Micki Clark's Blog

#NaNoWriMo19 – Let the Plantsing Begin!

So, it’s been awhile since I started my current WIP (work-in-progress, for those of you not insane enough to take on the blessedly annoying and exhilarating process of writing a novel). When I started the idea, I loved it.

And then I hated it. Like, with a passion hated it.

Let me explain.

See, my original idea was to do something very similar to what I did with Don’t Ask Me to Leave. I was going to write a modern retelling of a Biblical story, and the one that kept pursuing my conscious was the story of David and Bathsheba.

[image error] I was just really curious about what their relationship dynamic would have been like, especially after they lost their baby. I mean, what a life she led. Her husband dies in war, she’s seduced (or I guess violated, depending upon your interpretation of the story) by a king, her baby dies…that’s a lot to happen to a woman. I took to the keyboard to tell the story of The Soldier’s Wife.

I got about 12,500 words in and I wasn’t liking the story all that much, because David was kind of coming off a skunk. I was having trouble seeing how I could have him be both the seductor and the guy you root for in the end.

With the rise of the #metoo movement, I lost hope in the story. I just didn’t see any way to write it without potential readers picking it up and going “Euwwww!”

The good thing about time off, though, is it gives you plenty of time to ruminate about your plot. Every time I thought I was done with the idea, there it came again, tapping me on the shoulder and asking for another opportunity to rustle around in my brain again.

I think I finally hit on a way to tell the story I want to tell and still use the basic inspiration of David and Bathsheba’s story, but it’s a completely different novel than I originally planned.

My new idea is to write the story as a suspense novel, and man, am I excited! I’m excited enough that I am committing to do this thing for NaNoWriMo 2019. I hope you’ll help root me on as I attempt to hammer this thing out in the month of November.

I’ll be “plantsing” it–planning some of the plot and doing the rest of it purely by the seat of my pants. Wish me luck!

Bookends

In 2018, according to Goodreads, I read 96 books. I’m sure it’s more than that, because I know it didn’t count some of the books I re-read, but that’s neither here nor there.

No, since it’s the first day of 2019, I thought I’d share my “bookends” – the books that I began and ended the year with last year.

I rang in the new year with Amy C. Blake’s Whitewashed. Get your copy here.

Whitewashed is the first in a series of three novels that follows a set of young girls. Here’s the blurb from Amazon:
Eighteen-year-old Patience McDonough has a plan. Despite her parents’ objections, She will attend Verity College in Hades, Mississippi, and live with her grandparents. She’ll complete her degree in record time and go on to become a doctor. But things at the college are strangely neglected, her class work is unexpectedly hard. Grand gets called out-of-town, and Poppa starts acting weird─so weird she suspects he has Alzheimer’s. On top of that, she has to work extra hours at her student job inputting financial data for the college─boring! But soon her job gets more interesting than she’d like” she finds millions of dollars are unaccounted for and that something creepy is going on in the Big House basement. She discoveries secrets tying her family into the dark beginnings of Verity, founded on a slave plantation, and she is forced to question the characters of people she has always trusted. Finally, confronted with a psychotic killer, Patience has to face facts─her plans are not necessarily God’s plans. Will the truth set her free?

I loved Whitewashed. Amy did a great job with it and I couldn’t wait to see what happened to her friends in the following novels. Give it a try–you won’t regret it!

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I finished the year with The Miller’s Dance, the ninth Poldark novel by Winston Graham. I actually stumbled across Poldark when surfing through my Kindle for some videos to watch one day when I was home with a sick kiddo. Amazon video suggested Poldark as something I might like since I watch other British dramas (Victoria, The Crown,  Downton Abbey and others). You all, I binge watched it. I found myself riding my exercise bike so I had an excuse to pop in earbuds and watch an episode undisturbed (Mama’s bike time is not to be interfered with, ha ha).

Anyway, I have really enjoyed reading the Poldark series of novels. There are differences from the televised version, naturally, as they found that they enjoyed specific actors and needed to modify roles to keep them present. I finished Miller’s Dance yesterday and started Loving Cup this morning. I really love how Winston Graham blends actual history with his fictional tale (right now, Napoleon Bonaparte has finally been defeated and it seems as though peace might finally be reached).

The Poldark novels follow many characters, but the central characters are Ross Poldark, a onetime soldier who fought in America with the Brits but came home to take his place at the head of the family and renew his family’s failing copper mines. Poldark, lower-level gentry, shocks the county when he weds a miner’s daughter that he had hired as a kitchen maid. However, Demelza soon shows her promise and fits in well with society (if not always easily).

I love the characters in the series, even if I’m not always pleased with their decisions. It’s been a great diversionary read, and I’m wondering if maybe I can’t find a way to have my seniors read some of Poldark next year.

What are you reading in this year? How many books do you hope to read? If you’re doing a Goodreads challenge, I’d love to know. I set mine at 100 books!

Here Comes Santa Claus…

So, I have three children. One is in eighth grade and is officially Too Old For Santa. But I have two younger kids, and therein lies the problem. I suspect my fifth grader knows the truth. We’ve “seen” Santa at three different stores, and my fourth grader has begged to speak to him every time. My son, however, has shrugged and is very meh about the whole thing.

[image error]The Santa set at Cabela’s in Bowling Green was GORGEOUS, and the Santa was so nice! Definitely my favorite.

I admit, I’m having a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit this year. I did put up some lights on the front porch, and I hung the wreath, but I still haven’t retrieved the Christmas tree from the crawl space (or convinced my husband to do it).

The problem with that is that Duke and Luke, our Elf and Elf Pet, are ALSO in the crawl space. I figure any day now my daughter is going to put two and two together and realize that Duke and Luke are about a week late. Oops.

There are times when I really regret telling my kids the Santa story. I felt pretty guilty when my oldest figured it out. He probably doesn’t remember this, but after I admitted that I was Santa, he paused for a minute and then asked, “So is the Easter Bunny real?”

I think the real reason that I’ve hesitated to bring out Duke and Luke this year is that somewhere, deep down inside, I know that this is it. This is The Year. This is the LAST TIME my daughter’s going to beg me to see Santa, and I think somehow I think that if I delay it, it won’t happen (a la the Grinch, ha ha–I must stop Christmas from coming, but how?)

What about you? Did you tell your kids about Santa? How old were they when they figured it out?

From the #Goodreads Pile: Book Review of House Rules by Jodi Picoult

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A friend of mine recently suggested that since I read a lot of books, I should start sharing reviews. She pointed out that I read more books in a week than some people read in a year, so I’m in a unique position to recommend.

I do adore reading. As Will Ferrell’s character in Elf would say, “Reading is my favorite!”

So, I’m happy to share with you some of the books I’ve read recently and enjoyed (and yes, I’ll share a few that I haven’t so much enjoyed). Today? Jodi Picoult’s House Rules.



As some of you know, I teach high school. A few times in my life, I have been privileged to work with the differently abled. One of my favorite students ever was a student with Down Syndrome (Trisomy 21). He loved music, and every day in class I’d sing Disney songs to him. His favorite was “Once Upon a Dream” from Sleeping Beauty. I’d sing and we’d all waltz around the classroom.

I’ve had a handful of autistic students in class and I’ve worked with a few others. What has always struck me as terribly sad is how misunderstood autism is (and various other disorders on the spectrum, like Asperger’s). Many people simply cannot comprehend how life is for a person suffering from autism–and they definitely can’t wrap their brains around how life is for the longsuffering family members who must learn to deal with the quirks and foibles of an autistic brother or sister.

Picoult’s novel House Rules is a suspense-filled page-turner that’s told in a series of point-of-view changes. One chapter might be narrated by the protagonist, another by his brother, and then the next by his mother. It gives a unique perspective into the lives of a family gripped by autism while also spinning a yarn that will leave you frantically turning pages in search of the answer to “whodunnit”.

I loved the novel, although it made me deeply sad. She did an amazing job of portraying the protagonist and the struggles and frustrations of his mother and brother. If you’re looking for a fantasy or escape, this isn’t the novel for you, but it’s a beautiful and compelling read.

Find it on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0035G08QM/...

Enter for a chance to WIN!

Now through December 1, you can enter for a chance to WIN an e-book copy of Don’t Ask Me to Leave! Just visit this link: https://www.amazon.com/ga/p/75c7cba19...

Good luck!

Why Reading *Is* History Class

A colleague of mine and I were chatting the other day about the unit we recently completed in our junior English classrooms, and our students had a shared complaint: “This ain’t history class!” Oh, but my dears . . . it is. Reading, whether it’s fictional novels or true historical accounts, is always a history lesson.

I’m a self-professed voracious reader. I don’t just read books; I devour them at alarming rates. My husband and I actually got into an “argument” about that the other day. He said, “I bet you read thirty books a year!”

. . . and I inwardly cringed and snickered all at once.

Y’all. I’ve read 14 books on my Kindle this month. That doesn’t count physical copies of things that I read and forgot to scan into Goodreads. That doesn’t count the things I’ve re-read (which Goodreads is supposed to track but let’s be real here–it doesn’t). That doesn’t count the fact that I read Macbeth with my seniors and a dozen different articles, biographical pieces and short stories.

Ahem.

So that brings me to my point: reading is history.

One of the things that I really like to do when I find an author that I like is read allllllllll their stuff. I mean all of it. A lot of times I’ll pick up a book on a bargain rack and it ends up being the seventh book in a series. If I like it, I go back and start at the beginning. That’s what I have been doing this month with Clive Cussler’s Dirk Pitt series.

The hardcover edition (image from Amazon)

So, I ended up starting with book, I don’t know, 17 or so, one that was published fairly recently. When I dug back to the beginning of the series, I got The Mediterranean Sea, which was published in 1973.

And boy, did I get a history lesson.

For fans of Cussler, you know there’s an obvious history lesson in his books. The books usually start with a historical introduction, fictionalizing some event that happened in the distant or even ancient past, and then the modern-day protagonist goes on an adventure that ends up finding the lost treasure, the sunken ship, the burial site, the whatever. But.

The Mediterranean Caper is also a historical account of how we viewed women in 1973. I almost put the book back down just a few chapters in when the protagonist, Dirk Pitt, walks up to a bikini-clad woman on the beach and asks her why she’s sad. She explains that it’s because her husband died nearly a decade ago and that she misses him terribly. Pitt strikes her full in the face to “snap her out of it” and she responds by throwing herself in his arms. The chapter fades as they are sleeping with each other on the beach.

If I hadn’t read a more recent Cussler novel or five (because I’ve also read the NUMA files and the Oregon files), I’d have stopped right there. Give me a break. You slap a woman across the face today for being sad about her dead husband and she’ll haul off and punch you in the nose, not beg you to renew all lost passion in her life.

It’s sexist and stupid, but it’s also a product of its time. Ever watched the old James Bond movies, or even old Western movies? It’s nothing for James Bond or whoever John Wayne is in that particular flick to backhand or smack a woman. Most of James Bond’s romantic conquests make my eyes roll so hard they nearly get stuck.

I’m not a fan of sanitizing history. I think that we learn from our past. I can definitely look at Cussler’s books and see that he has changed. I started with The Mediterranean Caper on October 5. I’m on Arctic Drift right now (book 20 of the series–I had to skip a handful that I couldn’t get) and his views of women are clearly changing. One of the protagonists (granted, not the primary protagonist, but she’s close) is Summer Pitt, the original protagonist’s daughter.

Yes, there’s a little bit more time given to her physical description than there is some of the male characters, but Summer is a force to be reckoned with. She holds her own with the males on the NUMA payroll, often saving the day in her own right, and she doesn’t hesitate to fight or defend herself as necessary. Rather than always being the sole victim, there are plenty of times when it’s Summer who has to cut her brother out of handcuffs or dispatch the vagabond (and Arctic Drift is a 2008 novel).

If someone at Pitt’s publisher or literary agency demanded that he go back and either rewrite his early books or stop selling them altogether, I feel like that would be a disservice. I know that not everyone will agree. However, I think pretending like the past never happened goes a long way toward allowing it to repeat itself.

I’ll give one last example before I need to get back to my book: one of the most banned books in school libraries and classrooms is The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn because of its use of the “n-word”.

There’s a lot of uncomfortable stuff in Huck Finn that some would like to sanitize. Huck is abused by his father (and, arguably enough, some other adults in the book). All sorts of social issues are wrapped up into the plot–race, racism, abuse, alcoholism, poverty, equality, you name it. Believe it or not, the majority of the protests lodged against the book have come from whites, because the book provokes a conversation that makes us unsettled.

Read the book. Learn the history. And then learn from it. That’s all I’m asking.

Beginning Again… Again

Those of you that know me well know that I have approximately three minutes of free time a month. That’s only a slight exaggeration, ha ha. This summer, for example, I had planned to spend all sorts of time doing things for myself. And then my little miss made the All-Star softball team at our local ball field, and we spent six days a week on the ball field practicing or playing (and plenty of time in the car going hither and yon). See, the funny thing is that I thought the older my kids got, the more time I’d have for myself. Y’all should have warned me that was dumb. The older they get, the busier we are.

That being said, I really want to get back to work on my writing. I’m the sponsor of a writer’s club at the high school where I teach, and one of my goals is to use that as an incentive to “force” myself to allot time to write. (I’m terribly bad at making time for everybody but myself, as my insurance company can attest–they routinely call me to fuss because I haven’t gotten basic tests done in, oh, a decade).

Having some time off from my WIP has helped me, though, because I’ve realized how to “solve” a few problems I was having and work through some issues. In Writer’s Club today, I talked with the students about their Book on an Index Card (BIC), a strategy touted by Todd A. Stone in the book Novelist’s Boot Camp. Basically, the BIC is a blurb or summary of sorts. Writing the BIC is very helpful, though, because you stop and think about the core concepts of your novel.

What I realized that my novel was missing was an antagonist.

Yeah, stop laughing. I mean that the character I thought was a great antagonist wasn’t going to work. He wasn’t a strong enough antagonist, and my protagonist ended up absorbing some of the negative feelings you’d normally harbor for your antagonist. I needed a new one. So, I revised my concept. Here’s my new BIC:

When an unstable member of her former husband’s unit abducts her, a young, emotionally devastated, but inventive senator’s wife must use every ounce of her wit to convince her captor to release her and spare her husband from an assassination attempt. Racing against the clock, her own guilt, and her captor’s murderous intent, she faces her internal demons, saves her husband, and defeats the villain.

Now that I’ve got a stronger concept for my novel, I can go back and rebuild the chapters I’ve already got written and have an overall stronger product.

That’s my plan for November. Anyone else doing NaNoWriMo? I’d love to hear your BIC! Good luck and happy writing!

Good Characters Have Greasy Hair

Good characters have greasy hair. I know, I know, but humor me for a bit here.

Something that people might not know about me is that I went to college planning to go into medicine. When I met Joseph and realized I wanted to get married and have kids a little earlier, I changed to education–but I’m still interested in medicine. One of the ways that I stay in touch with that side of my personality is watching medical shows of all sorts: documentaries, movies, and lately, Grey’s Anatomy.

Thanks to Netflix, I’ve binge-watched many a series (including E.R.), and I’m currently hip-deep in Grey’s (we’re in season eight and I’m dying to know what the outcome is for Zola).

As someone with a drama background, I can appreciate the acting on a show like Grey’s. The show’s well-cast and well-written. The characters are realistic and I appreciate how they have real-life struggles and outcomes. I particularly appreciate the fact that the doctors don’t always know what they’re doing. I learned that when I did observations. You’d be surprised how many times your doctor steps out of the room to consult the Physician’s Desk Reference, especially if you aren’t the forty-fifth case of the flu they’ve seen that week.

[image error]Promotional shot from Grey’s Anatomy

What does irk me about shows like Grey’s is that the characters never have greasy hair.

Their special effects department does a great job at applying fake blood. They do wonderful recreations of surgeries.

But they don’t give their characters greasy hair.

I’ve been a patient before. When I was pregnant with Cameron, I spent sixty-six days in the hospital. I wasn’t allowed to shower often due to high blood pressure, so we did a lot of dry shampoo.

I wasn’t sitting in the hospital bed with full makeup and artfully styled curls.

You’ve followed me this long. I’m sure you’re wondering how this ties back to writing, so let me lay it out for you: good characters have greasy hair. In other words, good characters have flaws. They have blemishes. It’s beyond frustrating to read a book where the characters are all sunshine and rainbows.

Don’t be afraid to let your character be seen with greasy hair. Let them be unlikable every now and then. Let them be spoiled or petulant for a few pages. Let their humanity show. That’s what helps your readers identify with them.

So, now you tell me. What characterization trends crawl up and down your spine?

Teaser Tuesday: The ORIGINAL Prologue of The Soldier’s Wife

Today’s “Teaser Tuesday” share is a study in revision. My students recently completed a short story, and when I wrote one alongside them, they complained that it was “too easy for me” because I am an author, and that means every story comes out perfectly the first time.

I wish.

So, today I’m sharing the original prologue that I wrote for The Soldier’s Wife, before I realized that I wanted to go a different direction and spend a little more time with some of the characters instead of being so suspenseful at the onset. Read on!

An ominous rumble of thunder rolled through the hills, but he did not move. A fat raindrop landed squarely in the center of his brow, but he did not lift a hand to brush it away. Instead, he watched.

She was young. He could tell that, even though the falling rain and waving leaves obscured her face from his view. Pretty, too, from his best guess. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back in one of those intricate plaits that made his fingers hurt just thinking about the time it would take, and her figure was shapely in her jeans and damp long-sleeved tee shirt.

They were alone on the mountain. The remnants of Hurricane Whosits practically assured that. He paused, straining his ears against the sounds of the approaching storm, and could hear the faint sounds of sniffling.

The blonde beauty was crying, he realized, and paying little attention to the slippery trail. As it sloped upward, he watched her footing slip and she pitched forward, arms outstretched to catch herself.

But he did not move.

He stayed in his hiding place off the edge of the trail and simply watched as she pushed herself to a kneeling position and brushed her hands clean on her jeans, now sporting a few snags. She turned her face to the sky and let out an anguished wail.

He cocked his head to one side. She wasn’t injured, but she was clearly upset. Distracted, and alone on the mountain in a storm. Interesting.

She got to her feet and staggered forward, her crying more audible now. Around them, the raindrops increased their attack. The sky was splintered with lightning, and he made his decision.

Slowly, he uncurled his legs and slipped from the rock. The storm masked what little sound he made as he crept forward through the brush toward the trail. She never looked back as he fell into step behind her retreating form.

***

“What do you mean, you can’t find her?” David Reynolds kicked the side of his imposing mahogany desk. “How hard can it be?”

The reply from the other end was muffled.

“You have exactly two minutes to make it to my office, or you’re fired.” He snarled at the phone as he jammed it in its cradle and kicked his desk again, bruising his toes in their Corinthian leather Oxfords.

He turned to the window behind him and took a deep breath. The sky was an odd color, causing the windows to act as mirrors. Instead of the skyline, he saw himself—muscular and handsome in his bespoke suit, with his usually precise crimson tie loosened and off-center. His wavy dark hair was tousled from running his fingers through it in frustration, and his jaw was set.

Where was she?

There was a knock at the door, and he turned as the door opened and his head—perhaps former—of security stepped in.

“Mr. Reynolds.”

David strode to his desk and threw himself down in the chair. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Yes, sir.” Martin Hawes shifted his weight uncomfortably, crossing his beefy arms and then, perhaps thinking better of it, lowering them to his sides. “Well, sir, when you mentioned that your wife wasn’t answering her phone, we started in your penthouse. She wasn’t in residence, sir, and the residence was undisturbed.”

“And her phone?” His voice was barely controlled.

“Still on the kitchen counter, sir, on its charger.”

“I see.” David drummed his fingers. It wasn’t the first time Barbara had gone off and forgotten her phone. She wasn’t exactly forgetful, but if she was off her routine, she was prone to forgetting small details here or there—her phone, her ID badge, her office key. “What about her car?”

“Mrs. Reynolds’ BMW is still in its slot, sir. However, the, ah, the Pontiac is gone.”

David stiffened in the expensive chair, surprised. “The Grand Prix? Why would she take that thing?”

Barbara had insisted on keeping her old Grand Prix when they married. It had been her first car, and for some reason, she was attached to the dented, scratched embarrassment of an automobile. David begrudgingly issued it a slot in the parking garage, but he insisted that Barbara drive her much newer, much safer BMW. It didn’t hurt that he’d had BMW’s theft tracker installed, as well as another GPS positioner—a little detail he’d never bothered to mention.

The Grand Prix didn’t have the GPS treatment. It was lucky to get a tank of gas. Frankly, it was surprising the thing had even started, considering she hadn’t driven it in so long.

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”

David bit off a retort and forced himself to draw a calming breath. “And Mrs. Reynolds’ agenda for the day? I already know that she hasn’t been in the office. What about her social calendar?”

Hawes shrugged. “No one at the office has seen or heard from her. She was supposed to show up at the hospital for a charity ‘do and photo op, but they haven’t seen her either. In fact, they’re the ones that called the office looking for her.”

David picked up the wedding photo in its gilded frame on his desk. They were smiling then—happier times—with his arm draped around her slender waist and her honeyed locks vibrant against his black tuxedo.

“Would you like me to notify the police, sir?”

“What?” David put the photograph down. “No, not yet. We don’t want the negative publicity. I assume you’ve been monitoring the scanner frequencies?”

“Yes, sir.” Hawes’ face was drawn. “There are a few accidents around the burgh today, but none matching her vehicle’s description. I’ve also checked with a few contacts at the local emergency rooms—none have admitted any young women this morning.”

“And our threat index?”

“The usual, sir, although we have received a few additional letters. You received the copies yesterday.”

David sighed. He usually took it in stride. Being the president of a major corporation came with its fair share of crazies, all worried about their own pet issues. There were the tree huggers, complaining about how his companies raped the land and robbed it of its resources. The union bosses, who insisted that employees needed more time off and higher salaries—oh, and less work. Always less work. The conspiracy theorists. The local and even international weirdos.

Most of their issues were easily dismissed. A lawsuit here or there, the occasional bribe, an arrest or two. A few of them, though, managed to get close enough that a security detail was necessary. Barbara hadn’t enjoyed that little addition to her daily routine.

This wasn’t the first time she’d slipped her security detail, of course, but things were different. The death of their son had brought more crackpots out of the woodwork—religious zealots this time. He understood her need for privacy, but her need for safety was more important.

He focused his attention back on Hawes. “No police. Not yet—not until I’m absolutely sure that she’s missing. For all I know, she forgot and went shopping or something.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sure you’re right, sir. In the meantime, I have a car out retracing her possible routes to the hospital.”

“Excellent. Keep me updated.”

Hawes dipped his head and stepped out of the office, leaving David alone to reflect. His heart thrummed in his chest. She was all right. She had to be.

But where was Barbara?

That was your teaser for Tuesday! Hope you enjoyed it! In the meantime, here are some posts you may have missed:

Latest NewsTeaser Tuesday: The ORIGINAL Prologue of The Soldier’s WifeFebruary 20, 20182017-2018 / Pre-AP / School / The Soldier's Wife / WritingToday’s “Teaser Tuesday” share is a study in revision. My students recently completed a short story, and when I wrote one alongside them, they complained that it was “too easy for me” because I am an author, and that means every story comes out perfectly the first time.
I wish.
So, today I’m sharing the original prologue that I wrote for The Soldier’s Wife, before I realized that I wanted to go a different direction and spend a little more time with some of the characters instead of being so suspenseful at the onset. Read on!
An ominous rumble of thunder rolled through the hills, but he did not move. A fat raindrop landed squarely in the center of his brow, but he did not lift a hand to brush it away. Instead, he watched.
She was young. He could tell that, even though the falling rain and waving leaves obscured her face from his view. Pretty, too, from his best guess. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back in one of those intricate plaits that made his fingers hurt just thinking about the time it would take, and her figure was shapely in her jeans and damp long-sleeved tee shirt.
They were alone on the mountain. The remnants of Hurricane Whosits practically assured that. He paused, straining his ears against the sounds of the approaching storm, and could hear the faint sounds of sniffling.
The blonde beauty was crying, he realized, and paying little attention to the slippery trail. As it sloped upward, he watched her footing slip and she pitched forward, arms outstretched to catch herself.
But he did not move.
He stayed in his hiding place off the edge of the trail and simply watched as she pushed herself to a kneeling position and brushed her hands clean on her jeans, now sporting a few snags. She turned her face to the sky and let out an anguished wail.
He cocked his head to one side. She wasn’t injured, but she was clearly upset. Distracted, and alone on the mountain in a storm. Interesting.
She got to her feet and staggered forward, her crying more audible now. Around them, the raindrops increased their attack. The sky was splintered with lightning, and he made his decision.
Slowly, he uncurled his legs and slipped from the rock. The storm masked what little sound he made as he crept forward through the brush toward the trail. She never looked back as he fell into step behind her retreating form.
***
“What do you mean, you can’t find her?” David Reynolds kicked the side of his imposing mahogany desk. “How hard can it be?”
The reply from the other end was muffled.
“You have exactly two minutes to make it to my office, or you’re fired.” He snarled at the phone as he jammed it in its cradle and kicked his desk again, bruising his toes in their Corinthian leather Oxfords.
He turned to the window behind him and took a deep breath. The sky was an odd color, causing the windows to act as mirrors. Instead of the skyline, he saw himself—muscular and handsome in his bespoke suit, with his usually precise crimson tie loosened and off-center. His wavy dark hair was tousled from running his fingers through it in frustration, and his jaw was set.
Where was she?
There was a knock at the door, and he turned as the door opened and his head—perhaps former—of security stepped in.
“Mr. Reynolds.”
David strode to his desk and threw himself down in the chair. “Let’s hear it then.”
“Yes, sir.” Martin Hawes shifted his weight uncomfortably, crossing his beefy arms and then, perhaps thinking better of it, lowering them to his sides. “Well, sir, when you mentioned that your wife wasn’t answering her phone, we started in your penthouse. She wasn’t in residence, sir, and the residence was undisturbed.”
“And her phone?” His voice was barely controlled.
“Still on the kitchen counter, sir, on its charger.”
“I see.” David drummed his fingers. It wasn’t the first time Barbara had gone off and forgotten her phone. She wasn’t exactly forgetful, but if she was off her routine, she was prone to forgetting small details here or there—her phone, her ID badge, her office key. “What about her car?”
“Mrs. Reynolds’ BMW is still in its slot, sir. However, the, ah, the Pontiac is gone.”
David stiffened in the expensive chair, surprised. “The Grand Prix? Why would she take that thing?”
Barbara had insisted on keeping her old Grand Prix when they married. It had been her first car, and for some reason, she was attached to the dented, scratched embarrassment of an automobile. David begrudgingly issued it a slot in the parking garage, but he insisted that Barbara drive her much newer, much safer BMW. It didn’t hurt that he’d had BMW’s theft tracker installed, as well as another GPS positioner—a little detail he’d never bothered to mention.
The Grand Prix didn’t have the GPS treatment. It was lucky to get a tank of gas. Frankly, it was surprising the thing had even started, considering she hadn’t driven it in so long.
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”
David bit off a retort and forced himself to draw a calming breath. “And Mrs. Reynolds’ agenda for the day? I already know that she hasn’t been in the office. What about her social calendar?”
Hawes shrugged. “No one at the office has seen or heard from her. She was supposed to show up at the hospital for a charity ‘do and photo op, but they haven’t seen her either. In fact, they’re the ones that called the office looking for her.”
David picked up the wedding photo in its gilded frame on his desk. They were smiling then—happier times—with his arm draped around her slender waist and her honeyed locks vibrant against his black tuxedo.
“Would you like me to notify the police, sir?”
“What?” David put the photograph down. “No, not yet. We don’t want the negative publicity. I assume you’ve been monitoring the scanner frequencies?”
“Yes, sir.” Hawes’ face was drawn. “There are a few accidents around the burgh today, but none matching her vehicle’s description. I’ve also checked with a few contacts at the local emergency rooms—none have admitted any young women this morning.”
“And our threat index?”
“The usual, sir, although we have received a few additional letters. You received the copies yesterday.”
David sighed. He usually took it in stride. Being the president of a major corporation came with its fair share of crazies, all worried about their own pet issues. There were the tree huggers, complaining about how his companies raped the land and robbed it of its resources. The union bosses, who insisted that employees needed more time off and higher salaries—oh, and less work. Always less work. The conspiracy theorists. The local and even international weirdos.
Most of their issues were easily dismissed. A lawsuit here or there, the occasional bribe, an arrest or two. A few of them, though, managed to get close enough that a security detail was necessary. Barbara hadn’t enjoyed that little addition to her daily routine.
This wasn’t the first time she’d slipped her security detail, of course, but things were different. The death of their son had brought more crackpots out of the woodwork—religious zealots this time. He understood her need for privacy, but her need for safety was more important.
He focused his attention back on Hawes. “No police. Not yet—not until I’m absolutely sure that she’s missing. For all I know, she forgot and went shopping or something.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure you’re right, sir. In the meantime, I have a car out retracing her possible routes to the hospital.”
“Excellent. Keep me updated.”
Hawes dipped his head and stepped out of the office, leaving David alone to reflect. His heart thrummed in his chest. She was all right. She had to be.
But where was Barbara?

That was your teaser for Tuesday! Hope you enjoyed it! In the meantime, here are some posts you may have missed:...

Book Review: Joy Ellis’ “On the Fens” SeriesFebruary 16, 2018Monthly Book Review / WritingI recently discovered Joy Ellis’ “On the Fens” series on a whim–from clicking one of those “You may also like…” recommendations on Amazon. I have really enjoyed them (thus my recommendation to you). Read on for more.
The series follows a female detective inspector, Nikki Galena, as she deals with crime in the Lincolnshire Fens. Galena and her fellow officers (including DS Easter, who serves as a potential love interest) are an enjoyable bunch, and very identifiable.
Galena’s not a perfect protagonist. She’s rough around the edges, and she struggles against her own inner demons (mostly brought on by the fact that her daughter is hospitalized and soon to die). DS Easter’s got his own skeletons in the closet. They are just rough enough to be real. A lot of crime novels are frustrating in that the detective is so bloody brilliant that they are almost psychic. Not so with Galena.
The novels (there are eight in the series, beginning with Crime on the Fens) are easily read and entertaining, with just enough suspense to keep you turning pages (and yes, I’ve stayed up into the night more than once to finish one of her books). I appreciate the fact that they are generally “clean”. There’s some language here and there, and of course there’s an element of violence due to the nature of the text, but there’s nothing in the novels that is offensive or off-putting. In fact, I’m struggling to really recall much of anything that would be so.
I enjoy the “Briticisms” in the text; reading a novel written by a Brit and set in Britain is always fun, because the novel is full of slang terms and other such things. The early novels are complete with a glossary at the end to help the reader out.
Here’s a link to the series (in order) on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/series/182973-di-nikki-galena
Give it a try!...

Teaser Tuesday: Don’t Ask Me to LeaveFebruary 13, 2018Don't Ask Me to Leave / WritingI’m starting a new feature called “Teaser Tuesday”, where I share with you snippets of my favorite parts of my books (published and work-in-progress). I spent most of the night awake on the couch battling a terribly sore throat, which is what gave me the idea to share the scene below with you.
In Don’t Ask Me to Leave, Rachel finds herself dealt a series of pretty harsh blows by life. She’s beaten down by it and struggles to find a path out of the maze of sorrow (to some negative consequences). Thank goodness Beau and Nadine are around to help her out:
The house looked peaceful as the truck swung into the driveway. Nadine’s heart thrummed, and she unbuckled her seat belt.
“Beau, why don’t you wait out here for a bit? I don’t want to embarrass her if she’s still in bed.”
“All right. But I’m here if you need me.”
His white and strained face betrayed his worry. It was sweet of him, but there was no reason to panic, was there? Surely she overslept.
Four knockout roses sat in pots in what had been the front flower bed. Rachel needed to water them or they’d die before they got in the ground. Why hadn’t she asked Nadine to help plant them?
Enough stalling.
Beau nodded, and Nadine squared her shoulders and marched up onto the front stoop. The key rattled as she put it in the lock.
“Rachel? Rachel, it’s Nadine. Honey, are you home?”
No answer. Warm, stale air drifted through the open door. Nadine wrinkled her nose and stepped into the foyer. She raised her voice. “Rachel? Rachel!”
A faint moan reached her ears, and Nadine rushed to the sound.
Rachel lay on the couch in the living room, covered in a jacquard throw. Tissues overflowed from a trash can beside her, and empty water bottles littered the end table.
“Sick.”
The pitiful, barely audible whimper went straight to Nadine’s heart like an arrow. She knelt next to the couch and put a tender hand on Rachel’s sweaty forehead. “Oh, honey. You’re burning up.”
Rachel’s face had turned pallid, with its sunken eyes and chapped lips. “And you look dehydrated. We have to get you to the doctor, baby. Can you sit up?”
Rachel’s head lolled. “Weak. Don’t feel good.”
“Honey, when was the last time you had anything to eat or drink?” Nadine smoothed the moist bangs off Rachel’s forehead.
“Some…some Cheerios. Yesterday morning.” Her raspy voice made Nadine shudder. “Keep throwing up everything. Water too.”
“I’ll be right back, sweetheart.” As Nadine hustled to the front door, she slipped on an area rug and threw out a hand to catch herself on the foyer wall. She stuck her head out and waved. “Beau! Hurry, please!”
He leapt from the truck and loped into the house. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s so sick, Beau. She’s caught something. Should I take her to the clinic or just go straight to the ER? I’m sure they’ll have to give her an IV no matter where I take her.” Nadine led him into the living room. “Can you carry her to the truck for me?”
Rachel’s eyes closed, and icy fear gripped Nadine. She couldn’t lose this baby too.
Lord, please, help this child. Put Your healing arms around her. Please, Lord.
The excerpt above is from chapter 16 of Don’t Ask Me to Leave....

Monday Musings: The Soldier’s WifeFebruary 12, 2018The Soldier's Wife / WritingGood morning! Happy Monday! Today, I’d like to tell you a little bit about the progress on my next novel, currently titled The Soldier’s Wife.
The Soldier’s Wife, like Don’t Ask Me to Leave, is a modern adaptation of a Biblical story. In The Soldier’s Wife, I plan to examine the relationship dynamic of David, Bathsheba and Uriah.
 We don’t spend much time in Bible classes talking about Bathsheba; we focus mostly on David. If we do talk about her, we tend to be very negative. She’s generally viewed as a loose woman, free with her favors.
But is that fair?
When I think of Bathsheba, I feel terribly sorry for her. I can’t imagine the position she was in. It’s really easy to judge and say “I would never”, but we can’t truly know. Had she said no to the king, she was facing almost certain execution. While it’s easy to say we would do the right thing, I’d wager many of us would choose to save our own skins.
And then, after she did submit to David, she had one loss after another. Uriah was killed in battle, which surely affected her. Then, after a pregnancy that was most likely unwanted, she lost her infant child.
Bathsheba had a lot of sorrow to overcome in a very short while.
When I thought about her story, I can easily see it occurring in the present (even if we don’t necessarily have kings running around the United States forcing women to bend to their every whim).
I’m about eight chapters in to the rough draft now; it’s slower going than I’d like, but this is a busy time at work (and those paying gigs do come first). If you’d like to join my preview group and read the sneak peek, please let me know and I’ll send you an invite to the Facebook group.
Have a blessed day!...

Enter to WIN an eBook of Don’t Ask Me to Leave!February 3, 2018Announcement / Don't Ask Me to Leave / WritingThrough February 17, you can enter to WIN an eBook of Don’t Ask Me to Leave! Visit https://goo.gl/7t5jbe for more information and to enter for your chance to win!...

Book Review: Joy Ellis’ “On the Fens” Series

I recently discovered Joy Ellis’ “On the Fens” series on a whim–from clicking one of those “You may also like…” recommendations on Amazon. I have really enjoyed them (thus my recommendation to you). Read on for more.

The series follows a female detective inspector, Nikki Galena, as she deals with crime in the Lincolnshire Fens.[image error] Galena and her fellow officers (including DS Easter, who serves as a potential love interest) are an enjoyable bunch, and very identifiable.

Galena’s not a perfect protagonist. She’s rough around the edges, and she struggles against her own inner demons (mostly brought on by the fact that her daughter is hospitalized and soon to die). DS Easter’s got his own skeletons in the closet. They are just rough enough to be real. A lot of crime novels are frustrating in that the detective is so bloody brilliant that they are almost psychic. Not so with Galena.

The novels (there are eight in the series, beginning with Crime on the Fens) are easily read and entertaining, with just enough suspense to keep you turning pages (and yes, I’ve stayed up into the night more than once to finish one of her books). I appreciate the fact that they are generally “clean”. There’s some language here and there, and of course there’s an element of violence due to the nature of the text, but there’s nothing in the novels that is offensive or off-putting. In fact, I’m struggling to really recall much of anything that would be so.

I enjoy the “Briticisms” in the text; reading a novel written by a Brit and set in Britain is always fun, because the novel is full of slang terms and other such things. The early novels are complete with a glossary at the end to help the reader out.

Here’s a link to the series (in order) on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/series/1829...

Give it a try!