowlick over his right ear, his close-cropped, Army haircut showing it quite readily.

He smiled. “Can’t get rid of me if you tried,” he said. How comforting to hear once again his slow, Texan drawl as it enveloped me.

I sat up and embraced him as tears sprung to my eyes. “When did you get here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home? I would have met you at the station,” I said, words tumbling out on top of each other like so many toy blocks.

“Wanted to surprise you, that’s all. You’re not mad, are you?” he asked, clasping his hands to my cheeks. “I kept my promise, just like I told you I would.” Before I had a chance to respond, to tell him that I could never be mad at him, he said, “Where’s the baby? Where’s Ruth? I want to see our daughter.” Tears glistened in his eyes.

“Oh, Adlai, she’s—”

“Chloe? You okay?” Lela called from the front door, intruding into our reunion.
From somewhere near her, I heard my daughter crying. Irritated and overdue for a feeding, the little girl expressed her displeasure. Loudly. My breasts tingled in response, and I knew I would have to acquiesce to her demands soon.

“Just here,” I replied. “I’ll be right out.” I turned to Adlai and whispered, “I was supposed to eat lunch with Lela and Waylon today. She’s got the baby. Let’s go surprise them!”

Adlai nodded and stood, almost knocking me over. “What’s she like? Ruthie, I mean,” he said, glancing briefly at the door before turning back to me.

I smiled. Finally, our little family would be together for the first time. “Come see for yourself,” I said, reaching for his hand. Would he recognize himself in her? The dimples, that quirky little cowlick above her right ear, the strawberry birthmark shaped like a butterfly on her bottom: all gifts from her father. His older sister Mabel had laughed when she saw Ruth, angry as all get out, hold her breath and shake as her lips turned a frightening shade of blue; “That’s all Adlai,” she said, patting me on the shoulder and shaking her heard. “Good luck with that.”

We stood, and he followed me into the living room. “Howdy, Sis,” Adlai said over my shoulder, his hands gripping my arms tightly as though I could anchor him to his world again.

“As I live and breathe,” Lela whispered. She took a deep breath, and I noticed her knees quake. I rushed forward to take the baby, and she pushed towards her twin brother. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again!” she said as she reached him.

I grasped Ruth, felt her soft baby skin on my fingers, heard once again her piercing cry for a meal, and awoke, alone, from my dream. My arm lay draped across the bassinet next to my bed; I wiggled my fingers, feeling a plump arm. Ruth screamed, clearly frustrated at having been ignored entirely too long, and I rose to feed her. “Mommy’s right here, baby,” I said with a sigh, the memory ribbon of my dream tracing it’s way through my heart. The dream gave me hope, and I smiled.

A Recommendation

2008-06-01T21:15:00.004-05:00

I found this book at used bookstore this weekend. As I read it, I find great interest in the process through which these writers have gone as their writing abilities have developed. It has made me take a look at my own early writing--much of which I would never want to see again. I certainly wonder just what kind of cringing these writers went through as they collected these pieces and submitted them to the editor.

This particular bookstore has evidently been around since the early 70s, but it's new to me. We only got there a short time before it closed, but I will most assuredly return. Every tiny little room and nook is stacked with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books. Heaven. Paperbacks Plus, in my opinion, may even be better than Half-Price Books (another favorite hangout).

Herb

2008-05-20T21:01:00.007-05:00

Herb's family had long since grown used to his eccentricities: Sault Ste. Marie Polar Bear Club, a commitment to riding his unicycle to work until that unfortunate incident with the moose, and his brief foray into kazoo symphony podcasting. His latest announcement, a burning desire to captain a Great Lakes ship, elicited no more than half-amused chuckles from his family.

"But Mo - om," he said in a nasally whine wholly inappropriate for a forty-year-old man, "it's a respectable job!"

His abiding love of the 70s song "Edmund Fitzgerald" gave her no reason for calm in this situation forsooth.

"Herbert," she said, "you've pushed my patience past its limits. Have you even THOUGHT about this? They won't hire you as a captain with no experience!"

When he rolled his eyes at her, she fought the urge to slap him into severe strabismus. That he chewed Dramamine like candy when spending too much time watching the plastic scuba diver in his fish tank and that he suffered from claustrophobia seemed never to have entered his mind. She couldn't help but continue to wonder why couldn't he just take that carpet cleaning job with his Uncle Lester.

Herb took his father's miner's helmet from its hook on the wall and rubbed his thumbs over its scarred surface. Touching it had earned him a whipping once as a child, but he hoped to channel strength from the father he worshiped but barely knew. His voice a barely a whisper, he turned to his mother and said, "Pops didn't walk into that mine as a foreman either. I'll start at the bottom and work my way up. It's what I'm meant to do, Mom. I have to. You don't have to like it, but can't you at least act like you're happy for me?"

She saw the want in his eyes. Her heart hurt for him. She gave it six months but would pray for longer.

Isobella

2008-05-20T17:23:00.003-05:00

Another one sentence story:

Her family, Mississippi born and bred for more than 5 generations, bestowed names like Charlene, Lavenia, Hazel, Pearl, and Beulah on its daughters, so Isobella always wondered if she had more in common with Ferdinand, that long-ago foreign exchange student her mother often mentioned, than with Billy Earl--the man she had always called "Daddy."

Novel Background

2008-05-17T14:46:00.007-05:00

Some writers have a writing process best described as organic, with characters and scenes emerging as the words appear on the screen (or for some, the paper). They cannot sit and plan characters, plot, symbolism, theme, & etc., but through the process still produce well-crafted (and commercially successful) work. Others insist on following strict plans with high levels of organization. Taking a Baby Bear approach, following either of those methods exclusively would drive me crazy; my own writing has elements of organization to it, but I have to be open to a change of flow mid-stream.

For instance, I wrote a book several years ago. I loved the characters, felt at home in the setting, and could see the action in it as clear as if I was in the room watching it happen. It was a very organic process (after I made detailed plans about the long list of characters, that is). Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, I realized that this was not the story I had to tell and that many characters would have to leave. Hacking and chopping would not do. I did manage to salvage a core of characters but with an entirely different focus.

I've made some plans (a general list of scenes I think need to be included to move the character through the conflicts and an intricate set of family trees, primarily), but characters have changed their names on me, dates and time periods have had to adjust, and complications to the original plot continue to unravel before me.

A writer whose work I admire greatly has said that whatever the research required for a novel, what's important is to simply keep writing. I've researched and planned, and I have no doubt that I'll continue to do so throughout the course of this novel--and any others I write in the future, of course--but whatever the plans are, I shall always strive to be open to change.

Interesting Alternative

2008-05-16T16:04:00.005-05:00

I heard about this band's new video today on the way home from work. I can't say I'm a fan of this particular song--I'll have to listen to it a few more times to make up my mind for sure. What interests me is the initiative these guys took in going out and finding a way around their lack of money to still get their video out for their audience (and one they want to build).

Why people see this type of innovation as fresh, brave, and a general positive when it's music or independent movies but continue to be so vehemently opposed to it when it's pointed towards publishing books, stories, or poetry seems counter-intuitive.

I have to say, though, that this idea is why I decided to start this blog in the first place. I wanted to find a way to introduce my writing and myself to an audience.

Vanity publishers are out to make a buck off writers. I don't have any doubts about that. I'm not interested in pursuing that avenue for my own work. Also, I'm not out to suggest that big publishing does not have its own important place in the mix. I'm not dissing established publishing houses--after all, my goal is to have my work accepted and printed by one, one day.

Enough pontificating, you say. Where's a story? Where's the creativity? Soon. I promise.

Too Much Funny

2008-05-09T19:15:00.008-05:00

I love this site and can spend waaaaaay too much time browsing through--sometimes giggling quietly, sometimes rolling my eyes, and sometimes laughing so hard giant tears roll down my face. It's a few months old, but I found this one today and laughed an evil, throaty laugh. It inspired another one sentence story:

*******

I thought it was wrong that warping his little mind made me smile almost as much as watching him graduate from high school, but then he introduced me to his recruiter and horse-laughed when I passed out and cracked my skull.

*******

This, however, made me laugh so hard I scared my dogs. I'm not recovered enough to write from it, though.

One Sentence Stories

2008-05-09T17:29:00.012-05:00

I challenged myself to this earlier, and while I've posted other stories, still no one sentence efforts. That changes here. Now. Mine are fiction, though, unlike these.

*******

The smile beaming across your face when you showed me your new wedding dress broke my heart because I knew he had yet to ask his first wife for a divorce.

I found Mom's hiding place when I was six, so I could only ever pretend to be surprised at my Christmas presents.

Giselle realized at last night's dinner that the crazy, drunk neighbor from her childhood is her fiancé's mother, and while his father blushed, the woman still doesn't know.

Rescue Us

2008-05-03T21:38:00.004-05:00

As the proud companion to a rescued dog, I'm thankful to have saved the life of a precious little one that has brought so much joy to my life. I highly recommend it--after all, these animals are terrific companions that are incredibly loving.

This story is born of a newspaper column I read that broke my heart. As as challenge to myself, I wanted to work in the micro short story or flash fiction (I really need to look into this more and see if the terms are, indeed, interchangeable). Therefore, it has to be 200-500 words. After some editing, it comes in at exactly 500 words.

*******

Moving down the row of cages, one soulful pair of brown eyes after another stared. All recently rejected but ultimately with innocence of fault. Intentions hardened to resolution. I couldn’t rescue them all, but two would find reprieve with me. Memories of my own loss stabbed afresh in my heart and tears welled in my eyes.

Inside the cacophony of barks, a deafening silence stopped me. Halfway down the walk, a black lab/chow mix—scrawnier than a dog her size should be—lay curled up in the back of her cage. Her swollen teats looked painful.

“What about her?”

“Came in with a litter of puppies, but they’re all gone. She’s out tomorrow,” the attendant said. “Been lethargic since the last pup left.”

I called to her, and she thumped her tail once, twice. Raised her head before looking away with a sigh.

We continued our walk. I stood in front of a cage housing a wiry little multi-colored mutt. She fell into a play stance, front legs and head on the ground and rump in the air, barking and wagging her tail frenetically—an amusing sight considering she had no right rear leg.

Did she know her life depended on winning someone’s heart? Some may think not, but I’m not so sure she didn’t. She sat up to beg, and I swear I saw a smile on her face.

“And her story?” I asked, bending down to scratch her ears through the links in the gate.

“Old woman brought her in. Her kids thought Francie would be a perfect pet for her. The woman couldn’t keep up with the dog’s energy, and little Francie here developed a taste for leather shoes and upholstery.”’

“She’s not had any lookers, though. It’s too bad, really. She’d make somebody a really sweet pet.”

“It’s too bad for all of ‘em,” I said.

“I want her,” I said.

The woman nodded and unlocked the cage; Francie bounded out, leapt into my arms, and licked my face.

“I think she likes you,” she said, laughing at us.

I smiled, a portion of my heart healing at last. “You’ve found a forever home with me,” I whispered to Francie.

The woman led me toward the front office, but I stopped. “I want the black mama dog too,” I said.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “They might not get along.”

“Just open the cage. Let’s give ‘em a chance,” I said.

Francie bounded towards the mama dog, who came alive; tail thumping steadily, she moved to the little dog. Introductory sniffs attended to, they danced around each other. Fast friends indeed.

“Looks like they’ll get along just fine,” I said, snuggling against both dogs.

We leashed the pair and made our way to the office. I made appointments for vaccinations and spayings, paid my fees, and left with my two girls. As we embarked on our life together, I marveled at this beauty in the midst of sorrow. We three will survive. We have lived to love again.

Odelle

2008-04-28T19:58:00.004-05:00

From the files of the Alphabet Story Starters, here is the story of Odelle. Bless her heart.

Odelle's last day as a beautician began innocently enough. A red-headed Buddha tyke, his face coated in a film of snot and slobber, sat beatifically on a booster seat for his first haircut. She worked quickly while he gnawed on a fist and watched in fascination. The mother, weeping and mumbling about lost innocence, recorded the entire event for posterity.

She politely declined the kiss the mother enticed her baby to give, preferring instead to reward him with a grape lollipop.

When the mayor's prom queen daughter presented herself for highlight touch-ups and a dramatic up-do, Odelle had no reason to believe the results would be anything less than spectacular. That it would be this kind of spectacular, though, shocked her.

She should have known to use her nasal spray that morning. Smelling the lilac-scented Nair before she squirted it from the non-descript bottle and slathered into the young lady's hair would have spared so much heartache. Instead, Odelle watched helplessly as her career dissolved before her eyes--almost as fast as the clumps of hair in her hands.

20

2008-04-28T19:16:00.002-05:00

Here's my first tiny story. It's twenty words long (hence the catchy title). It also happens to be my novel. Well, the novel's quite a bit longer, or will be when it's finished, but you get the idea.

Together forever? War Department: Killed in France. I can love again. What have you done? I think I may scream!

Tiny Stories

2008-04-27T16:32:00.003-05:00

As I've looked at how to approach short stories, I've been looking around for options. After all, this blog, this workshop, is supposed to be all about improving my writing and bringing it to a wider audience. Right?

I previously mentioned this, but I think I'd have to modify this into a fiction instead of autobiography. The whole idea of micro fiction, or flash fiction as some call it, appeals to me. I found this site that likely won't be updated any time soon, but it's given me some great ideas. I think I'll start out with the Alphabet story starters that I wrote about earlier.

I'll post a draft.

Give and Take

2008-04-22T17:35:00.003-05:00

"What's wrong? I don't understand. All I want to do is provide for my babies. I'm pregnant, you see. Multiples. I just need more than most mothers do. I can't help it."

The young mother, single and scared, busily moves around the neighborhood. It's summertime, and she only gets out in the late evening. The heat during the day makes her weak.

"I'm hungry, so very hungry," she pleads, but no one wants to help. Desperation sets in. She weaves from person to person trying to beg for food.

No one wants to help. Everyone, in fact, shoos her away with increasing violence. Some even try to smack her down to the ground. They become uncomfortable in her presence.

"Wait, don't leave," she cries in a small, pleading voice. No one would help. No one heard her. "Mother warned me this might happen. No one wants to help me. If I wasn't single, young, and pregnant, it would be different."

"WHERE'S THE PITY? WHERE'S THE UNDERSTANDING?" she screams. Still, no one hears her.

Finally, she can take being ignored no longer. As the neighborhood disappears into their houses as if someone had opened a drain, this mother-to-be races from person to person. Fear and hunger have turned to rage. She becomes vicious. A mother protects her unborn.

"There. In the yard. On the hammock. Finally. I will get food from him."

She searched quickly for an opportunity. Time was of the essence. She had not yet been spotted by her victim. Victim now, not simply a food donor. That time disappeared long ago.

A loud, staccato rumbling told her the man was snoring and safely asleep. He would not mind and might not even notice her presence.

The man in the hammock lay clad only in polyester coaching shorts. His arms and legs hung over the sides of the hammock, and his head was tilted slightly, his mouth ajar. A stream of drool ran across his cheek and down his wide, stumpy neck pooling in the folds of skin where neck and shoulder meet.

With lightning-quick speed, the hungry young mother moved under the man to the small of his back--ironic, really, to call anything about him small. Slowly, carefully, she crawled to find just the right angle of attack.

With the deftness of a skilled nurse, she plunged her nozzle-like protuberance into his flesh and quickly began to drink in the life-giving force. The young mother gulped uninterrupted for several seconds. Her belly filled with food for her unborn babies.

What happened to the man? How did he react? His snoring stopped, and he tried to turn on his side; he slept too deeply to comprehend what had just occurred. His balance left much to be desired. As the meal drew to a close, and the mosquito flew off into the distance, the man fell off the hammock and landed in his yard--onto his son's Tonka dump truck.

"Ow! What happened?" the man grumbled as he tried to scratch his back, rub the quick-rising bump on his head, and extricate the toy from his side.

"Thank you," she said, buzzing off toward a stagnant pond just over the next hill.

Gonna Have to Try This!

2008-04-22T17:25:00.001-05:00

I came across this site today. Too cool! Go check it out, if you haven't seen it before.

I'm gonna have to try this. Soon. Hold me to it!