Jamie DeBree's Blog, page 46
February 12, 2012
Flash 52: Weekends Only
I'm doing a project
this year called Flash 52 - in which I attempt to write one flash
fiction (1k words or less) story per week from prompts I came up with
last month. This week's story will be available for one
week.
Week 6 Prompt: A couple sits at a table in a fancy restaurant, one dressed nicely, the other in torn jeans and a stained shirt. They seem to be together, but not, and they're arguing quietly about something...
Weekends Only
"You couldn't have cleaned up a little?" Drew glanced anxiously at the nearby tables and saw the interested looks. He shook his head at Courtney's worn, stained shirt and torn jeans. "Didn't I mention it was a nice restaurant?"
She rolled her eyes. "You said it was important, that I needed to get here right away. I was at the studio. There wasn't time to go home." She leaned forward, bracing her forearms on the table. Flecks of red, blue and yellow danced across her hands as they moved. They hadn't been there last week on the beach.
"So what's so important? Why am I here?"
He frowned, confused. Had she given him the wrong schedule? "I thought the studio closed early on Mondays. Did you want to go wash up? The restrooms are just through those doors." He turned in his seat, and pointed to the left, trying to ignore the gawking women in their fine jewelry at the next table. Is this how it would be at company parties, he wondered? What if he needed her for an impromptu dinner?
Patches of green, brown and gray rippled over her chest as she shifted in her seat. When his gaze reached her face, she smiled, a sad, patient expression. "Normally, yes. Mondays I close at four. But I was engrossed in a project, so I stayed late. It's not unusual." She reached out to touch his hand and he flinched, not wanting the paint to transfer. Her eyes narrowed.
"We've been seeing each other for a long time now, Drew - nearly eight weeks. You knew I was an artist. What's really going on here? And you said this was important - why am I here?"
He looked away, the fantasy he'd created crumbling as he realized he'd done it again. "I've never seen your studio."
"Every time I invited you, you were busy. Weekends only, you said. That's why I rushed over here. I figured it had to be important for you to call on a weeknight."
He nodded. "I did say that, didn't I?" Reaching for his water glass, he raised it to his lips and took a generous sip. "You don't look like this on the weekends."
She laughed, a sound that never failed to arouse him, and didn't this time either. "Of course not. Most of the time I'm not wearing anything," she whispered with a wink.
He finished off his water and set the glass down. "I think this was a mistake. Can we just pretend it didn't happen? We can meet on Saturday, like usual."
She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. "I get the feeling that how I look is more important to you than it should be. What's going on, Drew? Do we need to go somewhere and get naked just to have an honest conversation?"
Around them, tables went silent as Courtney's question caught attention. Drew resisted the urge to look. He could feel the stares well enough. His head was starting to hurt.
"I...we should go," he agreed, then realized how it sounded. "We should go talk, I mean. Somewhere private."
Her eyes blazed fiery hazel. "Because it's not polite to argue in public, or because you're ashamed of how I look?" She didn't bother keeping her voice low, and quiet murmurs started up around them.
"Please," he said, taking a few bills out of his wallet and laying them on the table. "Let's just go. You can show me your studio."
She shook her head. "I don't think so. You can tell me right here and now what's going on, or we're done. Tell me why you called me tonight."
Drew fingered the small velvet box in his pocket. "I was going to buy you dinner. As a surprise."
She leaned forward, her expression confused. "Why tonight? Why not Saturday, like usual?"
"Because today is my birthday. I wanted to give you something."
"I get the feeling that 'Happy Birthday' isn't really what you want to hear right now. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have done something special. Made you dinner...heck, I might even have dressed up if I'd known ahead of time. But why can't we just stay and have a nice dinner? Why do my clothes bother you so much?"
He chuckled in disbelief. "You really don't get it, do you? Are you sure we can't talk about this privately?" She shok her head again, crossing her arms over her chest. He mourned briefly that he'd never get to see those beautiful breasts again.
"Fine." He set the velvet box on the table. "I was going to give you this," he said, pushing it toward her. "Go ahead. Look."
She opened the box, and he could see the multi-colored stones sparkling as she turned it sideways. "It's beautiful," she said, turning it under the lights before she snapped the box shut and passed it back to him. "But it's not my style." She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. "And that's the problem, isn't it?"
He nodded, slipping the ring back into his jacket. "I was so sure...and then when you came in, looking like that..."
"I'm sorry I can't be the woman who matches that ring, Drew. If she's what you need, then I'd better just go."
He nodded again. "I'll walk you to your car."
She was quiet until they reached her sedan, handing him the keys so he could unlock her door. Then he pulled her into his embrace, leaning her against the frame as he kissed her senseless.
"That was so good," he whispered, one hand slipping under her shirt. "Judging by the looks we got, it's going to be the most intense scene in the book. You were amazing."
She laughed, pressing her hips tighter to his as he kissed her neck. "Thank you, but I think you stole the show on that one, honey. Now if I recall, you had a scene with considerably less clothing you wanted to try out..."
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February 10, 2012
Serial Novel: Falling in Public, Ch. 37
Ch.1|Ch. 2|Ch. 3|Ch. 4|Ch. 5|Ch. 6|Ch. 7|Ch. 8|Ch. 9|Ch. 10|Ch. 11|Ch. 12|Ch.13|Ch. 14|Ch. 15| Ch. 16| Ch. 17|Ch. 18| Ch. 19 | Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25 | Ch. 26 | Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 | Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 | Ch. 32 | Ch. 33 | Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 | Ch. 36 |
Falling in Public
Chapter 37
Holly couldn't believe what she was hearing. Her agent had been in on it the whole time? Why hadn't she just asked? And Winston didn't sound all that upset with how things had turned out, all things considered. She watched him as she waited for an answer, searching his face for any sign of remorse or regret. But he merely looked bored with the whole thing.
"That's where Ellison came in," he said with a shrug. "He's the best at getting people what they want. I still would have called him to...convince you, if that's what it took."
"I still don't get it though," Holly said, rubbing her head with her free hand. "Sandra aside, you still haven't explained why it had to be me. I'm sure you could get other agents on the hook, assuming money is involved. And other authors who would be more than willing to take that kind of work. Quit avoiding the question, and tell me why you're ruining my life!"
Winston shook his head. "You really don't get it do you? I guess I should have realized you probably don't read your own mail, but you'd think someone would have showed you, at least." He reached into his jacket pocket, and Holly flinched as he pulled out a folded piece of paper. He chuckled, handing the note to her.
"I've sent you two of these a week for the past year, and you've ignored every single one, you stuck up bitch. I've read everything you've ever written, and fallen more in love with you with every book you write. Your books..." he fell to his knees in front of her, clutching his chest dramatically. "Your books show me a little more about the person you are every time I read them. I know everything about you, Holly, because you told me through your writing. And if you write my story, I just know you'll fall in love with me too."
Holly unfolded the paper, her brows drawing together as she took in the bright red heart with two words in the center.
Marry Me.
She dropped it, remembering the stack of them her personal assistant had boxed up just in case they needed them later for evidence, though she hadn't really given them much thought at the time. As far as stalkers go, this one had been relatively tame.
Or so they'd thought.
"I did get your notes, Sean." She paused, knowing she had to tread lightly. "It just never occurred to me that someone of your popularity would have sent them to me. There was no name on the envelope, and honestly, I didn't really give it much thought. Don't you get things in the mail that you don't really take seriously?"
His eyes went cold, and he stood, backing away. "So your answer is no, I assume?"
"Answer to what?" Eddie called from behind her. Holly twitched at his voice - she'd forgotten he was there. "Holly, are you okay? What did he say to you?"
Holly wished she could just close her eyes and make everything go away. Obviously she'd underestimated a serious stalker, and there really wasn't any way this could end well. She started to answer, but Winston beat her to it.
"None of your damn business, Pierce. You just sit tight back there."
"Damned if I will. You're going down, Winston."
Startled at hearing Eddie's voice much closer now, Holly turned just in time to see Eddie's fist connect solidly with the side of Sean's face.
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February 8, 2012
Writer's Notes: Craziness, Depth, Emotions, Formatting & Pricing
this week that I'm having a hard time distilling it into one coherent
theme to post about. I don't think I'm alone in that either...in the
past two days alone, I've read Chuck Wendig's (serious language warning on that) post on why writers are
all crazy (guilty, though not quite to his extent just yet), and an
article about how creatives are more prone to mental illness by their
very genetic makeup. The interesting thing is, it seems that you can't
have one without the other in a lot of cases, so they're trying to
figure out how to unlock that creative thinking safely, rather than with
booze or drugs (Which is what a great many writers use and have used
historically. Though personally, drinking while writing just puts me to
sleep. I know through experience.). I hope they find the answer to that -
then again, it sort of scares me too. If everyone on earth was working
at the creative level that artists and writers work at, I think we very
well might drive *each other* insane...
As far
as craft goes, I've been thinking about depth of story. Which all sounds
very deep (ha!), except it's mostly just internal ruminating on how I
can add more "?" to my stories - and if so, do they really need it? All
of them? Or just some? I write page-turners (or that's the goal,
anyways, and at least some strangers have confirmed that - not that I'm
reading reviews much anymore, mind you, but occasionally I scan...), so
there's a balance that has to be maintained there. My brain has been
chewing on ways to deepen plots while keeping them moving at a decent
clip - I don't want to sacrifice the action/adventure movie feel of my
rom. suspense books just for the sake of something that may or may not
need to be there.
I've also been pondering the new erotica story
I've started...my characters have to have a very clear emotional arc in
those, because that's the essence of the story. Sometimes I get it
right, sometimes not...but I have a good feeling about this one, which
actually worries me, because those are often the hardest to actually
convey in words.
As far as my
suspense/thrillers go, I've been thinking about the dynamic between my
heroes and villains. It needs...something, and I suspect it's more to do
with my heroes, which is disconcerting. Bad guys fascinate me from a
psychological standpoint. I need to find a way to be fascinated by my
good guys too.
And of course there's business-y
stuff swirling too...I have four books to release just as soon as
I can get them all packaged up, which always makes me resent the time
it takes to format the text. Last night I spent four solid hours
formatting two collections for print - which means I didn't get any
writing done, and I missed my workout and virtual gaming too. I hate
that. It's not that I dislike the act of formatting...overall it's
fairly straightforward aside from headers (which are *going* to be the
death of me someday). I just hate the time it takes...I have precious
little enough of that already, and collections take longer due to my
ineptitude w/the aforementioned headers. Someday when I'm making decent
bucks from my books, I'll happily hand off my formatting to someone
else. For now, I'm considering teaching my husband how to do the job.
Finally,
I'm psyching myself up for the inevitable drop in sales & income
for a few months after I raise the price of Tempest this weekend. I'm
publishing my flash collection at .99 cents (where it will stay
permanently), and Tempest (which is 26,000 more words than the flash
collection) will move up to my "novella" price point of $2.29. I feel
very strongly that price should be based on length (ie, how much story
you get), and to that end, I can't feel good about selling a
novella-length work for only .99 cents long-term (I have no issue with
short-term sales, etc) when I have shorter works out as well. Other
authors will do what they want, and normally a super-low price point is
used for gaining traction, making bestseller lists and being "visible".
But I don't have a burning need to make the bestseller lists, or even to
sell a bunch of books at once - I'm happy selling a few copies of each
per month to people who might actually read them, and just building
slowly as my offerings grow. It's taken me awhile to get to that point -
the point in which I realize it's just going to take as long as it
takes and I may as well sit back and enjoy the ride - but I'm there now.
It's a good place to be, really. A powerful place.
Even
so, it's still hard mentally to see sales drop to nothing (as they
always do when raising prices) for awhile. But it will be worth it in
the end.
So that's what's twisting in my brain this week. Scary, eh?
Enjoy
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February 6, 2012
Weekly News & Prompt - February 6, 2012
Flash 52 Week 6:
A
couple sits at a table in a fancy restaurant, one dressed nicely, the
other in torn jeans and a stained shirt. They seem to be together,
but not, and they're arguing quietly about something...
Welcome back
Monday, eh? I had a decent week last week, and very productive, and
Saturday wasn't bad either, but I kind of got sidetracked Saturday
night and my productivity just fell off the edge of the world. It
happens. Sunday was spent trying to catch up, which is why I'm
writing this post at midnight and still have my nails left to do
before bed (and laundry to get out of the dryer). Someday I'm going
to figure out how to trick myself into doing work laundry before
Sunday night...
In any case, my
alter ego's new novelette, The Paramedic, is out now, so
that's good. I'll be publishing two collections under that name
as well in the next couple of weeks. And the new story has got me
entranced – I'm playing with story arcs, so it will be a good
learning experience and character study.
As for my Flash
52 book, I've finally settled on the formatting and have the
adobe file ready, I just need to get the other formats done, and I'll
be publishing it in print workbook form as well. I'd really hoped
to get the digital files done this weekend, but that just didn't
happen. But I should be able to finish them tomorrow night.
I've decided to
wait until next weekend to release Heart Knocks – that gives
me a little more time, and it seems appropriate to release a
collection of love stories just before Valentine's Day.
I'll be sending
out newsletters later this week – mine, the BSB letter, and one for
Trinity's list to announce the new releases.
Other than that,
this week is all about tension in my writing world:
Will Betsy &
Derek survive in this week's chapter of The Minister's Maid?
Is Kate still
alive, and if so, can Jake get to her without getting killed in my
alter-ego's chapter of Animal?
What is a
brazen redhead doing coming on to a dangerously sexy bartender after
just breaking off her engagement in my other alter-ego's new
story, Irish Cream?
And just how
bad is Holly's captor, and will she finally figure out how to
escape in this week's chapter of Falling in Public?
Oh yeah, and what
the heck is up with that couple in this week's flash prompt? What
are they fighting about, and how's it all going to work out? Guess we'll find out Sunday, eh? Well, I'll find out Friday night...
Questions. The
world of a writer is built on questions.
Now, I need to go
do my nails. A lovely matte cement color this week. If we're all
lucky, I might even remember to post a photo on my nail blog Tuesday.
Wishing you a week
of questions, and the answers to match...
Enjoy
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Romantic Suspense
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February 5, 2012
Flash 52: The Glass Box
I'm doing a project
this year called Flash 52 - in which I attempt to write one flash
fiction (1k words or less) story per week from prompts I came up with
last month. This week's story will be available for one
week.
Week 5 Prompt: A well-dressed man is walking down a quiet city street at night, past the dimly-lit store windows with decadent displays. An object in one of the windows catches his eye, and he stops to take a closer look. It reminds him of something...
The Glass Box
Fredrick flipped the collar of his black wool coat up to block the chill from his neck. The street was dark and quiet, a combination some might go out of their way to avoid, but one he happily embraced after the oppressive socialization he was forced to endure day in and day out. Who would have thought that running a book shop would require so much human interaction? Had he realized, he may have opted for a different profession. But it was too late now. The store was his life, the books in it treasures, and he could no more pick up and leave than he could cut off one of his limbs.
As he walked, he glanced at the displays in the dim department store windows. Clothes, shoes, jewelry and toys - all arranged to entice unsuspecting passers-by to take a closer look. Bait, he thought wryly as he stopped in front of a trinket store to examine a brightly colored glass box in the center of the display. A light from underneath made the box glow, scattering random bits of color over the white satin surrounding it and giving the piece itself a sort of ethereal quality.
He frowned, tilting his head to the side as he surveyed the piece. It was familiar, but the memory danced just out of reach. Staring for a few more moments, he finally forced himself to turn away. Perhaps he'd stop in tomorrow before work. Mary Ann's birthday was in two days, and it would be a suitable gift - with a bit of jewelry inside, of course.
Continuing past the shops and into his neighborhood, he was went up the front walk and let himself into the house. Surprised that the house was dark, he turned on a light and checked his watch. Had he really stayed that long at work? He ate a few bites of the leftover casserole in the refrigerator and went up to bed, careful not to wake his wife.
She was gone the next morning before he woke, as she always was these days. As his eyes adjusted to the morning brightness, he got up and dressed for work, resolute that tonight he would come home on time. Tonight, he'd have dinner with Mary Ann, and they'd spend the evening together like they used to. No matter who was in the store or what book he might be reading, he vowed to be home by six. Not a minute later.
In the light of day, he passed the stores without a second thought, the glass box all but forgotten. The day went by quickly, and as he shrugged into his coat and left that evening, he found himself whistling as he walked down the street, excited to see his bride. As before, the glass box was glowing in the window and this time, the store was still open. Smiling at his good fortune, he went inside.
"I'd like to buy the glass box in the window," Fredrick said to the man behind the counter, taking out his wallet. "Gift-wrapped, please."
The man hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Of course, Mr. Smith. That will be two dollars." He reached beneath the counter and brought out a beautifully wrapped package the same size and shape as the box. "We just happen to have one already wrapped up."
"Wonderful! My Mary Ann will love it, I'm sure." He handed over two bills and tucked the gift under his arm. Tipping his hat, he left the store and whistled the rest of the way home.
There was no sign of Mary Ann when he let himself in, so he put the package by her place at the table. Busying himself in the kitchen, he grinned when the doorbell rang - she must have forgotten her keys again, silly woman. It wasn't his wife at the door though.
"William, come in. I wasn't expecting you." He stepped back to allow his brother entry, curious. William went to the dining room, stopping beside Mary Ann's place and running a finger over box wrapped in vintage paper. Fredrick frowned. He hadn't noticed how worn it looked until now. He should probably re-wrap it before Mary Ann saw.
"I have some bad news," William said solemnly. "You may want to sit down."
Fredrick sat, checking his watch. "What is it? Has something happened?"
William pulled out a chair and sat as well, letting a long sigh loose. "The man at the antique store called me just now, and told me you requested this box again. Can you tell me why you bought it?"
"For Mary Ann, of course." Fredrick smiled. "I'll give it to her when she gets home. For her birthday, of course."
"I'm sorry to tell you this again, Fredrick, but Mary Ann isn't coming home. She's been gone for several years now."
Fredrick frowned. "But that's not possible. She was in bed last night. I heard her breathing. Her birthday is in two days - the calendar on my phone reminded me."
"So that's the trigger," William muttered. Rubbing his forehead, he braced his forearms on the table. "Your mind is playing tricks on you, brother. It does every year, which is why you buy the jewelry box, and why James, the man at the shop, calls me when you do. We all agreed two years ago that it was easier on you this way."
"I don't understand." Even as he said the words, he felt the truth in William's statement. "I don't want to understand. How could I not remember?"
"The psychologist says there's nothing else she can do. When you're ready to let go, you will."
Fredrick nodded. It was coming back now, that last day as she lay in the hospital bed, her body ransacked from the chemo. She'd passed away easily but far too soon, and he'd come home alone to grieve.
The next day, he'd taken her birthday gift back to the shop, unopened.
Just as he would tomorrow.
Enjoy
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February 3, 2012
Serial Novel: Falling in Public, Ch. 36
Ch.1|Ch. 2|Ch. 3|Ch. 4|Ch. 5|Ch. 6|Ch. 7|Ch. 8|Ch. 9|Ch. 10|Ch. 11|Ch. 12|Ch.13|Ch. 14|Ch. 15| Ch. 16| Ch. 17|Ch. 18| Ch. 19 | Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25 | Ch. 26 | Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 | Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 | Ch. 32 | Ch. 33 | Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 |
Falling in Public
Chapter 36
Eddie's fingers loosened only slightly when he heard Winston send his guard away. Cuffs or no, Eddie had been determined to do something if that stupid jerk had touched another hair on Holly's head - especially after the way he'd treated her when he brought her on board. From his aisle seat, he'd seen everything, and if he hadn't been tied down that guard would be dead right now. Seeing Holly hit the floor...
He closed his eyes and focused on breathing as he listened to the quiet murmurs coming from the front rows. As the guard stalked past carrying a damp mop, Eddie raised his eyebrows at Natalie, who was tied to the chair beside him. Her cover had been blown the second Winston's staff saw her in the hallway at the airport - she'd already been on the plane when they dragged him in.
Winston rose from his seat and moved out of the way while the guard he'd called Nelson mopped the floor. Holly cried out as the guard moved farther into the row, and Eddie saw red.
"Winston, if you don't do keep your gorilla under control I will," he called, earning a glare from Sean, and a particularly loud yell from Holly as the mop slid toward her again.
"Eddie?!" She called out, a mixture of relief and fear in her raspy voice. "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," he said, his wrists straining at the metal bonds. "I--"
"You need to shut up, both of you," Winston interrupted. He glared at Eddie, then tapped Nelson on the shoulder. "That's good enough. You can sit up front while I have a word with our...guests." He waited until the other man closed the front curtain, and then leaned against the seats behind him and folded his arms over his chest. "Now then. It seems like we have a few misunderstandings to clear up."
Holly laughed at that, a bitter, cynical sound that made Eddie want to wrap his arms around her and protect her from anything else.
"You call kidnapping, attempted murder, more kidnapping and torture constitutes a misunderstanding?"
Winston shrugged. "Would it help if I told you none of that was actually supposed to happen?"
"No."
Eddie bit back a smile. That's my girl.
Sean sighed. "Well, it wasn't. All I ever wanted to do was offer you a sweet deal to write a memoir about me - creative non-fiction, I think they call it. After our little scuffle at the bar, I hired Ellison to get the job done, and take care of Pierce while he was at it. I figured after Pierce was gone, you'd write the book, get your money and leave. But you just had to be stubborn...and I'm afraid my people got a little over zealous with the whole project."
"A little over-zealous. Right." Holly didn't sound impressed, and Eddie couldn't keep quiet any longer.
"You can't be serious. All this to strongarm an author into writing you a fictional memoir? Why didn't you just go hire someone to do that? I'm sure there are plenty of authors who--"
"No!" Winston held up both hands, shaking his head. "It had to be her. I had a deal with her agent...she even told me where to find you that night, Holly. We - you, me and Sandra - were going to be very rich and famous, until Pierce took you away from me. All you had to do was have dinner with me. Maybe dance a little. I would have made all your dreams come true."
"It wouldn't have mattered," Holly said, her voice barely loud enoug for Eddie to hear. "I never would have agreed to a project like that. And Sandra knows it. What were you going to do when I refused the first time?"
Enjoy
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February 1, 2012
Writing Notes: Starting Fresh, Every Time
stories, while I may have a vague idea of an opening scene or the
synopsis, I honestly have no idea what I'm going to write when I sit
down to start a new story. Or a new scene, for that matter. A friend
asked today for "insider information" on one of my serials, and I
couldn't have given it to her even if I wanted to, because I haven't
written that part yet. All I could give her were guesses...the rest is
still locked up in my subconscious somewhere, and odds are good I won't
see it until I'm typing it out.
Last week
when I sat down to start a new story, the only things I knew were the
title and that one of the characters needed an Irish heritage (far
removed, because I'm too lazy to research how to write an authentic
Irish accent). I had no character names, no back story, nothing. Just
the title and a wee bit o' info to go on (I'd apologize, but ya'll
should be used to that by now).
A lot of writers would be a quivering mass of
anxiety about now, curled up in a corner in the fetal position, repulsed
by the nice, crisp-white screen staring them down.
Me...not so much. I welcome the blank page
with open arms (or fingers...you know what I mean). When I get ready to
write a new scene, I re-read the last section I wrote, and then just
pick it up from there. It doesn't matter if I don't know what to
write...I just start writing right where I left off. It's not nearly as
mystical as it sounds though - it's just that in reading what I've
already written, I tap back into the story my subconscious mind was
telling me when I quit writing last time, and the story starts going
again. If it doesn't start playing again in my head, that means my
conscious mind is still in control - which is almost never a good thing.
Normally it means I'm fighting the direction my subconscious wants to
go. There is no way to win that fight, by the way. Either I give up and
just go with it (which is the right answer 99% of the time), or I fight
it and struggle with the whole scene to make it fit the direction my
conscious mind thinks it should take. I rarely regret listening to my
subconscious, even if it takes a ginormous leap of faith at the outset. I
often regret listening to my conscious mind regarding a story. My
subconscious nearly always is better at storytelling.
Yeah,
I know some people call that a "muse"...for me, it's just that area of
my brain I can't consciously control. I can't bring myself to give it
anymore power by naming it.
When I'm starting a
new story, my conscious brain likes to screw around...organizing a new
file, creating new chapters/scenes (structurally speaking), pretending
I'm actually going to plan the story...
But
when I'm actually ready to write, the only thing I can do is just relax
and start typing whatever comes to me within the very few confines I've
given myself. In most cases, my subconscious has had the title and
either a character or scene to ruminate on, and while I have no
conscious idea where the story will go, if I just trust myself and start
typing, the story will come out. Sometimes I'm even lucky enough to get
a glimpse of things to come while I'm writing.
Not
to brag or anything, but my subconscious is much smarter/better at
being creative than my conscious self. As long as I let the sub. lead
(which puts a new spin on things, doesn't it now?), it's all good. Fight
the sub, things get ugly.
That story I
started last week? Just three hundred words in, I knew the main
character's name, what she looks like, her basic back story, and what
her character arc would be (roughly). I also knew what the hero looks
like, and what his role will be in moving the heroine along the arc she
needs to travel. And I know the basics of what types of conflict is in
store for them. I even checked Google to see if her name needed to be
changed for an Irish heritage - nope. Turns out Breanna is an
Americanized version of an Irish name (Brianna/Brian/Brenna) - so it's
perfect to denote a far off Irish ancestry along with her red hair/green
eyes.
To access all that, I needed to start writing.
It's like turning on a tap - and after it starts flowing nicely, I can
more or less turn it on or off at will until the story is done.
People
ask me all the time how I work on so many different projects at
once...and that's how. I simply turn on the tap for whatever story I'm
currently working on by re-reading the last bits I wrote, and when I'm
done for the night, I turn that tap back off.
You
know what that means? Apparently, my brain is a bar, with all sorts of
different liquors ready to serve up, depending on my mood.
I don't think life really gets any better than that.
What's on tap in your brain?
Enjoy
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January 30, 2012
Weekly News & Prompt - January 30, 2012
Flash
52 – Week 5 Prompt: A
well-dressed man is walking down a quiet city street at night, past
the dimly-lit store windows with decadent displays. An object in one
of the windows catches his eye, and he stops to take a closer look.
It reminds him of something...
I
really hope last week was better for you than it was for us. It
wasn't one thing, but many little things that interrupted the
normal flow and made it impossible to get back in our "groove"
until the weekend. Thankfully, Saturday & Sunday were far more
peaceful and productive.
Lots
of book stuff to talk about today, so here we go...
I
still don't have the Flash 52 book formatted...and
it's because I'm still waffling on how I want to lay it out, and
whether I want to add extras for writers wanting to use it as a
practice workbook or not. Honestly, I think I'm just in that "never
done it before" procrastination mode, and I need to shake out of it
and just get it done. With any luck (and a bit less cowardice), I'll
have it up for sale by next weekend.
I
did get the Rattles anthology done and published – if you like
flash fiction, check out The Old Sofa at the BrazenSnake Books store – it's .99 cents until the next anthology comes
out. It's also currently available at Smashwords (link on the BSB
store), and it should be trickling onto Amazon and Barnes & Noble
sometime this week, and out to Sony, Diesel and the Apple ebook store
within a month or so. And of course if any of you writers out there
care to give the next flash prompt a go, check out the Rattles site
for a very oblong object to write about...
Of
course, if you want to download The
Old Sofa for free, you could join the Brazen Snake Monthly newsletter. I have it on good authority that this month's
newsletter will include a free code for that particular book in
February.
I've
also been playing with some cover art design this week, as you can
see above – for my first flash collection. I think it turned out pretty well for my first attempt. Heart Knocks
will include two of the stories I've written recently, one I wrote
a couple of years ago, and one I wrote for the second Rattles
Anthology, At the Water's Edge:
The
Lunch Thief
One More
Year
The
Franklin Date
Full
Circle
Each story
is between 800 and 1000 words, which is about 3-4 print pages a
piece, and the collection will be permanently priced at .99 cents (25
cents per story). Two of the stories are about love "knocking"
with two new opportunities, and two are about second chances after
some "hard knocks" in the relationship department. A good
selection for Valentine's Day, if I do say so myself...
Heart
Knocks will be available later this week in ebook format – I
may eventually make it available in print, but not just yet. And if
you sign up for my newsletter, which isn't even sent out
monthly (I've been a bit busy), but will be sent out in February,
you may just find a free code for this little collection there. Just
sayin'.
Finally, if
you're a Trinity Marlow fan, the last novelette in last year's
Working Stiffs series will be out by next weekend as
well, and shortly after that, a collection of all five stories.
So lots of
formatting/publishing going on in the next couple of weeks, and I
hope to be announcing a friend's next publication in the very near
future as well.
That's
pretty much what I'm up to this week – well, and writing more
scenes for my serial stories too. I should have a large lot of Smurfs
showing up sometime in the next couple of weeks, but I promise not to
let it distract me. Much.
Whew!
Here's hoping that where ever you are, you have a better week this
week than the last one. That's really all we can hope for, right?
Enjoy
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January 29, 2012
Flash 52: Full Circle
I'm doing a project
this year called Flash 52 - in which I attempt to write one flash
fiction (1k words or less) story per week from prompts I came up with
last month. This week's story will be available for one
week.
Week 4 Prompt: A woman walks through a park in her hometown, reflecting in the crisp
autumn air. The old carousel is still there, though no longer
operational, and she climbs the fence and goes to visit the horse she
used to call her own. Glancing between the broken mirrors that line the
center control room, she spies an old teddy bear lying against the
console...Full Circle
Kari had come back for the reunion, but when the time came to enter the gym and face all her former peers, she couldn't do it. Not yet, at least. Instead, she kept walking past those double doors and across the playground, into the community park beyond. Leaves crackled beneath her feet, the crisp, cool air far more fresh than the city atmosphere she'd become accustomed to.
The park had been her personal haven growing up, and as she wandered through the unkempt grass she marveled that it had remained untouched all these years. Her steps slowed, her shoulders relaxed, and she smiled, tilting her head up towards the setting sun for a moment of bliss.
Veering off to the left, she made her way through a copse of trees that were no longer the saplings she remembered. Pushing her way through the overgrown thicket on the other side, she wished she'd left the cashmere sweater at the hotel.
Then she looked up, and all thoughts of ruined clothing disappeared as she saw the old carousel still standing ten yards away. Her old friend, the white horse with flying mane and tail waited as though the past ten years had never happened, the holly wreath faded less than she would have thought. Stepping over the low wooden fence, she climbed up on the platform, running a hand over the smooth plastic of the horse's body.
Her first kiss had happened right in that very spot. Grinning, she remembered how nervous Steve had been, standing beside her, his arm around her waist as she moved up and down with the music. The moment the ride had stopped, he'd pulled her down to his level and ruined her for all other men.
Later that summer, another first late at night after everyone had gone, on the colorful bench just two animals back. She went to sit down, testing the strength with her hand before settling back in the sloped seat.
She'd told him about the baby here. He'd listened, and held her as she cried. Not long after, he'd gotten down on one knee in the middle of the night, a teddy bear in one hand and a ring in the other.
That was the last time she'd been in town. She'd wanted to call, to apologize, to try to make it right. But the part of her that thought he could have - should have - come after her kept her from dialing the phone. Pretty soon, too much time had passed, years slipping away in a whirlwind of diapers, first steps and birthday parties. Every day a reminder, every question about his father more insistent. Finally she'd called, hanging up when a woman answered the phone.
Steve was here, or so the attendees list had said. She would tell him tonight, give him the choice he should have had long ago.
With a sigh she rose, knowing it was time. Turning, she glanced into the mirror-lined control room of the carousel, and froze at the object propped up against the far wall, exactly where she'd thrown it that awful night. Could it be?
She went inside and picked up the dark fuzzy teddy bear, the blue ribbon still tied in a bow around his neck. Surely it couldn't be the same one, but she marveled at the simularities.
"I thought you'd come here. I know about our son."
She whirled around and there he was, older, more distinguished, but the same man, nonetheless. Leaning relaxed against the doorframe, he still took her breath away.
"I'm so sorry I didn't tell you sooner. He wants to know you." The words tumbled out quickly, and she cursed herself for sounding so desperate.
Steve walked toward her, stopping a little too close for comfort. "My sister told me you called. Or she thought it was your voice. Why did you hang up?"
"I didn't want to intrude on your life," she said, looking away. "It's been so long, and I know you probably—"
"Did you ever marry?"
The interruption shocked her, and she slowly shook her head. He grinned.
"Me either." He held out a hand. "Let's skip the reunion and get some dinner. You can tell me all about him."
She hesitated. "You're not mad?"
"I was angry for a long time. Years, actually. And I still want answers. But first, I want to see pictures. Do you have some?"
She nodded, placing her hand in his, the other holding the bear. They walked out of the park together, and spent the evening making the past disappear. In the dark hours of the morning, he dropped her off at her parent's house.
"I want to meet him, soon," he said, and her heart rejoiced.
"He's coming tomorrow. He wants to meet you too. He's been asking for years." She fought back the fear that her son would want to stay, choosing to be calm in the face of something that would change their lives forever. "Will you come to dinner?"
"I wouldn't miss it."
The next night, she stood on the front step with her son, waiting. She bit her bottom lip, worried that he wouldn't come. That somehow she'd misunderstood.
Then he came up the walk, holding the bear and a bouquet of white roses, handing both off to her before he embraced his son and brought tears to her eyes.
Later that night, after dinner and games and stories and hugs, he carried thier little man up to bed and tucked him in. When everyone else had retired and it was just the two of them on the couch, she finally told him why she'd decided to keep the baby after all.
Six months later, the three of them visited the carousel again.
This time, she said yes.
Enjoy
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January 27, 2012
Serial Novel: Falling in Public, Ch. 35
Ch.1|Ch. 2|Ch. 3|Ch. 4|Ch. 5|Ch. 6|Ch. 7|Ch. 8|Ch. 9|Ch. 10|Ch. 11|Ch. 12|Ch.13|Ch. 14|Ch. 15| Ch. 16| Ch. 17|Ch. 18| Ch. 19 | Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25 | Ch. 26 | Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 | Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 | Ch. 32 | Ch. 33 | Ch. 34 |
Falling in Public
Chapter 35
"I'm really not sure, Ms. Saunders," Eddie's driver said as he pulled away from the curb. He called me a few minutes ago and asked me to pull around to that door and wait for you. Should I call the police?"
Holly considered that as the car moved farther away from the terminal. "He didn't give you any other instructions? Didn't mention where we should meet him?"
The driver shook his head. "No ma'am." He took a sharp right turn, and Holly lost her balance, falling hard against the door. When she righted herself, her leg numb from the continued pain, she noted they were actually on the tarmac, heading fast toward a small, sleek jet.
"Eddie didn't really call you, did he." It wasn't a question. The sick feeling in her stomach grew stronger as they closed in on the jet. The driver shrugged.
"He did, actually. I merely...took liberties with the content of the call."
Holly glanced around, looking for anything she could possibly use as a weapon, but the car was immaculate. With the wheelchair in the trunk and her leg pretty much useless, it wasn't looking good. Two burly guys in suits were waiting as the car pulled to a stop, and one yanked the door open while the other reached for her. She thought about fighting, but decided to save her strength.
The brute pulled her out of the car and over his shoulder, her head hanging down his back as he anchored her with an arm around her legs. She cried out, but he didn't seem to care as he walked to the plane and climbed the stairs. By the time he lowered her to the ground, tears steamed down her face and she struggled to stand just inside the doorway on one leg.
"Move," he said, shoving at her shoulder. "Don't be a baby."
She couldn't keep her balance and fell, all of her weight on her wound. Bright lights filled her vision and she gasped, hearing voices all around but unable to make out what they were saying. Then it all faded away.
Pain was the first thing she noticed when Holly came to. Her leg, propped up on a seat across from where she was sitting alternately throbbed and burned. Someone had folded a once-white towel over the spot where she'd been shot. It was soaked with blood, and she felt faint just looking at it.
"Drink this."
An open can of orange juice was shoved into her hand, and she looked up, recoiling at the same big man who had shoved her over sitting so close. The can slipped from her fingers and juice splashed everywhere as it hit the floor of the plane. Just then, the aircraft bucked, sending the leaking can rolling across the small space. In an attempt not to throw up, Holly closed her eyes and grabbed both armrests, every muscle in her body rigid with the effort.
"You stupid bitch," the man beside her growled. Holly squeezed her eyes tighter, bracing for the blow she knew would come.
"Touch her, and I'll kill you myself, Nelson. Go get a mop."
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