Rachel Howzell Hall's Blog, page 9
July 3, 2012
Chapter 1 - Red Sky in the Morning
On the day I turned thirty years old, it rained. It was an oily, April rain that slipped like silk against the skin. This kind of rain made cars and semis and SUVs collide and made news helicopters hover above the highway in search of a story. The radio traffic report said that four cars and a truck bound for the Long Beach Harbor had piled one upon the other earlier this morning. One person had been killed. That forced me to grip the steering wheel tight. Forced me stop tailgating the station wagon ahead of me.
My mother, in the passenger seat, had whispered, “Those poor people,” as we crept up another clogged freeway that had only suffered from a fender-bender.
We entered the Women’s Health Clinic ten minutes late for her appointment. Relaxed, I leaned against the check-in counter, thankful for many things: a safe arrival, decent medical insurance, and a peaceful waiting room with nice art, soft light, and clean chairs.
My mother told the receptionist, “I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
The receptionist, a Mexican woman with pitted skin, consulted a scheduling book. “Genevieve Barrett?”
Mom nodded. “Sorry I’m a little late.”
The woman shrugged—she didn’t care. “How are you today?” She reached for registration forms in a hanging file folder inside her desk.
Mom said, “Same ol’, same ol’.”
Not true. Mom had cried in the car for several minutes after I had parked. Clutched her purse to her chest and said between sobs, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of coming here.”
“I know,” I had said.
“I’m so sick of needles and that I.V. I’m sick of hurting and... and...”
“I know, Mom, but—”
“No one understands,” Mom had snapped. “Why is this happening to me? What did I do?”
She didn’t want an answer, especially from me. She already knew that God rained on the good and the bad. He gives. He takes. And that’s that. Ask Job.
“We’re late,” I had said. “We should go in and get it over with. Sitting here is just gonna prolong it.”
She had nodded, then wiped her nose with a tissue. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just...”
She sighed and sunk low in her seat. That burst of energy had cost her.
“I know,” I had said.
“I’m better now.” She had dabbed the corners of her puffy eyes with tissue, then opened the car door. “I’m much better now.”
But then she had trailed behind me in the parking lot, an inmate on her way to the electric chair.
And now, here we stood.
The receptionist slipped the tip of her tongue into the gap between her two front teeth. “Ten dollars, please.”
I handed the woman two five-dollar bills.
“Such a nice place,” Mom said, more to herself than to me. “Not like Mercy. That place will make you worse before making you better.”
She said this every time we came here. She was right, of course. This hospital was comfortable. No chaos. No violence. No police hovering over handcuffed men in the corridors. No talk show announcer shouting from a staticky television, ‘Big breasted babes go bra-less on today’s Ricki Lake,’ cuz there was no T.V.
Instead, the theme from Phantom of the Opera whispered on hidden speakers. The tranquility made the rapid beating of my heart slow to its regular pace. I even hummed a few bars.
Since Mom’s job didn’t offer premium medical insurance, she could only afford that scary HMO where the shot, the stabbed, and the infected congregated for mediocre medical treatment and were then sent home still bleeding, crazy, and contagious; where rude nurses barked at patients, and doctors feared those teeming masses and their suffering.
“It was awful there,” Mom whispered. “I’m so glad I listened to you.”
“It shouldn’t be too long,” the receptionist said.
Mom and I found two seats together.
Three other couples were waiting to see their doctors. Marrieds, I assume. The men held their wives’ hands. Their wives flipped through People or Us. They were white. Affluent, perhaps, if you measured wealth by fine-grained leather, titanium diving watches and yellow diamond solitaires.
I took Mom’s hand and squeezed it. “You’ll be fine.”
She smiled, then tugged at the worn handle of the Gucci purse that I had bought her years ago. She took that bag everywhere: church, Target, chemotherapy. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was a knock-off. But maybe she didn’t have the heart to tell me that she knew that it was.
My mother, in the passenger seat, had whispered, “Those poor people,” as we crept up another clogged freeway that had only suffered from a fender-bender.
We entered the Women’s Health Clinic ten minutes late for her appointment. Relaxed, I leaned against the check-in counter, thankful for many things: a safe arrival, decent medical insurance, and a peaceful waiting room with nice art, soft light, and clean chairs.
My mother told the receptionist, “I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
The receptionist, a Mexican woman with pitted skin, consulted a scheduling book. “Genevieve Barrett?”
Mom nodded. “Sorry I’m a little late.”
The woman shrugged—she didn’t care. “How are you today?” She reached for registration forms in a hanging file folder inside her desk.
Mom said, “Same ol’, same ol’.”
Not true. Mom had cried in the car for several minutes after I had parked. Clutched her purse to her chest and said between sobs, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of coming here.”
“I know,” I had said.
“I’m so sick of needles and that I.V. I’m sick of hurting and... and...”
“I know, Mom, but—”
“No one understands,” Mom had snapped. “Why is this happening to me? What did I do?”
She didn’t want an answer, especially from me. She already knew that God rained on the good and the bad. He gives. He takes. And that’s that. Ask Job.
“We’re late,” I had said. “We should go in and get it over with. Sitting here is just gonna prolong it.”
She had nodded, then wiped her nose with a tissue. “I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just...”
She sighed and sunk low in her seat. That burst of energy had cost her.
“I know,” I had said.
“I’m better now.” She had dabbed the corners of her puffy eyes with tissue, then opened the car door. “I’m much better now.”
But then she had trailed behind me in the parking lot, an inmate on her way to the electric chair.
And now, here we stood.
The receptionist slipped the tip of her tongue into the gap between her two front teeth. “Ten dollars, please.”
I handed the woman two five-dollar bills.
“Such a nice place,” Mom said, more to herself than to me. “Not like Mercy. That place will make you worse before making you better.”
She said this every time we came here. She was right, of course. This hospital was comfortable. No chaos. No violence. No police hovering over handcuffed men in the corridors. No talk show announcer shouting from a staticky television, ‘Big breasted babes go bra-less on today’s Ricki Lake,’ cuz there was no T.V.
Instead, the theme from Phantom of the Opera whispered on hidden speakers. The tranquility made the rapid beating of my heart slow to its regular pace. I even hummed a few bars.
Since Mom’s job didn’t offer premium medical insurance, she could only afford that scary HMO where the shot, the stabbed, and the infected congregated for mediocre medical treatment and were then sent home still bleeding, crazy, and contagious; where rude nurses barked at patients, and doctors feared those teeming masses and their suffering.
“It was awful there,” Mom whispered. “I’m so glad I listened to you.”
“It shouldn’t be too long,” the receptionist said.
Mom and I found two seats together.
Three other couples were waiting to see their doctors. Marrieds, I assume. The men held their wives’ hands. Their wives flipped through People or Us. They were white. Affluent, perhaps, if you measured wealth by fine-grained leather, titanium diving watches and yellow diamond solitaires.
I took Mom’s hand and squeezed it. “You’ll be fine.”
She smiled, then tugged at the worn handle of the Gucci purse that I had bought her years ago. She took that bag everywhere: church, Target, chemotherapy. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was a knock-off. But maybe she didn’t have the heart to tell me that she knew that it was.
Sharing a Short with You (Yes, You!)
You know me.
I like novels - reading them, writing them, buying them.
Sometimes, though, sometimes there are stories that don't need 70,000 words.
Like my new short story, Red Sky in the Morning.
I'd like to share this short with you, one chapter at a time.
Is that cool?
What is about first, you ask. Then, I'll say, 'yes, that's cool.'
Well, how's this?
On her 30th birthday, Catherine (Cat) drives her mother Genevieve to chemotherapy. Since Cat is her mother’s caretaker, the two are always together; but the departure of Cat’s father
Paul twenty-four years ago has strained their relationship. With the onset of her mother’s illness, Cat wonders about this distance. That evening, she combs through her mother’s old mementos to remember the year her father left.
Red Sky in the Morning offers a glimpse into the lives of two women with secrets and regrets. It asks, what is a good mother? What is a good daughter? Catherine had always hoped that life would correct itself with a father, a healthy mother, and a Cosby-family relationship with both parents. Instead, she realizes that real life and real relationships are never that easy to navigate.
We cool now?
Hope so. Stay tuned for the first chapter later today.
I like novels - reading them, writing them, buying them.
Sometimes, though, sometimes there are stories that don't need 70,000 words.
Like my new short story, Red Sky in the Morning.
I'd like to share this short with you, one chapter at a time.
Is that cool?
What is about first, you ask. Then, I'll say, 'yes, that's cool.'
Well, how's this?
On her 30th birthday, Catherine (Cat) drives her mother Genevieve to chemotherapy. Since Cat is her mother’s caretaker, the two are always together; but the departure of Cat’s father
Paul twenty-four years ago has strained their relationship. With the onset of her mother’s illness, Cat wonders about this distance. That evening, she combs through her mother’s old mementos to remember the year her father left.
Red Sky in the Morning offers a glimpse into the lives of two women with secrets and regrets. It asks, what is a good mother? What is a good daughter? Catherine had always hoped that life would correct itself with a father, a healthy mother, and a Cosby-family relationship with both parents. Instead, she realizes that real life and real relationships are never that easy to navigate.
We cool now?
Hope so. Stay tuned for the first chapter later today.
June 5, 2012
A Southern Point of View
Hey, y'all!
So I'm into the second draft of my new novel -- it's a Se7en (the movie) meets Agatha Christie type of story. One of my characters, Miriam, is 40 years old, African-American, college graduate, one daughter, newly divorced and resentful of it, before-the-divorce household income of $250,000, always wanting more, More, MORE! She lives in Atlanta...
A city I've never visited.
Gulp.
So, I need your help in creating Miriam's World.
If you'd be so kind, could someone please tell me:
The restaurant to be seen in for dinner:
The restaurant to be seen in for Sunday brunch:
The church to be a congregant of (A.M.E.):
The mall to shop at:
The place to jog:
The most popular strip club:
The most-used freeway/highway:
The neighborhood where someone like Miriam would reside:
The high school where her 16-year old daughter would attend:
Thanks so much!
So I'm into the second draft of my new novel -- it's a Se7en (the movie) meets Agatha Christie type of story. One of my characters, Miriam, is 40 years old, African-American, college graduate, one daughter, newly divorced and resentful of it, before-the-divorce household income of $250,000, always wanting more, More, MORE! She lives in Atlanta...
A city I've never visited.
Gulp.
So, I need your help in creating Miriam's World.
If you'd be so kind, could someone please tell me:
The restaurant to be seen in for dinner:
The restaurant to be seen in for Sunday brunch:
The church to be a congregant of (A.M.E.):
The mall to shop at:
The place to jog:
The most popular strip club:
The most-used freeway/highway:
The neighborhood where someone like Miriam would reside:
The high school where her 16-year old daughter would attend:
Thanks so much!
May 22, 2012
Responding to the Stink
So, yeah.
There's always a simmering debate among writers about whether or not to respond to bad reviews.
In one recent article titled When You Wish Upon A Star, You Get the Pointy End, writer Elle Lothlorien believes that writers must respond. She considers it a type of customer service.
Personally, I dwell in 'Camp Don't Respond, Simply Learn Even if You Don't Agree,' (imagine THAT on the camp tee-shirts) along with urban fantasy writer Stacia Kane said it best in her response Customer Service.
What do you think?
There's always a simmering debate among writers about whether or not to respond to bad reviews.
In one recent article titled When You Wish Upon A Star, You Get the Pointy End, writer Elle Lothlorien believes that writers must respond. She considers it a type of customer service.
Personally, I dwell in 'Camp Don't Respond, Simply Learn Even if You Don't Agree,' (imagine THAT on the camp tee-shirts) along with urban fantasy writer Stacia Kane said it best in her response Customer Service.
What do you think?
May 10, 2012
A New Site to Heart: Front Row Lit
Hi, All!
No One Knows You're Here is being featured today on Front Row Lit. Please pop over to this new (to me) site filled with great literature.
No One Knows You're Here is being featured today on Front Row Lit. Please pop over to this new (to me) site filled with great literature.
April 20, 2012
PaulaSHx: Book Review - No One Knows You're Here by Rachel H...
PaulaSHx: Book Review - No One Knows You're Here by Rachel H...: A crime thriller that had me locking my doors and closing my curtains in paranoia. SYNOPSIS: Three weeks out of cancer surgery, crime rep...
April 11, 2012
Where I Be At?
I haven't posted cuz I'm up to my neck in words!
Words, words, words - reading them, writing them, loving them, hating them.
As for writing them? New story in the works. Yay. Almost finished with writing first draft (pen and legal pads) of this Great American Cozy.
As for reading them? Right now, I'm lost in three books:
Love in a Carry-On Bag by Sadeqa Johnson:
Erica Shaw spends her week babysitting the country's bestselling authors for one of the top publishing companies in New York City. But on Friday nights she escapes to DC, where her sexy-lipped musician boyfriend, Warren Prince, works and performs. Their connection is fierce, and the couple promises to never miss a weekend together. But when real life walks in—an overbearing father, an alcoholic mother, office politics, and a lucrative job contract—the couple starts unraveling at the seam. Tempers flare, violence breaks, while new lovers eagerly wait in the wings—to claim both of them.
Blasphemy by Douglas Preston:
The world's biggest supercollider, locked in an Arizona mountain, was built to reveal the secrets of the very moment of creation: the Big Bang itself.
The Torus is the most expensive machine ever created by humankind, run by the world's most powerful supercomputer. It is the brainchild of Nobel Laureate William North Hazelius. Will the Torus divulge the mysteries of the creation of the universe? Or will it, as some predict, suck the earth into a mini black hole? Or is the Torus a Satanic attempt, as a powerful televangelist decries, to challenge God Almighty on the very throne of Heaven?
Twelve scientists under the leadership of Hazelius are sent to the remote mountain to turn it on, and what they discover must be hidden from the world at all costs. Wyman Ford, ex-monk and CIA operative, is tapped to wrest their secret, a secret that will either destroy the world…or save it.
And A Deadly Game by Catherine Crier:
In this #1 New York Times bestseller, Catherine Crier, a former judge and one of television's most popular legal analysts, offers a riveting and authoritative account of one of the most memorable crime dramas of our time: the murder of Laci Peterson at the hands of her husband, Scott, on Christmas Eve 2002. Drawing on extensive interviews with key witnesses and lead investigators, as well as secret evidence files that never made it to trial, Crier traces Scott's bizarre behavior; shares dozens of transcripts of Scott's chilling and incriminating phone conversations; offers accounts of Scott's womanizing from two former mistresses before Amber Frey; and includes scores of never-before-seen police photos, documents, and other evidence.
I know: book slut.
Words, words, words - reading them, writing them, loving them, hating them.
As for writing them? New story in the works. Yay. Almost finished with writing first draft (pen and legal pads) of this Great American Cozy.
As for reading them? Right now, I'm lost in three books:
Love in a Carry-On Bag by Sadeqa Johnson:
Erica Shaw spends her week babysitting the country's bestselling authors for one of the top publishing companies in New York City. But on Friday nights she escapes to DC, where her sexy-lipped musician boyfriend, Warren Prince, works and performs. Their connection is fierce, and the couple promises to never miss a weekend together. But when real life walks in—an overbearing father, an alcoholic mother, office politics, and a lucrative job contract—the couple starts unraveling at the seam. Tempers flare, violence breaks, while new lovers eagerly wait in the wings—to claim both of them.
Blasphemy by Douglas Preston:
The world's biggest supercollider, locked in an Arizona mountain, was built to reveal the secrets of the very moment of creation: the Big Bang itself.
The Torus is the most expensive machine ever created by humankind, run by the world's most powerful supercomputer. It is the brainchild of Nobel Laureate William North Hazelius. Will the Torus divulge the mysteries of the creation of the universe? Or will it, as some predict, suck the earth into a mini black hole? Or is the Torus a Satanic attempt, as a powerful televangelist decries, to challenge God Almighty on the very throne of Heaven?
Twelve scientists under the leadership of Hazelius are sent to the remote mountain to turn it on, and what they discover must be hidden from the world at all costs. Wyman Ford, ex-monk and CIA operative, is tapped to wrest their secret, a secret that will either destroy the world…or save it.
And A Deadly Game by Catherine Crier:
In this #1 New York Times bestseller, Catherine Crier, a former judge and one of television's most popular legal analysts, offers a riveting and authoritative account of one of the most memorable crime dramas of our time: the murder of Laci Peterson at the hands of her husband, Scott, on Christmas Eve 2002. Drawing on extensive interviews with key witnesses and lead investigators, as well as secret evidence files that never made it to trial, Crier traces Scott's bizarre behavior; shares dozens of transcripts of Scott's chilling and incriminating phone conversations; offers accounts of Scott's womanizing from two former mistresses before Amber Frey; and includes scores of never-before-seen police photos, documents, and other evidence.
I know: book slut.
April 9, 2012
Today is 'H' Day! And my last name? 'H' Baby!
Today, I'm featured on Surrounded By Books Reviews: H is for . . . #atozchallenge: For the A to Z Challenge, It's a really cool idea...
March 11, 2012
Books N Beans: Spotlight shines on Rachel Howzell
Happy Sunday, y'all!
Just wanted to share this awesome book review site with you. Called Books N Beans, it features book reviews as well as author spotlights. I'm featured today. Yes! I know.
And Kristi, the mistress of Books N Beans gave No One Knows You're Here an awesome review.
Ch-ch-check it out!
Just wanted to share this awesome book review site with you. Called Books N Beans, it features book reviews as well as author spotlights. I'm featured today. Yes! I know.
And Kristi, the mistress of Books N Beans gave No One Knows You're Here an awesome review.
Ch-ch-check it out!
March 6, 2012
Kindle Fire Department: The View from Here: Kindle Book of the Day for 3/6...
Morning, Friends! If you haven't checked out Kindle Fire Department yet and you own a Kindle Fire, you are not human. I'm TELLING YOU -- go there now and learn about new, old, free, cheap apps for your Fire. They also feature great e-books... e-books like The View from Here!
Kindle Fire Department: The View from Here: Kindle Book of the Day for 3/6...: When we featured Rachel Howzell 's bestselling glimpse into the darker side of marriage, The View from Here, a few months ago, it was a huge...
Kindle Fire Department: The View from Here: Kindle Book of the Day for 3/6...: When we featured Rachel Howzell 's bestselling glimpse into the darker side of marriage, The View from Here, a few months ago, it was a huge...
