R.J. Keller's Blog, page 10

#SampleSunday January 9, 2011

An excerpt from chapter 13 of Waiting For Spring

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He brushed my bangs out of my eyes and said, "Tell me about Kineo."

"Kineo?"

"Yeah. That Kineo painting."

I shrugged. "There's not really much to tell. It's a painting of a mountain and a lake."

"Bullshit. There's more to it than just that." He propped himself up a little higher on his elbow and, for the first time since I'd known him, struggled to find words to express himself. "There's something about it, Tess, and I don't know what it is. I never saw a place that looked like that before. It's almost like the mountain is…like it's weeping. It's like a heartbreak or something. I don't even know how you do that with just a brush and some paint. Were you sad, or depressed or whatever, when you did it?"

"No. I wasn't."

I'd painted it during my first summer with Jason. Summer of Love. We'd gone to Moosehead Lake for a daytrip and had a great time. Mount Kineo was supposed to be the highlight of the day because neither of us had ever seen it. It was a beautiful, oddly shaped mountain. Narrow at the bottom, cresting high above the lake, then ending suddenly flat on one side, in high, flinty cliffs. At first glance, from a distance, it had reminded me of the whale from Pinocchio, and we had laughed about that.

"I wasn't depressed. But when I was up there I heard this story…a legend about a–" I pulled the sheet up and started playing with it, making little accordion folds. "It sounds stupid now, but it was about an Indian princess. Her husband went out on a hunting trip and he never came back. She waited and waited, for a long time, but…nothing. No word from him, not anything from him. He was just…gone. She was so…heartbroken that she jumped off the cliff and into the water, and killed herself. It was…it…I don't know. I guess it sort of stuck with me."

It had done more than that. The woman who had told us the story–she was a waitress in a restaurant a few towns over from where the mountain stood–had done so very matter of factly. It was obvious she'd told it a thousand times, and it didn't really mean anything to her other than as a minor point of interest for tourists. But it had scared the hell out of me, so badly that I couldn't eat my lunch.

Are you feeling alright, Tess?

Yeah, Jase. Just a little carsick. I'll be fine.

It was after sunset when we drove past the mountain again on our way home. It looked different somehow. Lonely. Forbidding. Rising out of the water like a haunted headstone.

We got home late, exhausted from the day and the drive, but I couldn't sleep. I lay awake for hours watching his peaceful, sleeping face. I couldn't stop thinking about the poor woman–who had probably never really existed–waiting for her husband to return. Sick with worry. Going over every horrifying possibility of what might have happened to him. Had he been killed in the forest by an animal? Come across a member of an enemy tribe or stumbled upon a white settlement? Maybe his canoe had capsized and he had drowned in the lake

Or maybe he had just run off. Got bored or restless. Or fell out of love. And just…left her.

I shot out of bed, shaking so badly that my teeth actually chattered, pulled out my easel and poured everything out onto a fresh canvas. Dark, frantic, heavy lines. Foggy. Black and grey and dark, dark blue. But I wasn't sad, I wasn't depressed when I painted that picture. I was scared out of my fucking mind. Scared of losing that feeling I had only just discovered, for the first time in my life, of being in love and having someone love me back. Safe and completely, truly happy. Most of all I was scared because I could imagine, for a brief, fatigue induced moment, why that Indian princess had climbed to the top of the steep, woody mountain. Looked over the edge. And jumped. Landing hard on the water.

Brian touched my cheek and I jumped, startled back to reality.

"All that stuff you're feeling right now? You got that all on the canvas, Tess." He ran his finger gently underneath both my eyes. I hadn't realized I was crying. "But I'm gonna make sure you never feel like that again."

I nodded, blinked back a few more tears, then gave him my best smile. It didn't fool him but he didn't say anything.

"It's pretty late you know," I said. "And you need to get up early in the morning."

"Nice try. Even I don't work on Sunday." He brushed my cheek gently with his lips. Then he whispered softly in my ear, "I love you. You know that, don't you?"

Just like that. Even though I'd already known it. So I said it back. "Yes I know. I love you, too."

He fell asleep with his arm wrapped tight around me. He was so close that I could actually feel his breath, warm on my shoulder, his heart beating against my back. It was telling me that everything was okay again, that I was safe and loved. But I stayed awake all night anyway, shivering. Because I'd felt that way before. And I knew. Even if Brian didn't.

Flying. Falling. Landing hard.

I can't cook

Well, technically speaking I can cook. I do it every day, because the authorities tend to frown on parents who let their kids starve. But I certainly don't enjoy cooking and resent every milisecond I spend doing it.

Tonight was no different. I spent all of yesterday writing, all of last night pulling a graveyard shift, and all morning sleeping. Then, at around three-thirty, I realized that I hadn't pulled anything out of the freezer for supper. And that I'd already shot my "fuck it, I'll boil some macaroni and pour a jar of Prego over it" wad last night.

So, I rummaged through my fridge and found half a kielbasa. Yes, half a kielbasa. Half a kielbasa does not feed a family of four. So I rummaged around some more and found a ziploc baggie with chopped red/orange/yellow peppers inside it. (My husband chopped them up the other morning for, I think, an omelet, bless his heart.) And I found a Granny Smith apple. Actually, there was half a bag of Granny Smith apples. I bought it two weeks ago during yet another "Holy shit, my gall bladder is acting up again, I'm going to start eating healthy now, no, really this time I MEAN IT" spasm.

I chopped up the apple and kielbasa into pretty small pieces, then tossed them in a bowl with the peppers and put the bowl in the fridge so the flavors could mingle together. (TRUTH METER: After the exertion of all that chopping, I felt the need to unwind by watching last night's episodes of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report on the DVR.)

After an hour of flavor-mingling, I sauted the crap in a pan (no oil required. We're talking kielbasa, here) and spooned it (ooh! that sounds dirty) into some crescent rolls (people who hate to cook always have at least a dozen cans of crescent rolls tucked away). Then I baked it at 350 for eight minutes. Or it might have been twelve. Come to think of it, I have no idea how long it was in the oven. I just checked it every so often and pulled it out when it looked light brown-ish.

I wanted to serve it with a nice salad, but I didn't have any lettuce in the fridge. So I popped some frozen corn (which is probably the least nutritious vegetable ever invented) in the microwave (which probably zapped what little vitamin content corn contains right out of it) and called it good.

Actually, it was pretty good. But someone really should call the authorities on me. Do it for my kids.

(Tomorrow's post: Kel's gall bladder finally packs up and calls it quits.)

#SampleSunday January 2, 2011

An excerpt from chapter 18 of Waiting For Spring.

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"Well," he said at last. "I'd better get going."

I only nodded, because there was only one word left to say, and I couldn't bring myself to say it. So he nodded back. Then he took a long look at me; at my face, my eyes. One more time. One last time. And his eyes were filled with something that was deeper than sorrow.

Then he turned away. Opened the screen door, walked down the four porch steps. And he left. Just like that. Leaving nothing behind. Just like he'd never been there at all. I sent up a quick prayer:

God, please help him to be happy…

Because he deserved it. And it wasn't until the sound of his car died away that I finally remembered what it had felt like when we were happy. When we were in love. I closed my eyes and it was almost real. For just a moment I loved him again. And in that moment I was his. I was still Mrs. Dyer. Jason's wife.

My wife.

I used to love those words, especially the way he said them. Two little words and they sounded like a song, like a poem. Because they meant that he loved me. It seemed like so long ago since I'd heard them, but it really wasn't. Just a year, and what was one year compared with all the years that had gone before? And yet here we were, months after the ink had dried on the divorce papers, and we were still bitter enough to resort to yelling. To playing mind games with each other.

I climbed the fourteen stairs to Brian so I could start the repair work. He had turned off the music and was leaning back against the counter, drinking melted strawberry ice cream from a glass. I kissed him gently and told him why Jason had come. Told him that the tears were about the painting. About Alice. And it wasn't a lie, because some of them had been. I told him about the money, too, and he shook his head. Told me that I was an idiot not to take it, that the money really was mine. It wasn't, of course, but I didn't say so. And I didn't tell him about any of the anger and bitterness between Jason and me, or about the sadness, because none of that mattered. I did tell him that I loved him and that I was over Jason, for real. Because I was. And because those were the things that did matter.

Then I waited for him to speak, to tell me what it was Jason had said to him; but he didn't. And he looked exhausted. So we went downstairs to his bedroom and lay down on his bed, naked underneath the fan. It was too hot for sex so we just lay there, silently immersed in our own thoughts. I didn't know exactly what his were, although I could guess. And as for me…I was trying to push away bleak images of what the future had in store for Brian and me.

Because even though I loved him, more than anything, it was going to happen. It was just a matter of time. There would be a day, there really would be, when there was no more Brian-and-Tess. There was nothing I could do to stop it either. But right now I couldn't think about it; couldn't bear to imagine what it would feel like when we moved onto the next step. The one that came after the love ran out.

Instead I reached over and grabbed hold of his hand, held onto it all afternoon. Concentrated hard on how it felt in mine so I'd always remember it. Rough, warm, calloused palm; long thick fingers. I held it tight as he drifted off to sleep, as I drifted off, too. Even in my dreams I was holding his hand. And even there I knew.

I couldn't hold onto it forever.

Resolved: More to appear here in 2011

2010 was a busy and exciting year for me - most notably, sales for Waiting For Spring took a huge jump, leading to a deal with AmazonEncore. But things here at Ye Olde Blog weren't very busy, nor very exciting. I've been neglecting it horribly, and that's something I intend to change.

I hereby resolve to post here at least twice a week during 2011. Good posts, heartfelt and funny posts,  just like I used to make in the Days of Yore.

Other resolutions for 2011:

 Eat more cheese. And more chocolate. But not at the same time. Probably.
Ditto coffee.
Be more appreciative of what I have.
Oh, and no more dyeing my hair. This time I mean it. I'm 40 now. I can get away with it. And I'd rather go gray the salt-and-pepper way now than the white-rooted skunk hair way ten years from now.
I'll chronicle the graying process here.

Happy New Year Everyone! Thanks for all your support in 2010. Buckle up for exciting things in 2011!

#Sample Sunday December 26, 2010

An excerpt from chapter 26 of Waiting For Spring.
(Mature themes, imagery, and language.)

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The door opened again, and in walked The Doctor.

She was friendly. Motherly. Earth mother, actually; a true Granola with proudly graying brown hair and no make up. She told us her name but I didn't pay attention to it. In my mind she'd always just be The Doctor.She looked at Rachel's chart, scribbled something down and nodded to herself. Then she looked up. Asked Rachel if she had any questions.

She did. Just one and it surprised me. Because although The Doctor misunderstood her at first, I knew, right away, exactly what is was she meant.

"Is it gonna hurt?"

"I'll be giving you a few injections, to numb your cervix. That will sting just a little, almost like a pinch. But it will help with the–"

Injections. Needles. She winced. And it was a relief for me to see that she really did hate them. "I know. They told me that already. I mean…is this gonna hurt the baby?"

For a few moments there was nothing but silence, except in my mind. Because what I heard there was a scared, lonely voice that said:

It's not a baby, Rachel. Not a baby. It's an embryo. A fetus. A mass of cells. A mass of something. But not. A baby…

The doctor cleared her throat and said. "No. Not at all."

And then she told us about nerve centers and weeks of gestation. Explained that there was no fetal pain before twenty-six weeks. That was a fact. And I looked at her, looked to her. Because she was The Doctor. The One Who Knows. And I searched her eyes, suddenly panicked. Because there was something that I needed to know.

Is this bullshit? Something you tell women to make them feel better? To ease their conscience? To ease yours? Because how is that possible? How the fuck, how the bloody goddamn hell can you even know that? What tests can you run to figure that out? What kind of scientific proof could you possibly have that could possibly fucking tell you that Rachel's baby, or fetus, or embryo–that the mass of cells inside of her–won't feel a thing?

But she wasn't looking at me. She was looking at Rachel. Calm. Confident. Competent. Which is exactly what she should have been doing. What I should be doing. So I did it. I held Rachel's hand and she looked at me. Determined, still, but scared. I looked right back at her, looked her right in the eyes. And I said it.

"She's right, Rach. They've done tests and stuff. So they know."

She gave me a weak smile, nodded, then lay down on the table. She looked up at the ceiling so I did, too. It was a drop ceiling, a grid. Big white squares with yellowish water stains here and there that looked just like piss. The Doctor and Dusty Pink Nurse talked to each other in low voices, about whatever it is that doctors and nurses talk about. And then it was time.

Stirrups. Ultrasound. The screen was pointed mercifully away from Rachel. Even if it hadn't been she wouldn't have seen it, because she didn't shift her gaze, not once. Still looked straight up and I wondered if she was counting tiles. Or maybe counting the tiny little holes in the tiles. What were those holes? Were they there just for looks? Ventilation? Air bubbles that formed when the factory cooked the tiles? What the hell were those tiles made from, anyway? Styrofoam? Plastic?

It didn't matter, and now I had to listen to The Doctor again. She was saying something about sedation. Demerol for pain and Valium to help her relax. Rachel nodded. She was all for that. Until The Doctor mentioned the dangers of giving it to her if she'd consumed any drugs or alcohol in the past twenty four hours. And that's when she had to tell us.

She'd taken Something last night. Right before she'd hopped into bed.

"Just so I could sleep, Tess. Just so I–"

I put my hand up. "It's alright, Rach."

I said it even though it wasn't alright. It was as far away from alright as we could get. But it was a done thing and right now I couldn't do anything about it. Right now she needed to settle down and not worry about Condemnation and Judgment and Consequences. There would be enough of that later. But when it came it wouldn't be from me, and it wouldn't be about the Something that had helped her drift off to sleep. It would be even worse. It would be Rachel judging Rachel. I knew it. I could see it in her eyes. Already.

Merry Christmas!

Thank you for all your support in 2010!

Wishing all of you joy, warmth, love, and peace. And pie.

Worth much more than a dollar

If you are a currently self-publishing author, chances are you've heard of April Hamilton. If you haven't, then chances are you have benefited from her expertise indirectly. Her voice was among the first to dare suggest that self-publishing was a viable, respectable way for writers to get their work out into the world. She has dedicated years of her life to helping writers in practical ways through how-to posts on her blog (which was eventually published as The Indie Author Guide) and encouraging us personally by her successful example and positive attitude. Nearly two years ago she founded the website Publetariat, "an online community and news hub built specifically for indie authors and small, independent imprints…to bring [authors] the most valuable content in books, publishing, book promotion, authorship and more from all over the web."

In other words, she has worked her ass off for us. Now she needs our help. Early Thursday morning, she posted the following plea on Publetariat:

I am in desperate straits, and as a result, so is Publetariat. In March of this year I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Two days later my husband announced he was leaving me, and did. We would've been married 19 years last month. The small business we used to run together, which was our family's primary source of income, is now a thing of the past and has been for months. I'm trying to sell off what's left of its assets, but in this economy buyers are scarce. To say I'm struggling to make ends meet for myself and my two children doesn't quite cover it. The bank is preparing to foreclose; I and my children are facing homelessness.

Publetariat's audience numbers in the tens of thousands, and if each one of them were to pitch in just one dollar, it could keep my children and I—and therefore, Publetariat—afloat for a few more months, while I try to get more work and make other financial arrangements. So please…if you've found anything helpful, informative or entertaining on this site over the past two years, if its content has inspired you to keep going when you were ready to quit, solved a problem for you or answered your questions…if it has saved you a dollar's worth of time, effort or worry, please donate that dollar now. If you can afford more, it will be much appreciated.

So please, all of you – whether you're currently self-publishing, are thinking about it, have done so in the past, or if you've ever read and enjoyed a self-published book – please consider donating a buck to help out April and her kids. If you can spare more than that, well that would be awesome, too.

DONATE HERE VIA PAYPAL

Getting excited!

Things on the Waiting For Spring Re-release Front are progressing very nicely. The cover, as you know, is ready (I'm posting it here again because that's how much I love it) and the print book's interior design is close to being finalized as well (obviously I'm not going to post that here. Nice try, though.)

To be perfectly honest, after having complete control over my novel for all this time I was pretty nervous about handing it over. But I'm absolutely thrilled with how it's turned out! I can't say enough good things about the people at AmazonEncore. They are fabulous!

I'm getting more excited by the day right now. I'm SO looking forward to May!! I can't say that I literally pinch myself to see if this is all real, but figuratively speaking I totally do.

Expect more updates in the weeks ahead. In the meantime, here's the new trailer:

 

 

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Link time!

Time to play catch up! A few pertinent links:

This coming Monday – November 8 – at 7:30 PM EASTERN TIME I'll be a guest on Backstory with Sandy Ward Bell. Hope y'all tune in!


Last month, I talked to Kristen Tsetsi about AmazonEncore's acquisition of Waiting For Spring.


And to T.L. Haddix about writing while dealing with hemachromatosis.

Check 'em out!

The ghosts of NaNoWriMos past

Yes, I'm doing Nanowrimo again this year, November 1-30. This will mark my sixth time participating, because I did it twice in 2006; once in March on my own, then in November with the rest of the world. Technically, I'll be cheating this year. You're supposed to start with a fresh novel, yet I'm using the 30 day/50,000 word goal to do the rewrites on The Wendy House. Sue me.

For those of you who don't know, the first draft of what would later become Waiting For Spring was penned during the aforementioned March 2006 personal Nanowrimo session. I chronicled my progress here on the blog, and it's kind of funny to reread it four-and-a-half years later. Note my vague description of my planned novel in the comments section of my first Wrimo post:

I'm sticking with what I know for now: life in a small New England town as seen through the eyes of a quirky, uppity woman who doesn't read Ephesians and is nursing a bitter grudge against a certain former Red Sox player.

Johnny Damon had just defected from the Red Sox to the Yankees. The wounds from that betrayal were still fresh, and the first draft actually contained a bitter diatribe against fickle, money-hungry ball players and their equally evil agents.

Also while writing that first draft, I ran into some potential legal trouble while trying to do some research.

Far from believing that I was a mere wannabe novelist in the midst of research, somewhere along the way she got it into her head that I was a crazed psycho planning some hideous plot to avenge the wrongs done to a friend or family member.

This year's NaNo month will probably be less fraught with peril, at least for myself. My characters, on the other hand, will be put through hell. And that is how it should be.

See you all on the other side.