Good News / Bad News

The good news is that the high school speech team I coach is growing by leaps and bounds.
The bad news is this means even less time and energy to devote to writing.
But it puts me in mind of the opening line of the Serenity Prayer: 
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.
I can't change that fact that my focus has to be on coaching right now, so I accept it.
And the truth is, I enjoy coaching. I just with there were more hours in the day sometimes.

In any case, I'm sharing another excerpt from the first novel. I'm trying to choose bits from near the start because they require less set-up and don't spoil the rest of the story for those who choose to purchase and read it (fingers crossed). This is from page 14. Maggie is trying to hire Marc to pilot her to a research station in the rainforest. Her alternate ride, Hector, is leaving and she is running out of options.

   "It’s already hot as hell out,"Maggie whined, "and I’ve had about … about six hours sleep in the last thirty-six. All I want…I just...”
   Marc was giving her a quizzical look, which she, in response, returned. She realized then that he was looking over her shoulder, out the window. Turning her gaze in the same direction, Maggie saw that a jeep had pulled up alongside Marc’s plane, and a man in a striped shirt was climbing out of the driver’s seat. Marc’s eyes were fixed on the striped shirt as he spoke.
   “Wait here,” he ordered, before he strode out to the plane.
Maggie immediately began wracking her brain: how could she make Marc change his mind and fly her to the research station? She saw the two men speaking for a moment before Marc pointed her way. She heard them start to shout at each other, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then her head snapped toward the ominous thud of Hector locking up the hatch on his own plane. Once he took off, Maggie knew she really would be stranded out here.
   Panicking, Maggie burst out the door in Marc’s direction. “I can pay cash,” she blurted out before she realized how desperate she sounded. Striped shirt gave her an angry glare and so did Marc. He took her elbow roughly and spun her back the way she’d come.
   “I told you to wait inside.” He flung open the door and nearly flung Maggie through it. She hardly noticed.
   “And I’m telling you. I’ve got the money right here.” And then,right in front of him, she bent over to rifle through her bag on the floor. Marc had to look away to keep his mind on the business at hand. She straightened up and turned to show him a sheaf of bills pulled from the bag.
A protective impulse kicked in for Marc, an instinct he didn’t think he had. He folded his hand over hers, over the bills, and was about to tell the stupid chick to put away her money. When his palm came in contact with the cash, though, the impulse passed. The words that came out of his mouth then were, “Payment up
front or no deal.”

   Leaving Maggie with strict instructions to stay inside the office, Marc went back to exchange a few parting words with Mr. Striped Shirt. (For security reasons, Marc’s associates made a point of not knowing one another’s names.) Just so that nothing was lost in translation and just for emphasis, Marc planted both hands possessively on the fuselage of the twin engine as he spoke. “See, you don’t own this plane-“
   “You don’t own this plane,” Striped Shirt interjected, his face like a stone.
   “Okay, okay. Technically, legally, I don’t,” Marc conceded. “But I was the one who took the initiative to steal it from the technical, legal owner. So I decide for myself if I have time to take on a passenger before I make your deliveries, and I-”
   “They’re your deliveries.” The expression was even more granite than before. “I done my part and I won’t take the heat for you after you fuck this up.” Without another word, the striped shirt then turned to move his jeep clear of the plane’s take-off path, another hint that Marc had better get a move on.
   Marc was determined to get in the last word, but was left with nothing to say. “You don’t own the plane,” he shouted after the driver. “And you don’t own me!”

If you can't find what you want, build your own!

   I've heard of people who can't find a product or service they want, and so they go on to invent or design what they want. Earthen Vessels is a little like that. I wanted to read a very specific type of fiction and couldn't find an author or work that was what I had in mind. I was searching for a perfect balance, a little like Goldilocks [The first bowl was too hot, the second bowl was too cold, but this one is just right]. 
   I wanted it to be sexy but not raunchy, light and amusing without being comical. I wanted to share a message or two without being preachy. You don’t have to read with a dictionary beside you, but it still engages your grey matter. It has a romantic element, but it’s not a romance in the traditional sense.
   When people ask, that’s what I say is special about the book: it’s a balanced mix of many great story-telling elements. 
To wit: 
This is from about page 100. Luis and Maggie are off in their own respective dream-lands.




That night Luis lay in his bed, unable to sleep, listening for every sound Maggie made from the other side of the thin curtain. When he did manage to get to sleep, he dreamed that he was once again making his way to the sound of a woman’s scream - or was it a man who made that terrible noise? He came upon Maggie on the ground with Raul on top of her. Instead of a shard of glass, she held an arrow at his back. Luis wasn’t sure what she was wearing - something with feathers. He didn’t say anything, but she’d heard him approach, and she looked straight at him.
“I came to rescue you,” he informed her. Just then she pushed Raul off of her with the strength of several men. He yelped as his body was hurled several feet up, and he landed with a thud on his back. He groaned loudly and crawled off into the jungle.
“Rescue me?” Her voice was full of annoyance. “What you’ve done is interrupt me.”
“I have?” he asked, flabbergasted.
“Now you scared him off.”
“I did?”
“But never mind,” she smiled. “You’ll do just as well.”
“I will?”
“Maybe better,” she purred, and by the time she had her arms wrapped around his neck, they were inside his house, in front of the fire. Her kiss was wonderful, but still he pulled back, startled. He fell backwards, landing on his bed with her straddling him. He woke up in a sweat a few minutes later, his heart beating wildly and his head feeling light.


Maggie drifted off to sleep watching tiny papers of ash float up the chimney from the fire. The next thing she saw was the letter she had written her father, floating on a tropical breeze. She scrambled to retrieve it, but her hands were bound again. Finally she managed to grab it and open it. Instead of telling her father not to worry, that she’d be back in a matter of weeks, the note simply read, “Dear Dad, I’m dead.” Then she looked out the nose of the plane just as it started to skim the treetops. On impact of the crash, she bolted upright in a cold sweat. The fire of the wreckage blurred back into the fire in the hearth. The rumble of the thunder that had awakened her was dying down outside.
God, what a nightmare! Maggie put her hands to her face. She’d dreamed that she’d taken off in a huff to some remote, third-world hell hole, cut off from civilization. With a trembling sigh, she lowered her hands and looked around her. What she saw was not her Denver apartment, and not her bedroom in her parents’ home, but an almost primitive little house.
Oh God.
She kept trying to wake herself up and finally admitted that she was awake. She blinked a couple times, hard, but the scenery did not change. This, she realized, was no dream.
She swung her feet to the floor and started to rock almost hysterically. Her first impulse was to comfort herself with some food. But there was no freezer here, which meant no Dove bars, and no refrigerator meant no cheesecake. In fact, the only food in the house was a few raw eggs, some flour and a blackened banana. Where, Maggie wondered, was a woman to find comfort?


 

Dishing it out ... and taking it

   I belong to a local writers group that formed several months ago. Up to this point the purpose has been very low-key: we bond over a passion for expressing ourselves in words and encourage each other to keep doing so. Just finding the courage to share one's work is a major step for some in the group.
   Recently a group member asked if I would help her form a sub-group for those interested in giving and receiving critiques on their work. I immediately said yes. I feel sure I can give constructive feedback and helpful suggestions. And I've been on the receiving end of enough rejections to have developed a thick skin regarding my writing.
   Or have I?
   Rejections have always been vague and brief remarks from strangers, and were easily chalked up to commercial interest versus artistic quality. I did get an in-depth critique from a book editor years ago. Eventually his criticisms were a tremendous help, but initially, and for a long time, they really hurt, and that was from a stranger in a letter. Now we're talking about lengthy, specific criticism from fellow writers I like and whom I have to face at every meeting.
   I realize now that I'm not as ready as I thought. But I'm bracing myself mentally because I know the path to growth is painful, but necessary.
And now dessert. This passage marks the entrance of an important character to the Earthen Vessels story, Yovana.

Maggie was about to ask about the woman Luis had mentioned before, Yovana. Was she related also? But just then their conversation was interrupted by a woman’s shrill voice calling from outside.

“Luis!” she cried with a voice that could shatter glass. “Caleb Luis! Give us a hand here!”

The two men stopped chewing. Their eyes locked across the table. And together they hissed out a single word: “Vana.”

If she hadn’t known better, Maggie might have translated the word they’d whispered with such drama as a curse, or something to ward off evil spirits. Luis jumped up from the table and sprinted to the door. He had no sooner laid his hand on the knob than the door flew open and knocked him on the forehead.

“Ow, my head!” he moaned, pressing both hands against his wound.

“Caleb, are you suffering with those headaches again?” questioned the plump little woman who had just burst in. “Why haven’t you come to see me about it? But never mind. I have some medicine with me that will fix you up in no time.”

Salvador was stifling a chuckle and Luis gave a look of exasperation, but the little woman didn’t seem to notice. “I thought you might have at least helped me with my things,” she went on, as she dropped her bundles on the floor. “Didn’t you hear me calling to you?”

“People on the other side of the village heard you, I’m sure,” Luis grumbled, still rubbing the sore spot on his head. “But never mind, there’s someone here...”

“Ooh, this must be her,” she bubbled, turning her attention to Maggie. “Well, muchacho, aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Probably not, Abuela , since...”

“You’re the foreign girl they’re all talking about around town, aren’t you?”

“Maggie Boyce. Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand.

“I’m Yovana,” the woman told her, and she took both Maggie’s smooth hands in her own rough and gnarled ones. “Now, the name I heard in town was Magdalena. You know we have a river named after you!” Yovana chuckled at her little joke.

Maggie did recall a thin blue line running through a map of northern Colombia labeled Magdalena. “Actually it’s Mary Margaret.”

“¡Oye!” Yovana said, even more excited. “El nombre de ella es ‘Maria.’”

“Vana, half the girls in town are named Maria,” Salvador said in an exasperated tone. “It is not a sign.”

“It could be,” the old woman defended herself.

“You’re starting to sound like Guadalupe Valdez.”

“And what’s wrong with Lupe, I’d like to know?”

Luis smirked and nudged Maggie. “A few months back Lupe found her three-year-old napping in the position of a crucifixion.” He demonstrated. “She thought that was a sign.”

“Especially since she’d named him Jesús,” Salvador put in. “Never mind that half the boys in town are named Jesús.”

Yovana tried to ignore them, but Maggie couldn’t help letting a giggle escape. Half of her amusement came from the initial image she’d conjured up of Yovana - a young, willowy lover for Luis. This woman was probably about sixty, squat, with graying hair and a broad smiling face. She wore a knee-length cotton dress with three different types of buttons up the front. It reminded Maggie of the housecoats her mother used to wear.

“Well, you probably guessed from the stir you created yesterday, we don’t get many outsiders around here. Once or twice a year a medical team comes through. I help them out when they come,” Yovana said with obvious pride.

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, she’s not,” Luis hurried to insert.

“What he means is ‘not exactly’..."

" 'Community Health Aide' is the name the medical team gave her."

Yovana nodded. "But I’m anxious to know about you." Yovana turned a bit sober. "Tell me, dear, where are you from?” she asked.

"She's from La Junta, Abuela ," Luis put in.

"It’s in Colorado. In the United States,” Maggie answered.

“And how far is La Junta from here?” Yovana asked.

“A few light years, I think,” Maggie answered. 

 

20 Bad ideas .. and another excerpt

     A member of my writers group recently shared a few online articles that have had a great impact on my occasional writer's block. The general idea is that you set down as many ideas you have on a given subject and try to reach a set number of ideas. The number may be 20 or 100 or even more, and quality doesn't matter yet, only quantity. The philosophy is that in coming up with 99 rotten ideas, odds are you'll come up with at least one useable one.
   So many times I reach a point in my writing where I have a fair idea what should happen next, but the idea of working out the details makes me too tired to think. I would click off the page, vowing to "come back to it later." Eventually I did go back, but I was frustrated at how slow my progress was.
   This "bad ideas" method is maybe an updated version of "brainstorming" - do people still call it that? - where you consider every idea that comes anyone in a group without judgement, and without rejection. It has helped me out of at least three writing logjams in the last few weeks, and I'm recommending it to students who are writing speeches for competition, with good results.

   It's been too long since I shared an E.V. excerpt. This comes mid-way through the novel. Our would-be hero [Luis] went out drinking, believing the object of his affections [Maggie] had left town for good. He comes home drunk to find she has returned. She's been waiting up for him in her white nightgown, staying warm by the fire. Enjoy!

He took a long time bolting the door before he turned and saw her. Once again, she appeared as an angel in white, illuminated by a heavenly glow. He stared in amazement for several seconds, waiting to see if she had some divine message for him. He blinked a couple times and she became a fiery temptress, the silhouette of her body outlined against the flames of hell. Then his gaze of wonder shifted to the bottle of golden rum clutched in his hand. “This is good stuff,” he muttered. “She looks so real.”

“I am real, you drunken fool!”

“Sounds real too. That’s exactly what the real Maggie would say if she was here.” With great effort, he managed to set the bottle on the table without tipping it over.

Maggie slid past him to unbolt the door again. “Staying out all night and coming home in this condition are bad enough,” she hissed at him. “You don’t need to go locking poor Yovana out on top of it all.”

He followed her to the door, and while her back was still turned he ran his hands up along her bare arms. Instinctively, she stiffened and gasped. “Shh,” he told her and gently pressed his fingers over her lips. His own lips were pressed against her neck as he spoke. “Don’t wake me up. I like this dream.”

“This is no dream-” She folded her arms in front of her, protecting her heart.

He swept her hair aside and nuzzled her neck, breathing in her scent. “Smells real,” he whispered. He pulled the nightgown from her shoulder to plant tiny kisses there. Despite herself, Maggie felt the desire well up inside her. Lead us not into temptation. The phrase called to her from far away, but she was having trouble hearing it over the sound of her own breathing.

His hands traveled down her back, her hips, and on down her thighs. “Shh…” he whispered against a small whimper that might or might not have been a protest. She left her heart unguarded, using her hands instead to brace herself against the door.

“Feels real. Real soft.” The fabric of her nightgown bunched up under his hands as they slid over her thighs, her belly and her breasts. She moaned with wanting him so bad.

He pressed his body into hers. His breath was coming fast. He reached down under the nightgown’s hem and started to pull it up. “Maggie…” he whispered. “Maggie, I’m …I’m…”

She put her hands over his. “Wait, Luis, please…” Despite the full force of his weight against her, she squirmed to face him. “Not like this. I wanted it to be – Luis?” His eyes might have been closed in ecstasy, but his face had gone slack and she realized ... he had passed out.

“Why, you son of a-” She managed to hoist him far enough away to slap his cheek. He sucked in a breath but still did not open his eyes. She cracked him harder the second time, which brought him to his knees.

“Now that was real,” he muttered, rubbing the spot and looked up at her standing over him. “Did you just hit me?”

“You insulted me,” she told him, indignantly adjusting her clothing. “A slap on the face was what you wanted the first time you kissed me. I was just a little late with the payment.”

“She’s real, all right,” he muttered. His thumb and fingertips opened and closed against each other in the international gesture for, yak, yak, yak. He didn’t get up, didn’t even look up. He just started groping along the table for his bottle. Then having found it, he crawled over to the fireplace and sat on the floor.

“So what’s with the bender?”

“I admit, I started drinking because you were gone.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m drinking ‘cause you’re back..."