Atonement, Part One (Fiction, Long post. Warning: Language)

The truck slid sideways in the fresh snow, throwing her hard against the door as she struggled to grip the wheel and right its progress. She mashed down on the gas pedal and grit her teeth as gravel and ice mixed in a rooster tail behind her. Any other time and this would have been play, fun in the new snow and a time to kick up her heels. Right now? Right now she wanted to kick someone in the teeth, punch someone in their fat mouth. She wanted to fight.

The skid corrected, she careened further up the lonesome road, hitting unseen potholes and bouncing  high on the old spring seat. Fuck them! She swiped angrily at the tears that wouldn't stop falling. Fuck them, and fuck this backwoods shit! They don't know who I am anymore. They don't know what I did to get here! She mashed hard on the brake as the turn, once so familiar to her, came up too sudden. Wrenching the wheel sideways she spun the old ranch truck around, one wheel slipping off the road into the ditch, pitching the cab downward dangerously. Her head snapped forward and smacked the hard plastic steering wheel with a crack.

"Damn," she whispered into the cold air with a puff of white steamy breath. She pulled off her right glove and pushing back the grey cashmere hat, tentatively touched at the knot forming on her forehead. "Ssssss..." She sucked in breath as she checked her fingertips for blood. Not too bad. There was only a tiny speck on one finger, but the  knot was swelling rapidly and her head throbbed to an unknown beat.

She adjusted her cap, took a breath and shifted the ancient old pick-up into low and pressed the gas gently. Nothing happened save the spinning of her back tires. "Shit," she breathed, resting her head on the steering wheel in frustration. She remembered she had to lock the hubs in first. She pulled on her glove muttering to herself and pushed at the door. It swung open with a labored squeal as she stepped into the cold, quiet air, her black english boots sinking in the snow to her ankles.

She was in blue tinged shadow, surrounded by the pines covered tip to trunk in thick white frost. She breathed in deep. The air had a sweetness to it, a freshly washed, icy newness that only Colorado winters produced. The cold felt good on her head, like an icepack, quieting the thumping to a dull roar. She stepped to the wheel and gripped the hub and tried to turn.

She strained against the frozen hub, her hands doubled up against the cap in an effort to free it, and her head began to pound in earnest. "FUCK!!!!!" She screamed into the quiet wilderness around her when the damned thing wouldn't budge, frozen in place by time or the cold or who-the-hell-cares. Now that lump screamed back at her in protest, blood pounding in her ears with a dizzying rush. She stepped back and kicked at the wheel, instantly glad when her foot made no connection. That would have been stupid, to have injured herself further out here where no one but one of them would find her. She would be exactly what they thought she was: some stupid city girl who couldn't even pull herself out of a ditch in a four-wheel-drive ranch truck.

It was the same truck they had all learned to drive when they were tall enough to see through the shiny plastic loop of the steering wheel and the dull, blue, cracked dashboard. They had made fun of her then too, calling her "Noodle" and "Olive Oil," her thin, wiry frame always too weak to lift or pull or push. She looked around the truck, stomping through the snow and peering into the rusty bed, hoping for anything that might help free her from her stuck position. She rested her arms along the rail, her chin cradled in the scratchy wool of her black peacoat. No widow-maker, no bags of sand, nothing. She was stuck.

She closed her eyes and listened to the silence push in around the low grumble of the truck's engine.  Exhaust billowed out of the tail pipe like smoke from a chimney and she watched, hypnotized, as it made its way skyward. She had thought coming home would help her mend, help her say goodbye once and for all. She had thought being with them would have been comforting, not awkward and lonely. She had been wrong about so many things. They still looked at her with that same disapproving stare, that same accusatory way that said she'd abandoned them. She'd abandoned all of them, even Daddy.

She hadn't, of course. She had tried to stay in touch with her crazy schedule, but it always felt lacking. The long drawn silences on the phone, the failed attempts at video chats, the unanswered emails because they "forgot to check that stuff;" it all added up to more and more distance between them. Now it was a canyon that seemed couldn't be bridged. Today at dinner had proved it. They blamed her. Why, she wasn't sure, but they blamed her.

Trey had been the hardest one to take. "You'd think with all that money you say you're making now, you'd have at least come home to see Dad before he died. Why couldn't you do that? Or do we still not matter to you, like when we were kids?"

"I was in Milan, Trey. It takes two days to get stateside with the best of planning. Last minute, I did the best I could." She had tried to stay calm, to speak low and slow and clear, but he kept on. He accused her of being a fraud, of making more of her career than it really was, of always putting the shiny bright lights above her family. She had finally thrown her plate at him and grabbed her coat and hat before she sped away from the cramped Thanksgiving dinner into the frigid afternoon.

Trey had no clue what those long hours on the trains and planes had done to her, knowing her father was slipping through her fingers one last time. She had known the instant she landed in Denver that he was gone. It had been an eerie, empty, echo in her soul as she had stepped from the terminal to hail a cab. She knew she was too late even as she tapped out a text message to Trent, the middle brother: Landed. Taking cab to driveway, can you meet me?

It had been Travis that answered from his phone. Trent must have shown him her message. Leave it to the youngest to drive the knife home: No one at ranch. Dad dead. At funeral home making arrangements. Truck parked where it usually is. Let yourself in. See you tomorrow.

She had the taxi take her to the driveway and found the same old two-toned ranch truck parked by the gate. It had started up like it an old friend and she'd made her way down the winding drive to the valley where the squat clapboard house sat nestled in the clearing amid scattered barns and sheds. The old red tractor and the rows of neatly stacked round bales stood sentinel around it, smoke curling from the chimney.

One light had shone through the living room window, casting a wide swath of light onto the covered porch and her mother's worn, hard-wood rocker. Peering through the single paned glass, she could see it was the lamp that sat by Daddy's easy chair. The antique lamp with the ash tray fixed midway down flooded the room in soft yellow light. His pipe sat in the glass insert, as if it too waited for him to walk through the door and sink into the chair to light it once more. Standing on that porch in the bright clear moonlight of late November, she had felt like an intruder, an interloper who didn't belong anywhere near anything as pure as that scene behind the window.

She squinted into the bright sky beyond the shadows, back to the present with a jolt. A flock of geese honked and called overhead as they flew southward, the signature V flexing and melting then reforming again to relieve the lead flyers. She had a job to do and the afternoon was waning fast.  She did not want to be sitting here stuck when her brothers started home.

She stomped around the nearby trees, gathering fallen branches, twigs, pine needle brooms, anything she could find, to wedge under the tires for traction. Piling the awkward stash by the side of the truck she opened the door and fished behind the seat. Smiling, she pulled forth the stubby old camp shovel, right where it always was. She moved to the drive tires and began to dig around them, uncovering gravel and wedging branches underneath. She was sweating now, under that fancy coat, but she knew better than to strip down. She wiped away a bead of sweat that snuck from under her hat. Doing the work felt good. Her arms ached and her feet were numb, but she was doing something physical and it channeled the anger out of her with every shovel-full.

Trina shoved the spade back behind the truck seat and climbed in front of the steering wheel once more. She pulled the lever back to two-wheel-drive and said a little prayer as she shifted into reverse. The engine idled higher and rocked back against the debris. She eased her foot to the gas and felt a tiny victorious thrill as the tires gripped and rocked slowly backward, the crunch and crack of branches filling her ears. Success was short-lived as the ass end began to spin and wheel its way around sideways. She stomped on the brake and opened the door to hop down again. She adjusted her makeshift ramp and got back in to try again. A few similar attempts finally had her backed out onto the road, engine purring like it was brand new as she huffed out triumphant white puffs of breath hands on her hips in satisfaction.

She kicked the largest of the branches she'd used to the side of the road and proud of herself, re-entered the truck and started back around the curve toward home. She watched as the mess of tracks and pine needles faded into the distance. The boys would see it, she frowned at her reflexion in the rearview mirror, but at least she wouldn't be there, stranded and waiting for them to bail her out. She didn't need them, she wouldn't need them ever again if she could help it.

Tides and Tunes and Truth

There's a Phil Collins song... "In The Air Tonight." It has an ominous ring to it, haunting and slow and it builds. It builds to a shout with a pummeling drum beat that is unmistakably recognizable. I freaking love that song! It embodies things that, as a writer, I relate to. It is a mirror to my relationship with my Muse, my genius, my daemon. This song...when it plays and my heart quickens, this is how I know something big is about to come at me, come out of me, burst through me.  It's overwhelming and filled with emotion. It screams and cries and curses as it wheedles its way from my belly to my pounding heart, up my constricted throat and into my brain like a deadly parasite, a fevered disease of the mind. It takes me over. It refuses to allow me to sleep, to clean, to chore. It consumes me. If I let it, it will scare the shit out of me before it winds its way out onto the page of my computer screen through my fingers. My digits struggle to keep up, spelling be damned, grammar goes to hell and I know that something is demanding to be heard. My throat constricts, tears threaten to fall and I am obsessed.

I feel her today, my stiletto clad Muse. She is frustrated, hair askew, one heel broken and the other missing, mascara in black streaks under both eyes. There are stains on her french cuffed shirt and it hangs open at a dangerous angle, buttons dangling on tenuous threads, stolen glances of torn black lace. Her stockings are full of runs and there is a gaping hole in one thigh. She is drunk and unruly, straining against the unseen bouncer of my rationale, spitting obscenities at me over his burly shoulder. She melts into a puddle of frustrated tears and lands herself in a heap on the floor. Only when I consent to sit at the keyboard, Phil blaring in my ears, body rocking to the heavy beat of drums, does she gather herself up and sit across from me. She has poured herself another glass of something dark and peaty, I dare not ask what. She isn't constrained by social norms, she could give a shit less. She wipes at the black smudges on her cheeks and dares me to listen.  Cue Adele and "Hello..."

Music between us eases the tension and I am writing. I am writing what ever she sloshes forth, slurring her words from a lipstick stained mouth. She is scattered and haphazard and I am grateful. Whatever she needs, whenever she needs it, I am committed. I will respond. Is it a short story? A novel idea? A blog post?  I don't know until I sit down and open the spigot. Sometimes it comes at a trickle and I can wrap my head around it. Sometimes it is a fire hydrant and I am left with nothing to do but dance in the drenching fallout, soaked to the bone and gloriously spent.

I could fight this interaction. I could reason it away and go about the laundry and the dishes and the everydayness of my life. But because I am a writer, because I have embraced the desire to be one of the ink stained, the other-worldly, the creators and artists, I welcome it. I cuddle it close, this porcupine of emotions, and I listen. When it shouts and when it whispers, I listen. If I am lucky, someday when the stars align, I will have written it down in such a way that it cannot be ignored and you will be introduced to the joy I know on an intimate basis. She is, after all, a very real part of me and she only wants to be heard.

Just A Pinch...

In my twenties, life was exciting. It was about potential, setting up the perfect serve, drinking from life's cup in big sloppy gulps. In my thirties, life was about working hard, striving for one more rung on the ladder, making what I wanted happen through one more all-nighter. In my forties my perspectives on life changed. I looked around and while I could say it was 'good,' I realized a few things: Life is precious, nothing turned out like I thought it would and that was okay. My enjoyment has taken on a different flavor. I savor more, sip instead of gulp, realize that even though it may have some burnt edges, it's still good enough to gobble up. Disappointments and disillusionment become another part of the meal instead of something to throw in the dumpster. Acceptance reins supreme.

It was in light of these revelations that I started thinking about what I want when I am old... Scratch that, not old. Seasoned.

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• I want to own chickens. When I have no more desire to travel and see the world, I will gather to me chooks of all sorts and feed them in the setting rays of the sun, tossing seed upon the ground and smiling as they gobble it up. I will wear aprons with pockets and glory in the remnants of feed that find its way under my fingernails.
• I want to sit on the porch and sip my coffee in the mornings, reminiscing of the places I have been and the shoes that got me there. I will recall strolls down cobbled streets, paved cities and country roads. I will bask in the rising sun of another day and hold the memories like treasures to my breast. 
• I want to build blue bird houses and set them about my yard to watch as they swoop and dive, swirl and light. I want to listen to the cheep-cheep of chicks in the mornings as their parents bring them breakfast, the iridescence of their clothing shining like a mirage in the light of sunrise.
• I want to wear long tunics and palazzo pants, to sweep myself into a room with elegance and grace. I want to clothe myself in bright blues and greens and purples, reminiscent of a peacock in full regalia. I want to sparkle and shine and make people marvel at my fashion bravery.
• I want to laugh with my children, let their kids bounce upon my knee and ask me questions like, "What was it like when you grew up?" I want to see my kids as the incredible artists, hearts and philanthropists that they are. I want to be proud of them and still encourage them to stretch.
• I want to surround myself with Ya-Ya friends - You know the ones... Those that chuckle at our past adventures and begin stories with, "Remember that time?" I want to share bottles and bottles of wine into the late hours, sitting quietly together, gazing into firefly speckled darkness. I want to hold their hands, laugh at their verve, stroke their hair and cry in their laps.
• And when it is time for me to go, I want to do so in my own bed with my Love and my family at my side. I want to tell them how deeply I love them and listen to their favorite memories and I want to laugh my way into Heaven. With my last breath and my last gaze, I want to smile at the face of God, giggle one last time and know that I am home.

What a Writer Wants

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Have you ever wondered what it takes to love a writer? It all starts with knowing what we want... Here's a short list of my desires:

• A writer wants to connect. When I sit to write, I do so as one speaking to a confessor, a confidant sworn to secrecy. I want you to understand and even resonate with what I am saying. I want to let you know and in turn, know myself, that we are not alone. Emotions and perspectives are unique but the same in so many ways. I am revealing myself to you.
• A writer wants to rant. Most of what I write I am dealing with on some level. That may alarm you if you have read any of my books or my shorts. That's okay. Be alarmed. A writer's rant, I can almost guarantee, means something completely different than you think it does. 
• A writer craves details. I am completely irritated and undone when I get the short answer. "What did you think of the book?" "It was good." Good? Seriously? What did it make you feel? Did it teach you anything? Don't tell me it was good! Tell me it was spectacular, it was horrifyingly boring, it was rancid. Description is a meal and words are the seasonings - FEED ME!
• A writer longs for truth. Whether in research or honest word choice or description of the hard scenes, a writer is searching out the truth of what they write. There is no worse feeling than reading something you know is not true. It is a slap in the face of your audience if you don't at least attempt knowledge of what you speak. Respect of their time is always at the top of my list.
• A writer wants quiet. This is a hard one for me to describe. Anyone that knows me as that other person, knows that I am less than a brooding, solitary soul. Still, in my writing life I have to have a sense of serenity. I need a quiet place, a few hours of my day unassailed by the noise of life: no television, no radio or music, no interruption to the process of writing. The noise in my head alone is so loud it often takes me days to quiet enough to get even a few words on the page. I have to have that stillness to make sense out of the static energy in my cluttered mind.
• A writer wants release. When I write, if I am paying close attention, concentrating on word choice and being demanding with my concepts, it is like having amazing sex. There... I said it. Any writer who tells you otherwise has either never had great sex or is lying to you.  When I put in the work, decide selfishly I will not stop until I am done, I feel as spent, as satisfied, as gloriously loved and attractive as I do after a naughty romp in the sack. It opens up my whole world to more! I am energized, confident and contented... I'm pretty sure I glow. That release of my story onto the page clears my head and allows me to move on with my day. If I am honest, that same release also keeps me coming back for more, because - well... Isn't it obvious?
• A writer wants stimulation. (No I'm not all about the sex today...) The death knell to any sort of creative juice I have is to sit stagnant, to let routine rule my life. I have begun to travel in my aged years (wink, I'm not all that old), and in those adventures have come to realize it fuels my writing mojo. The more I see, the more my mind opens up to the possibilities. The more I stretch my boundaries the more my mind stretches its imaginings. When I cannot travel, just a trip into a cafe where I can sit and observe, a little darkened bar in the middle of the day, a park bench under a canopy of trees... All of these become fodder for the page.
• A writer craves appreciation. There is nothing more heady than to be told someone is waiting for you to write another story, tell another tale, create another character. To be lauded by those who read my stories is a drug as addictive as heroine and the cravings can become destructive, especially when I have gone dry. If you know a writer in your midst, if you admire a blogger you lurk but never comment on, let them know you appreciate them. It may give them the courage they need to try a new character, to re-edit their last short, to finish!

You Can't Take It Back (Fiction, Long Post)

They stood facing each other, the air thick around them, crackling with tension. They stood and stared. Her chest heaved, up and down, her arms slack at her sides, her mind a whir of confusion and hurt. She was finding it hard to breathe. The silence rushed in on her, filling her ears like rushing water, the beat of her heart pounding loudly against the void. The air seared her lungs and burned all the way down to her soul. She felt the ache in her heart squeeze hard at her chest. The heat that had powered their argument was cooling quickly and she felt the rise of bumps along her arms and legs.

She watched as his eyes registered regret, then stubborn resolution; he didn’t look away. She continued to stare, to search his weathered features, to try to recognize the man she’d married. The boyishness was long gone, vanished with his compassion for her. Somewhere along the road they had traveled that young man had been replaced with greying hair at his temples, haggard lines on his cheeks and a hardness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. At this moment he was no longer someone she recognized. She let her gaze fall to his clenched fists, his expanded waistline, his faded jeans. When had he left her? Had she pushed him away? Was this somehow her fault?

Her ears were still ringing with the words. She drug her eyes back to his face, searching for any sign of a coming apology. There was none. She held her breath for short bursts, knowing each time she released the air and took another it might be the one that sent her sobbing. She vowed she wouldn’t do that yet, not here, not in his presence. Her pride wouldn’t let it happen where he could watch.

She forced a small, tight smile and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. She tried to force her mind to make sense of what he’d said. What exactly had he said? Could she recall the words, or only the pain? The sounds of them, swift and sharp, had stuck to her like darts, stinging and hurtful. She wanted to pluck them out, throw them to the floor, tell him to say it again, but her request stayed walled behind a fortress of teeth and lips. If she unclenched her jaw and tried to speak she would surely crumble.

A shiver slunk down her spine, her gut wrenched painfully and she fought the urge to vomit. Only now did his face spark a sliver of concern. He extended his arm to reach for her. She turned, denying him any touch.

“Don’t,” she managed through the grind of her jaw.

“I-“

“You’ve said enough.” It was those few words that broke the dam on her tears. They ran down her cheeks, hot and salty. She swiped quick at her face with the back of her hand and turned to walk away, “I have work to do.”

He spun her around by her arm so that she had to work to maintain her balance. She stared at his hand on her skin, tight enough to push flesh through the gaps, until he let her go. The print of his hand on her remained, pink against pale. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

She rubbed her arm where he had touched her, “No. You meant it, or you wouldn’t have said it. We always mean the things we say, whether we should say them or not.” Her voice was quiet, deliberate, cool.

She stared at the floor, silence yawning lazily between them now. She was suddenly exhausted, bone tired and mentally weary. Although she struggled to move, she felt an incredible lightness; a floating, twisting, bobbing along that should have caused her alarm. She couldn’t bring herself to register the angst. She was drained. She wished she could be washed away with the tide she drifted on now; to be sucked out to oblivion would be less painful.

She moved on unsteady feet back to the table and sank heavily into her chair.

“I am sorry.”

“Me too,” she forced herself to look back into those eyes. “Is it enough? Is being ‘sorry’ enough?”

He reached for his ball cap and ran his fingers through his thick hair. He met her gaze as he placed his hat back on his head, “I don’t know.”

He searched her face, his grey eyes flicking along her features. What was he seeing? Her age? The woman she once was? Did he find what he was looking for? He turned and put his hand on the doorknob. For only a moment he hesitated and then was gone, pulling the latch home with a click.

“Me neither,” she whispered as the tears cascaded down her face unfettered.

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Eye of the Beholder (Fiction, long post)

As previously promised, I am warning readers that this particular post has some steamy bits. On a scale of 1-5 (1 being "low description romance" and 5 being "burn your eyebrows off") it is mild at a 2.

She lay there, let her breath settle and her heart beat return to a steady thump in her chest instead of a pounding in her ears. Her head lay cradled in the crook of his arm, her own arm across his chest, still heaving breath after breath into his own lungs. The air was close around them, no breeze through the open window above them, only sounds from the street below.

His hand trailed along her skin, touching her arm gently, sending goose flesh raising after each caress. Her body rippled with an uncontrollable shiver. She watched his manicured hand, his knuckles untouched by age, the downy hair on his arm not yet crinkled by time. It was a marked contrast to the crepe-y lines along the crease in her elbow, the age spots freckled in her tan. She stroked the smooth skin of his chest, touched the inky places and traced the pictures. He was so remarkably smooth, unlined. She sighed as he grasped her hand in his.

“Hmm?” The silkiness of his voice reminded her he was not sleeping, only resting. “What is it? What are you thinking?” He raised her hand and kissed her palm softly, sensuously.

Only youth asks that question, her mind snarked unkindly. “I am thinking many things, nothing in particular…”

“Liar.” Always direct, always so sure of himself. Oh to be young again and so certain of your life and your world.

She curled her fingers around his hand, noticing they looked more and more like her mother’s hands. It was unsettling, this aging thing she did. It was stealing her confidence, squashing her desire to be seen with it’s ugly, wrinkled, leathery march across her body. She hoped it was not what he saw, but it was there; a shimmering mirage waiting to take permanent shape in the mirror. It was there.

“I wish I could see what you see.”

He chuckled deep in his firm chest, “See what I see? I’m not sure what you mean. Explain, please.” Again, he lifted her hand to his lips and nipped enticingly at her fingertips. She tilted her head to watch his tongue flick in and out of supple lips, tantalizing her body with this ghostly technique. He was ignorant of the struggle she waged, fighting the urge to pull her hand away. Confidence. He had it in spades.

“Concentrate,” he teased. “Explain what you just said.”

“Me. I wish I could see what you see in me.” She watched as his lips parted in mirth, perfect white teeth gleamed in the low light and her heart squeezed. She should never have said it. He would tell her now, and she didn’t really want an answer. That was the beauty of age: knowing when you don’t want the answer and valuing the sweet melancholy of silence.

“I see you.”

She waited, breath held against his side, thankful her hair covered her face. He laid her hand on his chest and resumed stroking her lightly as his other hand curled around her shoulder.

“I see who you want to be, who you became for someone else, who you don’t want to be but are anyway. I see so much more than the things you see about yourself.” He patted her hand reassuringly, his tone ringing lightly of condescension. “I see a beautiful woman that cannot decide whether to embrace herself or fade quietly away. I see that fight in you.” He rolled to his side, sliding his arm out from under her and propping himself on his elbow.

She peeked from below the cascade of her hair to look into his eyes. They searched her, deep brown and clear, his brow creased in concern for only a moment. His hair was tousled, hanging down his forehead in a daring curl of wrecked gel. She watched him as he traced the lines of her back, down her side to her waist, around the bottom of her buttock to her inner thigh. She could feel her skin flush and leap under his touch.

“I see you. I see more of you than anyone else, I bet.”

She chortled, “Well of course. I’m naked.”

“More than that,” He slapped her behind hard enough to crack the air around them. “I see the things that light you up: desire, exploration, contentment, satisfaction.” He abandoned tracing her body with his hand and took up instead with tiny, feathery kisses. “I see everything and I desire it all. Even those things you wish you could hide.”

She rolled to her back, letting her hair conceal all her features except her eyes. She watched as his face broke into a confident grin, his eyes refusing to leave her body. That gaze consumed her, devoured every feature hungrily. He laid his hand flat on her stomach, stroked upwards, between her breasts and back down. He pulled his palm off and used only the tips of his fingers, tracing the median line of her to the hollow at her neck, down around the pink of her nipple. She watched him smile as it rose to his caress, his hands tracing her breast from the top to its swell at her sides. Her back arched and she bit back the sounds that threatened to escape.

“I see your scars, inside and out,” he arched an eyebrow confidently, “I see your artistry, your failings, your perfection, your self-loathing. I see your interest and ennui…”

“Ennui?” She chuckled into the warm air of the bedroom. “Complicated word.”

“Yes, ennui. You do know what that means, don’t you?” He rolled atop her, propped above by his arms, biceps bulging with the effort. His knees pushed her legs open beneath him. “I see your boredom. I see it all and I have only one thought…” His gazed locked on her.

“Yes?” She breathed, not daring to take her eyes away from him. He drug her hair gently away from her face with a finger, exposing her to him in full. She was bare, makeup long gone to the dark sheets, crows feet and wrinkles and age spots in full bloom on her face.

“I want to own it, possess it, make it mine.” His mouth came down on hers, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth; filling it, demanding response, pulling heat and desire from her as easily as the rising sun. She could feel him lower to her, his chest pressing on her own, the hardness of him pulsing at her open thighs.

It can’t be that simple, her mind screamed at her. Its keening weakened within the crescendo of her body responding in force to his. She no longer fretted over holding in her stomach, turning her face to the light or softening the wrinkles at her eyes. She had no choice but to melt against his persistence, to surrender to the heat of the moment. Her body no longer cared to do anything but receive; her mind was another matter.

Perhaps this would be the last time, she mused. Perhaps this time he would awaken to the truth of her: aging beauty fading into the light of morning. Perhaps he would realize in the daylight, stark and revealing, that every drop of her youth had drained away, leaving only a desiccated husk of who she used to be. Perhaps he wouldn’t miss her when she slunk from his bed, shoes held in hand and the door pulled shut with a click as he slept.

Perhaps, but not yet.

“Hello?”

The word snapped her back to reality like a splash of cold water. She looked over to find her husband grinning at her as they lay in bed, side by side. His hand reached and patted her leg gently.

“What are you reading? You’re about to chew your lip to bits,” He stretched to tug her lower lip from her teeth.

“Just a book,” she looked wistfully down at the pages. She could see a thumb print in the cheap paper where she had held on a little too tightly.

“Going to give yourself sores if you don’t stop chewing your lip,” he turned back to the television. “Must be some book.”

“Just a fantasy. A fairy tale, I guess.”

“Hmmm,” he grunted, fumbling to pat at her leg through the comforter. “Back to reality.”

“Indeed.”

Unfolding

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I write. I write all the time... And much are things I am reluctant to publish. I am reluctant because I write from a place that imagines all sorts of things. I write things I would never do. I write things I would do in an instant. I write the ugly things, the soft things, the silly things and everything in between.

I am good at what I do. Were I to write you, you would know. Observation and accuracy in description is a honed talent that all writers attempt to perfect. This becomes the dilemma, doesn't it? We write what we know or what we wish we knew. We, as writers, imagine what we would do and say if we could only break free. We write the hard things, the truth of things, because in life we cannot say or do them. In civilized life, we aren't allowed to do certain things, voice certain things, react certain ways. The thing is... Life-real life-isn't civilized. When a writer can capture the underbelly, the shocking rawness of life as it is lived, I am entranced. I love reading books like that.

A book that makes me cringe, that makes me envious, that tears out my heart and makes me watch as the last beat pulses in my bloody hand - THOSE books are the books that I love and that I want to read! They are also the books I want to write. I want you to read the words and be lost beyond all else. I want you to read and forget I wrote it. I want you to put down the pages breathing hard, head spinning, heart beating and want more. I want you to be driven into searching out another story, connecting with another character, desiring another page to turn.

It is very true that we write the stories we want to read. In my twenties I wanted fantasy. In my thirties I wanted nostalgia. Now, in my forties, I want reality. I want gritty, grainy, rawness of word. I want to feel something when I read. I want to learn and renew and regret nothing. If those things make you uncomfortable, if the land you want to explore has no potholes, no cliffs, no bone chilling wind, you should turn back now.

Over the next days I will be publishing some things I have held back. They are writings that will sometimes be erotically charged (I will warn you, but I am also not a porn writer, so breathe easy), they will be wistful and sad, they will be funny. I am not a woman of one singular taste, nor am I easily categorized. That is the nature of being human. It is also the nature of humanity to feel community, to know we are not the only ones who think the thoughts we think, feel the emotions we feel. We want to know that no one is "normal," that everyone is as jacked up as we are, at least for a time. That, I have come to learn, is the most valuable lesson in life: there is no norm for living. It's all a big, messy, twisty journey we are on and I refuse to deny its reality.

I appreciate your willingness to let me stretch from my box. I feel like I have been cooped up too long and need to open my arms, to elongate my spine from the bent and twisted pose I have contorted into. I am looking forward to running across the page... Let's open the door, shall we?

Diagnosed

Photo Credit: Shannon Derbique

I am afflicted. I would not categorize it as a disease, nor would I ever venture to say it is a hinderance, per-say. I only know that what I suffer from is real; as real as the necessity of breathing, the base requirement of food and genuine desire for companionship. I have the affliction of wanderlust.

As I have grown older, I have learned many things about myself. I have learned that I have an extremely low tolerance for ignorance. I have learned that I can become resentful and bitter far too easily. I have learned that my desire for peace far outweighs my desire to watch the news. Most of all, I have learned that I have a deep-seeded need to travel.

I feel it like a woman feels the quickening of a child in the womb. It starts as a low tickle, a flipping, rolling excitement in my core that threatens to burst forth with a war-like cry. I have tried to ignore it, to quell its rapid growth, but I have failed more times than I have succeeded. My whole body tingles with excitement and my skin rises in goose-flesh; anticipation threads through me from the nape of my neck to my ankles, curling the arches of my feet, making it difficult to sit still. It has a very real, visceral, physical quality to it that is nearly impossible to describe without sounding as if I am simply in need of a bathroom.

Deciding where to wander has been a delightful part of all of my adventures. As a kid in the 70s and 80s, our family trips were largely in the car to camp or sightsee. I traveled twice with family by plane to Maryland to visit my Dad's people and being a rude, barely tolerable teen I didn't glean much from the experiences. As I have aged, however, I have been exposed to the glorious world of travel via my husband who wanders around the States for work. Although the times I have accompanied him have been to see only the small confines of his job, it sparked in me an adventurous nature that I never saw coming.

In my wanderings I have discovered a new me; I have uncovered an adventurer clad in khakis and a jaunty pith helmet. She is the muse who drags me by the hand into tiny little wine bars to while away the rainy afternoons sipping wine and observing. She has beckoned to me from up ahead, weaving in and out of crowds to a quiet bench on the bay where I can sit for hours, the breeze off the water cooling my skin. She has sat with me in the petty cab as our driver chats about the people he sees and the diversity around him. I cherish her, this very different muse of mine, but she is no less insistent than her counterpart dressed in the pencil skirt and the stilettos. They both are extremely temperamental about being heard and heeded. They simply refuse to be ignored.

It is because of her that I am planning another trip soon; one that I did not see coming. It is an exciting adventure that I hope to complete with as much verve and curiosity as I have my forays into the Deep South. I will undoubtedly share the discoveries, whether here, on my Facebook page or in a new novel, but I will share them. Under the canopies of the Pacific North West I will take pictures, drink wine and fine coffee and ponder the lives of those who live there. I will quench the wanderlust, feed it full and put it to bed if only for a time. I know all too soon my muse will raise her head, pull on her khakis and don that helmet to drag me off again. I will go willingly.

I have an affliction. It is called "Wanderlust," and I hope you catch it too!

In Mourning Light (Long post, fiction)

The air was crisp, cooling her skin where the rough duck cloth of her coat didn't cover. Her bare feet slipped in the rubber boots, her toes curling to find purchase within. Dew from the early morning was soaking the hem of her little flannel night gown, slapping at her legs. If Mama knew she'd snuck out the back kitchen door she'd skin her alive.

The cold bluish light of dawn was all she needed to make her way to the big red barn. A soft yellow glow spilled out on the grass from the big door left open just a crack. He must be inside already, she thought. She hesitated a moment, but continued on despite the pell-mell beating of her heart. She had to see, even if she got in trouble. She just had to.

The galoshes made a soft sucking sound as she neared the opening to the barn, her feet sinking in the mud. She pulled them slowly from their prison and crept to the backside of the doorway, peering through the crack and holding her breath. A lantern burned not far from her, sitting like a sentinel on the dirt floor. She couldn't see him yet, but she could hear him.

She moved quickly, stealthy as a ferrel cat, around the big sliding door and into the shadows of the metal corrals. She crouched low and listened.

"Now c'mon, you rascal..." Daddy's voice was low, guttural and strained. "C'mon... Just a little bit. It'll make you feel better, I promise."

Trinity moved cautiously along the back wall of the barn, keeping to the shadowy darkness. She wasn't ready to talk to him yet. She didn't know if she was mad, exactly, but she wasn't ready to talk to him either. She started around the corner, peeking first to make sure she wasn't going to bump right into him.

"There ya go, fella. That's it," Daddy was bent in half, his broad back to her and the reason for all that grunting Trinity imagined. He was a big man, her daddy. A man's man, her Mama liked to say, although she wasn't sure what that meant. She started across the aisle way behind him, slowly and quietly, desperate to make the shadows once more.

Photo Credit: Jenny MacLennan

Suddenly he let out a groan, "C'mon, you scalawag!" The sharpness of his voice sent her scurrying for the corner faster than she wanted. The only thing that saved her from discovery was the bawling of the calf wedged between her Daddy's legs. They scuffled a moment as Trinity settled herself in the corner, pulling the duck coat around her legs as she sat, back against the wall to watch.

"One more time, lil fella. One more and I think you'll have it," she watched as he patiently pried at the calf's mouth with a thumb and inserted the big red nipple. The baby looked almost as tired as her Daddy.

Trinity scanned the barn floor and let her gaze settle on something in the opposite corner. A large blue tarp, mounded over a set of four stiff legs pooled in mournful disarray. That was her. Mama's bottle calf from when they were first married. She looked back at the puffing figure of her Daddy and the little bull calf suckling the bottle he held. She watched as the milk in the container slowly drained and the wild look of the baby calmed as his tummy filled. Silently he let the nipple flick from his upturned mouth, white foamy stuff making a smiley face on his soft black muzzle.

He stared at her there in the shadows, searching her out, making her fear discovery. She pulled her knees in tighter and peered at those soft brown eyes as her Daddy's legs opened and released him. He didn't move right away, just stood tottering there as if he'd accepted that would always be his home.

Her daddy tilted his hat back, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his arm and the same colored duck coat she wore. His big frame slid down the wall of the barn as he sat in the dirt next to his charge. He spoke softly to the calf, so soft and low Trinity couldn't make it out. His big hands, calloused and hard, stroked the little bulls neck and back as gently as he touched her and Mama.

She shifted in her position against the wall and the calf snapped his gaze to her. Daddy finally looked into the shadow and found here there, crouched tightly and now shivering against the chill.

"C'Mere," he motioned with his hand and patted the ground next to him, too tired to sound gruff or even move.

Trinity stood slowly and made her way around the corrals to her Daddy's side. She slunk down to sit in the dirt beside him and he pulled her across his lap, cradling her in his wide arms. She warmed almost immediately as the two sat silently for a minute, not saying a word.

"Millie's dead, isn't she Daddy?"

"Yes, Puddin', she is." Trinity scanned his face. His eyes were closed, his head leaned back against the wooden wall and as small as she was she could feel exhaustion flood off of him.

"That her calf?"

"Yup."

"Mama's sad."

"I know. I'm sad too."

Trinity shook her head, "No Daddy. You can't be sad. You yelled. I heard you."

His eyes slowly opened and he scanned her face before he spoke, "Of course I'm sad, Trinity. Yelling don't mean I ain't sad. Only means I feel so sad I don't know how else to talk."

She looked him over, contemplating this revelation. "You yelled because you're sad? That don't make sense, Daddy. You're a big strong man and you only yell when you're mad."

He looked past her to watch as the calf nosed at the tarp and let out a bawl. He squeezed his eyes shut as the noise subsided, "Puddin', big strong men yell for a lot of reasons. Very few of them are because it makes sense."

The little bull tottered over to them, stretching out his nose to Trinity and blowing softly to smell her better. She reached a tentative, chubby hand to him and watched as he investigated her fingers for milk.

"Can we call him Milton?"

"If Mama says it's ok," He scratched the little head that pulled away suddenly, sending the baby careening backward on unsteady legs and landing in a pile not far from them.

She giggled quietly and pushed her cheek into the canvas of his coat. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him: mud, cattle, blood, dung. "Are you sad because Mama is sad?"

"Yup."

"Me too."

"We need to go back to the house before she finds you missing, Trinity." Daddy scooped her up and set her on her booted feet as he took her hand. "Let's close up the corral for now. I'll let you feed Milton in an hour or two."

"Okay."

He pulled the big cross aisle gate closed and they watched as Milton settled down next to the tarp, his wild baby legs tangled underneath himself, his brown eyes watching them go.

"I wanna help you bury her, Daddy."

He hesitated.

"Mama's too sad, but I wanna help. She was a good cow."

His big hand slapped gently at her back and he pulled his hat down low on his eyes. She was sure he did it so she wouldn't see the tears, but she saw them anyway. Daddy didn't say anything, just nodded real quick.

Trinity watched Milton over her shoulder as she called back, "We'll be back, Milton. You hang tough."

A Sea of Idea

Photo Credit: Tracey Lee

It's back. My writing mojo has returned and with it the unrelenting desire to put words out there, to form stories and thoughts and create scenes in the minds of others.

I wish I could describe how it makes me feel when the waves of it crash into me, buckling my knees with their force, my feet mired in the details like grains of sand settling between my toes. Characters yet unwritten surround me, swooping and swirling, calling to me with their voices, shrill like gulls begging for scraps. The keening of my small voice is swallowed up by the roar of the sea, its vastness stretched out before me, mocking my contributions as one drop added to the whole. I am awed by its beauty, hushed by the air thick with promise, warmed by the sun of blessing. If I could let you into my head as the press of it overwhelms me it may feel like drowning to you; an overwhelming sensation of too much information swirling around your head and your feet, pummeling you with each new idea, insistent on being heard.

For me it is the most exhilarating thing I have ever done. Hours sat before a computer screen, my fingers disconnected from my body, tapping out the thoughts that rush in, almost too fast to capture. It begins with a tingling in the back of my jaw, like that anticipation of taste before a feast, or the first sip of fine wine. It lingers in my belly, the butterflies of trepidation mingling with the warmth of an almost erotic excitement. It is visceral, this thing I do; a most private dance done in the public eye for all to see. The body of it is something I discover, curve by curve, moment by moment, even its faults containing a beauty of their own. I explore each feature, take in the sights, sounds, scents and emotions of it. I wait in the darkness, listen for the quickening, hope for a pinnacle to steer toward. Once I recognize it, commit it to memory, once I determine the final act, I write as one possessed. I have to finish, must complete it, push forward toward the ultimate end. The desire to conclude is insistent, overwhelming and undeniable. I am a woman pursued then, obsessed in every way and at the height of its completion, a tiny twinge of regret. When I finish, I am spent, exhausted in the most delicious of ways but I will miss the characters I described. Because I do not create them, only tell their stories as they have told them to me, I am saddened at their exit. I too wish to know what they go on to accomplish, but they vanish with the morning light as I return to my sea of ideas.

Each heroine, in her own way, has whirled herself away from the flock, lighting on my shoulder to whisper her story in my ear, to persuade me her tale is next and cannot wait another minute. If her story is not enough, the details too vague, her cause lacking, if I am somehow not ready she will launch herself aloft again, rejoining the flock allowing another to descend and vie for my attentions. When I accept a story, when there is flesh and heartbeat and desire to it, she signals her cohorts alight around me. They too tell a tale, regale me with their import, compete for a space on the page.

It is a chaotic scene, a symphony of life and noise and awe. I am forever blessed to be among them, these stories that insist on their telling. Not many could stand in their midst and maintain sanity, and maybe one day I too will succumb to the madness, but not today. Today I write. Can you hear their call around you?

Virtuous

Photo Credit: Creative Commons

I am, by nature, an impatient person. I am not a shopper, not a waiter, not a ponderer... I am a doer. I make decisions. Sometimes I make the wrong decisions, but I make them. I am fairly certain this is why editing makes me crazy. Editing is all about patience and pondering and waiting until the right words, the right setting, the right scene coalesces into a describable and captivating existence.

There are so many sites out there about writing and how to do it and what to use to start and how to keep going. There are as many methods and procedures and processes as there are writers. It can be daunting if you try to homogenate them all into something you can use, but there is a common thread. Most of them will tell you, in one way or another, just get it down - WRITE! Finish the idea and get it onto the screen because all first drafts suck. I hear this. I agree with this. Well, mostly I agree with this. I think, however, that my dread of editing is the thing that pushes me to wait, to gain patience and to start with the best version of my story.

I have actually rewritten my own first draft of the first chapter of my third book. Yeah... Weird right? I couldn't leave it alone. I had a major time-line flaw, so that helped, but as I was restarting this morning, I realized I was approaching this draft with patience. Patience! I wanted it to be less about finishing and more about starting well.

Who knows, maybe I am growing up! Or maybe this was just the kick in the pants I needed to get this one rolling. Like backing away from the starting line to get a better stride going. Whatever it is, I am digging it!

The Anatomy of a Best Seller...

Photo Credit: Creative Commons

I read. I read all the time. I read blogs, articles, magazines and books. I read mostly fictional works, but I also read to better myself at my craft... Writing. So you know when I find that one title that says, "How to Write a Best Seller," of course I am going to dive in. I mean, who wouldn't want to know how to be at the top of their writing game?

The thing is, every article I read on the subject has one of two messages: 1) Writing is subjective and there is no way to know what will propel you into the insanity of a best seller or 2) Marketing, marketing, marketing! Flood the market, alienate your friends and family and spam the crap out of anyone you ever met to sell your tome.

Anyone who knows me knows the second option isn't for me. I have done my share of tier marketing, from Mary Kay to horse wash systems, and my philosophy has always been, "I have it if you want it, but I will not chase you down to sell it." I run two other businesses of my own these days, one markets a product, the other markets me, and I still firmly believe in that philosophy. The product is high quality and speaks for itself, and me? Well, art is subjective. If you like it, I have it. So...

Still, there are days I am faced with the lonesome reality that sitting back and waiting for the world to come to me to hear my stories is fruitless. I have no less than six stories running around in my head and all of them have immense potential to be incredibly successful stories in today's market. Well, I have to think that, right? Or else, why put myself on the page?

AHA! (Spins on heel and points accusingly at ... the mirror.) See that's just it. I don't write to market to the public. If I did, I would do some studying and make myself fit into one of the genre moulds of this staid and stodgy industry. You remember here where I told you I got my first rejection letter that fueled me instead of ruled me?  I don't fit into the cubby holes. More importantly, I don't want to fit into the cubby holes. It may mean that I never find success in the publishing world. It may mean that I am never able to say I make a living as a writer. I'm ok with that. I have to be. I'm ok with that because to not write would kill me. To not write would put to death the person I have become. I need it almost as much as I need air, or food, or wine.

So a bestseller? Probably not. If it happens someday I will rejoice loudly! Until then, the best advice any of the how-to articles have given me is write. Until that is done, all of it is moot. So while I am on hiatus right now, getting ready to launch my daughter into the collegiate world, I am still thinking about writing, day dreaming about writing, and occasionally writing. I have one to finish and another to start, and none of them will fit a mould, and isn't that grand?

It's Magic

City Park, New Orleans, LA

I think it's completely normal for people to close a book, mourn the loss of the character in their daily life and think about what they might be doing outside the confines of the story. I believe it is expected to dream past the end of the story a writer creates, to imagine more, to desire more. I think that is the mark of writing well done. It is what I strive for. I want you lost inside the world I created, wandering the streets and homes, meeting the people, sitting at the table, yourself a guest at the party. I want you to smell the richly cooked meals, hear the tinkle of ice in glasses, fight the urge to interject in a conversation... I want to take you with me, introduce you to the characters, whisper their secrets in your ear and invest you in their cause as I show you the places I have been.

It is a balm to my soul when, after finishing something I have written, I hear the call for "More!" I am humbled when I have readers who tell me they lost themselves in the writing, that they miss the wit, the locations, the sunlight through the trees. I smile when they ask what she's wearing today. It tells me I created something worthy of their desire, of their precious investment of time. Inevitably, there will be the question, "How do you come up with this stuff?"

I have thought long and hard on how to reply, as if there is some urbane, "right" way to explain such an intricate and personal process. Really, it has been different for each. Each tale starts from a tiny seed, very small thoughts around a certain subject, or a dress, or a picture and once watered by my imagination, grows into a story that buds with the first draft and then, through editing, blossoms into a full fledged novel. Mostly...

With Exposed, my first endeavor, I must admit I was not that planned or focused. I had finished reading a certain series of books and I have to confess: I was pissed off. The writing was poor, pedantic and condescending. There was little to no research done on the subject matter and the characters were lack-luster, shallow and fickle. It was one of the few times I forced myself to keep reading, hoping that somewhere I would click in, feel less duped, find something of substance. Nope. Just... Nope. I read like a woman pursued, wanting only to turn the page so I could get the damned thing over with. I have to say I was red-hot by the time I was done, so I snapped the cover of my Kindle closed and tossed it on my nightstand. This of course alerted the Man to my sour mood. He bravely asked what was wrong and I told him, adding, "I can write better (stories) than that!" So, as the Man will do, in his matter-of-fact Man-ish way, he shrugged and said, "Then do it."

At first I balked, but then I remembered the feeling of betrayal, the lament of time wasted and the regret of having been taken for a fruitless ride and I decided I would at least begin. The next morning found me pounding away on my computer keyboard, a sideways kiss to the Man as he left for work, and Chapter One was born. If you have read Exposed, you know that after I allowed the Man to read it I was engaged for the rest of the night. In the morning he encouraged me to continue my writing, to flesh out the story, to just keep going. So I did. I kept going.

I had very little direction with my first book. I didn't start with an outline and I had no idea how it would end, but I knew one thing: I wanted to use the reader's time wisely, give them something to take away and at the same time, make them never want to leave. I didn't want anyone rushing through my pages because they just wanted it to be over. As I wrote, I became friends with Presley DuBois, my main character, and I listened to her. I wrote her angst, her fears, her selfishness, her reflections and her joys. I let her lead me down paths I hadn't explored and I let her tell me when it was okay to finish. There are moments in the book that I literally sat back from my keyboard and look slack-jawed at the screen. There are things I never saw coming and things that broke my heart. I listened to her voice in my head that had been quiet right up until she wasn't. When I finished the last line of Exposed I too was saddened by the loss of some deeply interesting and enjoyable people. They became as real to me as my family members and I struggled to let them go. My only saving grace was that I had another tale brewing in my head that was begging to get out, so I moved on.

As I wrote this first novel, however, I learned two things about myself that I didn't know: I refuse write a formulaic romance novel,  and I cannot ever stop writing. It is a desperate, undeniable part of me now. I have learned to recognize the need for words as readily as I recognize my need for food and water. When I am not writing, I am thinking of writing. When I am writing, I am thinking of more writing. When I am traveling, I am thinking of how to describe what I see; from airports, to taxi-cabs, to park benches and street gutters, I want to describe every detail. I cannot stop my mind from the desire to get it all in, tell it all accurately, write it all down!

Everyone's process is different and I am finding that each book I start demands something different from my routine. I hope that if you are reading this today you will come away with an understanding of how valuable I know your time is. I hope I never waste it or leave you wanting anything but more!

It's a process...

I am a chaotic thinker. That translates heavily into everything I do, from writing to housework to creating invitations to watching a show to accounting. Yeah... It doesn't fly well with the accounting thing, but that would be why I steer clear of most of those types of duties.

If you could plug a set of headphones into the base of my skull and hear all of the things that my brain is churning over you would yank them from your ears and drop them at your feet. It's loud in here, horrifying and messy like my teenager's rooms. Thoughts jump around, shout for attention at all the wrong times and rabbit trail into oblivion. Voices talk over each other, push aside mundane tasks and evoke the weird and unresolved. They leave little bits of themselves strung about, pieces of stories that may or may not ever see the back-light of my computer screen, and they often lead nowhere. Like the wasteland of a hoarder's collection, I cannot seem to throw them away, only leave them there to languish and mutter until I find them a home.

My chaotic thinking often results in chaotic doing. I can start out determined to get the kitchen cleaned and end up researching how it is blue birds have evolved such iridescent coloring. Having a conversation when I am in chaotic mode has to be terribly frustrating for my friends and loved ones, although for me it is merely thinking out loud. It's odd and frustrating and funny and exhilarating, all at the same time.

Before you step into a diagnostic role, I do not have ADD or ADHD or any combination thereof. I can concentrate on one thing and I can, to a degree, operate in polite society without awkward silence or inappropriate outburst. It is only in my mind that I am constantly tearing jagged holes in the universe and asking the very writerly question, "What if..."

I don't view my chaotic mind as an affliction, something to be hid away or secreted from view. Rather, I embrace it, revere it like one watching seedlings push through soil. In that moment, when all of my thoughts seem like a jumbled mess of shouty ideas and tangled string, I am watching for the "a-ha!" that transforms the "What if" into something unique, something interesting, something to explore. Like seedlings, which to my eye look very much the same when they push through that dark loamy earth, each will develop into something recognizable, unique, genuine. At that point we decide whether to weed it out of the dirt and pluck it away, or water it and let it grow.

What are you watering today? Hmmmm?

Photo Credit Creative Commons

...And she wears stilettos

I have a muse. Like many creative-types, I owe much inspiration to this creature of myth and mystery but she is not what you would call conventional. She is not clad in a gauzy toga, hair coiffed in a gold circlet up-do, but a more modern version. Someone I can relate to.

She is a chain-smoking, booze swilling, long-legged red-head, dressed in a tight black pencil skirt, a french-cuffed fitted white blouse, and bright red stilettos. She often looks as though she just wandered in from a night on the town, hair askew and wind-blown, a run in her stocking, spent and ready for a greasy breakfast to ward off the impending hangover. She has no walk of shame, but more a stride of pride, an "ask me if you dare" attitude. If you only knew where she'd been... Never mind, you couldn't handle it.

She is impatient, tsks and rolls her eyes, slams doors and storms out when she is ignored. My genius is an entertainer with a foul mouth, a hearty laugh and a raw sense of humor. She is not concerned with decorum or silly, antiquated social norms and has been kicked out of more places than you and I have ever attempted to enter. She is revered by men who want her and women who want to be her. She is that woman that can say the harshest things right to your face and still, you fight to stay in her orbit. Her criticisms do not deter you, but draw you in. She attracts you because she sees your flaws for what they are: the dark, sticky humanness that bubbles like gooey black tar in all of us. Her recognition of this nastiness is not a condemnation, not a judgement, only a reminder that we all have our own ugly bag of crap. She will unabashedly call you on it should you start to feel your bag isn't as bad as the next guy's. Don't even try it, you will come away feeling infinitely small.

My genius, my muse, my daemon is often sitting in the corner, one shoe dangling from a brightly painted toe, swirling her drink, making the ice tinkle invitingly in her glass as she dictates my next sentence, my next paragraph, my next chapter. She tells the tales she weaves in a smoky alto, chuckling to herself when I hesitate to write what she has uttered, for fear it is too harsh, too sultry, too too. She urges me to write it anyway, push the boundaries, tell the real story. And when I fail, when I hesitate and pull up out of the dangerous dive she has us in, she slaps me on the back as she leaves. "I'll come back later, when you're ready to tell the truth," and I hear her shoes click off down the hallway and out the door.

I have a muse and she wears stilettos.

About that...

There are things I cherish about writing. There are things I detest. Then again, that is life, isn't it? A comparison of what we love, what fuels us, what sends us out into the wide abyss of the world with another hope, another try, another idea and the opposing side of our fears, our dislikes, our prideful, hateful, shunning natures warring within the same body, the same mind, the same soul.

I find myself always thinking about this thing I do, this thing I am, actually. I can never seem to let it rest, to let it fade quietly into the backdrop of my task list. It is always there, lurking, desiring to be noticed, pounding at my brain, itching at the tips of my fingers for a few seconds, a few minutes, a few hours at the keyboard.

The mind of a writer is a tortured, tangled basket of ideas, like balls of yarn come half undone. So many strands going this way and that, one story twisting into another, plots threaded throughout and swirling below what can be readily seen.

My job is to sit with that basket, to patiently follow the strands, while I untangle the stories woven for me out of the thin and misty atmosphere of my darkest thoughts. I would tell you it's tedious, but that would be a lie. I would tell you it's difficult, but that too isn't entirely true. I can only tell you that the mysterious things that slink out of my head and onto the page consume me the same way a basket of tangled string does; the task seems never-ending, yet oddly calming. When one ball is sorted and stacked neatly to the side, I am relieved yet there is always another waiting...

Photo Courtesy of Creative Commons

Exposed... Launched February 27th!

Available at Apple, Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Smashwords to name a few

I don't know if there is anything quite as exhilarating or as emotionally exhausting as the launch of a first book. The leap into the depths of this pool was a hesitant, wobbly, flailing mess if I am honest. I wanted to have someone see it, I wanted to be brave and just sling it out there, but I feared the rebuke, I loathed the perceived rejection, I hesitated to accept criticism...

Isn't that the juxtaposition of a new author? That overwhelming desire to tell a story and then the reluctance to have that part of the mind exposed for all to see? (Snort! What a time for a pun...) While I wanted to launch my novel out into the universe, I also wanted to hide it away, get one more friendly set of eyes on it, assure myself with one more platitude that it was "good," "well written," "a fun read."

In the end, what sent me into the open air of the internet was, of all things, a rejection letter. Yes... That's right. A rejection letter, a year after submission, made me brave enough to say, "What the hell have I got to lose?" To be fair, it was the nicest rejection I have received to date and it was from one of the most influential women in the industry I thought I was writing in. Here... Look for yourself:

Dear (Sterling),​Thank you very much for submitting your book Exposed to Ellora's Cave last year. I am terribly sorry it has taken so long for anyone to reply. 

First off, let me say that Exposed is an excellent story, well-written with interesting, three-dimensional characters, and a strong, emotional plot. Presley's journey from tightly controlled narcissist to emotionally connected and caring woman is a fascinating and unique one. 

It is not, I'm sorry to say, an Ellora's Cave book. Our books either have a strong romance story line, or in our Exotica line, focus on a more sexual story line. Presley's story doesn't fit into either one of those categories, and I suspect our readers wouldn't quite know what to do with it. I'm going to have to pass. 

I wish you all the best with your writing and publishing endeavors. I do hope you'll send us something else in the future. I'd like to read more of your writing.

Thanks again,
Elisabeth R. NelsonManaging EditorEllora's Cave Publishing Inc.

While I might have reacted in defeat, my instant response was to be enlightened and encouraged. I don't fit into a traditional type of writing format. It explains the reasons why I have struggled to find a spot in the traditional publisher's game, but it doesn't mean that I am a bad writer! Pretty awesome indeed.

I have thought long and hard about what this means, and I am still working through that... But in the meantime, I have a book out there in the wide, wonderful world and that counts for something!

Feel free to download a copy from your preferred vendor below:

Smashwords
Amazon
Apple
Barnes and Noble

Thank you for your time... I value it above all other things you give.
Sterling