Andrea Murray's Blog: Author of the Vivid Trilogy and Omni, page 17
July 24, 2012
Adult scenes in YA lit
How far is too far for an "adult encounter" (as my 9th graders call it) in a YA novel? I've read some YA novels that go way beyond what I'd want my teenager reading. I love Simone Elkeles, but some of her sex scenes get pretty graphic for YA fiction in my opinions. In the Perfect Chemistry series, the scenes seem to get progressively more intense, and the last one contained a scene in which the female character . . . well, let's just say she goes away happy.
Is that too far? I kind of think so, but then I wonder how many teens have read Fifty Shades. I had to confront this issue this week while working on a scene for my newest novel, Vengeance. I don't want to take it lightly because some teens, especially girls, will go away wanting to have that kind of closeness with a boy, and I would not want some girl to end up emotionally damaged because she did something she might regret later.
Whatcha think?
Is that too far? I kind of think so, but then I wonder how many teens have read Fifty Shades. I had to confront this issue this week while working on a scene for my newest novel, Vengeance. I don't want to take it lightly because some teens, especially girls, will go away wanting to have that kind of closeness with a boy, and I would not want some girl to end up emotionally damaged because she did something she might regret later.
Whatcha think?
June 26, 2012
A sample from Vengeance
Chapter One
His soft, full lips press against mine, sweet from the chocolate he’s just eaten. I inhale his warm breathe and feel his heartbeat against my hand. The fast rhythm matches my own. One hand rests against my neck, fingertips brushing my hair. The other slides down my arm, caressing my wrist, before slipping to my waist and under the hem of my t-shirt. When his hand slides up my stomach, he deepens our kiss. My palm glows bright blue as I grip his broad shoulders. His teeth nip my bottom lip before his mouth slides across my jaw then down my neck. Rough fingertips caress my ribs.
“Vivian,” his voice whispers against my ear.
I jerk upright in the seat, still breathing heavily.
“What is it, Vivian? Did you have a vision?” Easton’s worried expression sends a wave of guilt crashing over me. He leans close and takes my face in his hands. “Hey, you okay? Say something, babe.”
I shake my head slightly. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re shaking,” he says, running his hands up and down my arms.
“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” I try to smile, but it refuses to appear genuine. I glance across the darkened aisle of the bus where Wyck sits wadding the wrapper from a candy bar. He licks his fingertips then smiles roguishly. Even in the dim lights from passing cars and the streetlights along this section of interstate, I can still see the wink he tosses me before he turns stretches his legs across the seat beside him. Since the five of us are the only passengers, there is ample room on the bus, but Wyck, being his usual trouble-loving self, chose to sit directly across from Easton and me. He rests his head against the window behind him; the smile’s been replaced with a total alpha-male smirk.
Damn him! If he hadn’t saved my life a week ago, I would wipe that look right off his face. But I know I owe him, and I’ve promised him my help in finding his mother. So, for now anyway, all I can do is endure his little fantasies and try to keep Easton from killing him in the process. When I’m awake, keeping him out of my head is easy. Sleeping—that’s a different matter. He reminds me on a regular basis that I must enjoy his ‘rendezvous’ (his word, not mine) or else he couldn’t get into my head even then, and I keep trying to reassure Easton that’s not true, a complete fabrication of Wyck’s devious mind, but sometimes I wonder if I’m just trying to reassure myself. I have to admit if anyone is going to force dreams into my head, Wyck’s are not entirely . . . unpleasant.
I drop my gaze but not before Easton catches the direction of my glance.
“He did it again, didn’t he?” He breathes in deeply, his jaw clenching from the grinding of his teeth. . .
His soft, full lips press against mine, sweet from the chocolate he’s just eaten. I inhale his warm breathe and feel his heartbeat against my hand. The fast rhythm matches my own. One hand rests against my neck, fingertips brushing my hair. The other slides down my arm, caressing my wrist, before slipping to my waist and under the hem of my t-shirt. When his hand slides up my stomach, he deepens our kiss. My palm glows bright blue as I grip his broad shoulders. His teeth nip my bottom lip before his mouth slides across my jaw then down my neck. Rough fingertips caress my ribs.
“Vivian,” his voice whispers against my ear.
I jerk upright in the seat, still breathing heavily.
“What is it, Vivian? Did you have a vision?” Easton’s worried expression sends a wave of guilt crashing over me. He leans close and takes my face in his hands. “Hey, you okay? Say something, babe.”
I shake my head slightly. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re shaking,” he says, running his hands up and down my arms.
“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” I try to smile, but it refuses to appear genuine. I glance across the darkened aisle of the bus where Wyck sits wadding the wrapper from a candy bar. He licks his fingertips then smiles roguishly. Even in the dim lights from passing cars and the streetlights along this section of interstate, I can still see the wink he tosses me before he turns stretches his legs across the seat beside him. Since the five of us are the only passengers, there is ample room on the bus, but Wyck, being his usual trouble-loving self, chose to sit directly across from Easton and me. He rests his head against the window behind him; the smile’s been replaced with a total alpha-male smirk.
Damn him! If he hadn’t saved my life a week ago, I would wipe that look right off his face. But I know I owe him, and I’ve promised him my help in finding his mother. So, for now anyway, all I can do is endure his little fantasies and try to keep Easton from killing him in the process. When I’m awake, keeping him out of my head is easy. Sleeping—that’s a different matter. He reminds me on a regular basis that I must enjoy his ‘rendezvous’ (his word, not mine) or else he couldn’t get into my head even then, and I keep trying to reassure Easton that’s not true, a complete fabrication of Wyck’s devious mind, but sometimes I wonder if I’m just trying to reassure myself. I have to admit if anyone is going to force dreams into my head, Wyck’s are not entirely . . . unpleasant.
I drop my gaze but not before Easton catches the direction of my glance.
“He did it again, didn’t he?” He breathes in deeply, his jaw clenching from the grinding of his teeth. . .
A sample from Vengeance
Chapter One
His soft, full lips press against mine, sweet from the chocolate he’s just eaten. I inhale his warm breathe and feel his heartbeat against my hand. The fast rhythm matches my own. One hand rests against my neck, fingertips brushing my hair. The other slides down my arm, caressing my wrist, before slipping to my waist and under the hem of my t-shirt. When his hand slides up my stomach, he deepens our kiss. My palm glows bright blue as I grip his broad shoulders. His teeth nip my bottom lip before his mouth slides across my jaw then down my neck. Rough fingertips caress my ribs.
“Vivian,” his voice whispers against my ear.
I jerk upright in the seat, still breathing heavily.
“What is it, Vivian? Did you have a vision?” Easton’s worried expression sends a wave of guilt crashing over me. He leans close and takes my face in his hands. “Hey, you okay? Say something, babe.”
I shake my head slightly. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re shaking,” he says, running his hands up and down my arms.
“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” I try to smile, but it refuses to appear genuine. I glance across the darkened aisle of the bus where Wyck sits wadding the wrapper from a candy bar. He licks his fingertips then smiles roguishly. Even in the dim lights from passing cars and the streetlights along this section of interstate, I can still see the wink he tosses me before he turns stretches his legs across the seat beside him. Since the five of us are the only passengers, there is ample room on the bus, but Wyck, being his usual trouble-loving self, chose to sit directly across from Easton and me. He rests his head against the window behind him; the smile’s been replaced with a total alpha-male smirk.
Damn him! If he hadn’t saved my life a week ago, I would wipe that look right off his face. But I know I owe him, and I’ve promised him my help in finding his mother. So, for now anyway, all I can do is endure his little fantasies and try to keep Easton from killing him in the process. When I’m awake, keeping him out of my head is easy. Sleeping—that’s a different matter. He reminds me on a regular basis that I must enjoy his ‘rendezvous’ (his word, not mine) or else he couldn’t get into my head even then, and I keep trying to reassure Easton that’s not true, a complete fabrication of Wyck’s devious mind, but sometimes I wonder if I’m just trying to reassure myself. I have to admit if anyone is going to force dreams into my head, Wyck’s are not entirely . . . unpleasant.
I drop my gaze but not before Easton catches the direction of my glance.
“He did it again, didn’t he?” He breathes in deeply, his jaw clenching from the grinding of his teeth. . .
His soft, full lips press against mine, sweet from the chocolate he’s just eaten. I inhale his warm breathe and feel his heartbeat against my hand. The fast rhythm matches my own. One hand rests against my neck, fingertips brushing my hair. The other slides down my arm, caressing my wrist, before slipping to my waist and under the hem of my t-shirt. When his hand slides up my stomach, he deepens our kiss. My palm glows bright blue as I grip his broad shoulders. His teeth nip my bottom lip before his mouth slides across my jaw then down my neck. Rough fingertips caress my ribs.
“Vivian,” his voice whispers against my ear.
I jerk upright in the seat, still breathing heavily.
“What is it, Vivian? Did you have a vision?” Easton’s worried expression sends a wave of guilt crashing over me. He leans close and takes my face in his hands. “Hey, you okay? Say something, babe.”
I shake my head slightly. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re shaking,” he says, running his hands up and down my arms.
“It’s nothing. Just a bad dream,” I try to smile, but it refuses to appear genuine. I glance across the darkened aisle of the bus where Wyck sits wadding the wrapper from a candy bar. He licks his fingertips then smiles roguishly. Even in the dim lights from passing cars and the streetlights along this section of interstate, I can still see the wink he tosses me before he turns stretches his legs across the seat beside him. Since the five of us are the only passengers, there is ample room on the bus, but Wyck, being his usual trouble-loving self, chose to sit directly across from Easton and me. He rests his head against the window behind him; the smile’s been replaced with a total alpha-male smirk.
Damn him! If he hadn’t saved my life a week ago, I would wipe that look right off his face. But I know I owe him, and I’ve promised him my help in finding his mother. So, for now anyway, all I can do is endure his little fantasies and try to keep Easton from killing him in the process. When I’m awake, keeping him out of my head is easy. Sleeping—that’s a different matter. He reminds me on a regular basis that I must enjoy his ‘rendezvous’ (his word, not mine) or else he couldn’t get into my head even then, and I keep trying to reassure Easton that’s not true, a complete fabrication of Wyck’s devious mind, but sometimes I wonder if I’m just trying to reassure myself. I have to admit if anyone is going to force dreams into my head, Wyck’s are not entirely . . . unpleasant.
I drop my gaze but not before Easton catches the direction of my glance.
“He did it again, didn’t he?” He breathes in deeply, his jaw clenching from the grinding of his teeth. . .
June 20, 2012
Poetry???
So, I started my 3rd novel in the Vivid Trilogy, but I'm toying around with interlacing some freeverse chapters from a character other than Vivian.
Any opinions?
Any opinions?
June 12, 2012
Ready to Write!
I am soooooo ready to actually begin the writing process for book 3 (Vengeance). I have my ideas outlined and have taken notes, but I just haven't had time. I ordered an amazing new laptop a few days ago, and I'm super-excited to get it so that I can have a reliable computer again! (Mine crashed last November and hasn't been the same since then.)
I've been pleased with my Goodreads advertising campaign and have been thinking about doing a Kindle campaign, too. If you are an author and thinking about doing a Goodreads campaign, I would totally recommend it. It's easy, inexpensive, and pretty effective. Contact me if you want. I would be glad to email or message you about it.
I've been pleased with my Goodreads advertising campaign and have been thinking about doing a Kindle campaign, too. If you are an author and thinking about doing a Goodreads campaign, I would totally recommend it. It's easy, inexpensive, and pretty effective. Contact me if you want. I would be glad to email or message you about it.
May 11, 2012
Blog Tour
Well, I'm on stop three of my blog tour (Chick Lit Blog Tour). It's going well so far. I've gotten some good reviews.
In the real world, my daughter had her tonsils and adenoids removed yesterday. She is loving the popsicles but really wants to eat solid stuff already. She's not really an ice cream kind of gal.
So, I need to start outlining book three. . .hmmm. . . .
In the real world, my daughter had her tonsils and adenoids removed yesterday. She is loving the popsicles but really wants to eat solid stuff already. She's not really an ice cream kind of gal.
So, I need to start outlining book three. . .hmmm. . . .
April 22, 2012
Vicious (Book 2 of the Vivid Trilogy)
I just epublished my second novel, Vicious. It is the sequel to Vivid (second in the trilogy). I am super-excited about it!
Ya know, I thought I loved Vivid, but if I compare it to the new one, I've got to admit, I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE Vicious! I did a lot of planning this time--made so many outlines, I nearly drowned in paper!
My blog tour for Vivid begins soon, too. It's been really difficult finding the time to complete the second novel, but it feels worth it right now.
Ya know, I thought I loved Vivid, but if I compare it to the new one, I've got to admit, I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE Vicious! I did a lot of planning this time--made so many outlines, I nearly drowned in paper!
My blog tour for Vivid begins soon, too. It's been really difficult finding the time to complete the second novel, but it feels worth it right now.
March 12, 2012
Chapter Two Book 2
Chapter Two
Getting up this morning was torture after lying awake most of the night. The alarm sounded like a tornado siren, but a shower always makes me feel less comatose. Auburn hair pulled back, blue uniform zipped, tennis shoes on, I lock the door behind me and walk the half-mile to the diner where five semis are parked nearby.
“There’s my star waitress!” Mr. Lewis’s voice, gravelly from forty years of smoking, booms from behind the counter where two men sip coffee. “The sun is shining, and business is good!” He says that same thing every morning, rain, shine, customers or not. He’s the happiest man I’ve ever met, and I think I’ll actually miss him when I leave here. Of course, that might be a while since I’m making decent money despite the lack of life in this town. Mr. Lewis’s diner does well since it is the only stop along this deserted stretch of highway.
“Morning, sir,” I reply, smiling and nodding to the two men at the counter. “I guess Julie’s not here yet. Should I start filling the shakers?” I ask, tying an apron with only a few stains around my waist.
“Julie’s gonna be late, honey,” he says, patting my back. “Think you can handle it awhile all alone?” He doesn’t wait for my reply, already knowing my answer, and starts through the swinging door to the kitchen. “Alejandro is sick—least that’s what he says—so I’ll be manning the grill today. I think he doesn’t want to sort through the supply shipment I got last night. He’s sleepin’ in the back room.”
Connected to the diner is a small storage area where, between toilet paper rolls and stacks of industrial-size ketchup bottles, stands an old army cot. I slept there a couple of nights when I first arrived in town. I’d coasted in about 2:00 am on fumes and spent my last $2 on a bowl of chili and a glass of tea. Lucky for me, Mr. Lewis was working alone that morning. He offered me a slice of apple pie, and I burst into sobs. I guess he knew a stray when he saw one because he offered me the cot then a temporary job. Julie’s sister, Gwen, one of the other waitresses had started her maternity leave the day before I arrived, so my timing was perfect. That’s the only thing about these last three months that has actually been easy.
When the morning sun begins to peek in the front windows, the truckers start to wander in for breakfast, and my shift officially begins with an order of ham and eggs from a big, bearded man. By noon, my feet ache. Customers have steadily streamed in all morning, and for a Thursday, we are really busy. Thankfully, I haven’t had time to think about my family or feel sorry for myself, and I already have $30 in tips.
“Vivian, I’m so sorry!” Julie yells, rushing past me, throwing her purse behind the counter and tying on her apron. “Joey got called in to work an extra shift, and I didn’t have a sitter till Gwen got back from the doctor.” She grabs an order pad and tucks it into her apron front. “He couldn’t not go. We really need the money, and he makes double what I do, so . . . I’m late,” she rambles while she looks for a pencil.
“That’s okay, not a problem,” I assure her and point to a table of three who need to place their order while I deliver a grilled cheese and fries to a man at the counter. Grabbing the pencil stub from behind my ear, I move on to a table near the side window where an old guy in an oil-stained cap is sitting.
“I want a steak, medium rare—not well done and not totally rare. But I better see blood when I cut into it, or you’ll be getting it right back, girlie.” He scowls at me while I smile sweetly. I really want to tell him where he can shove that medium rare—not well done—steak, but I need those tips even if it means being nice to grouchy, dirty jerks. “And sweet tea. You know what that is means, girlie? Sweet, as in real sugar, none of that fake crap!”
“Is that all?” I’m scribbling the order and marking it ‘rush’ so that we can get this guy out of here quickly when I feel a tingle trip down my spine. The hairs on my arms stand up. I’ve felt that tingle before. Then it thrilled me; now it scares the hell out of me. I slowly lift my head to look out the window, knowing already what I’m going to see.
The sun glares off the windshield of an SUV, obscuring the faces within. The driver’s door opens and strong fingers grasp the top of the door as he swings his long legs out. The tingle is so strong now it borders on painful. As the door closes, I see his face, aqua eyes clear even at this distance. Easton is walking toward the diner.
Getting up this morning was torture after lying awake most of the night. The alarm sounded like a tornado siren, but a shower always makes me feel less comatose. Auburn hair pulled back, blue uniform zipped, tennis shoes on, I lock the door behind me and walk the half-mile to the diner where five semis are parked nearby.
“There’s my star waitress!” Mr. Lewis’s voice, gravelly from forty years of smoking, booms from behind the counter where two men sip coffee. “The sun is shining, and business is good!” He says that same thing every morning, rain, shine, customers or not. He’s the happiest man I’ve ever met, and I think I’ll actually miss him when I leave here. Of course, that might be a while since I’m making decent money despite the lack of life in this town. Mr. Lewis’s diner does well since it is the only stop along this deserted stretch of highway.
“Morning, sir,” I reply, smiling and nodding to the two men at the counter. “I guess Julie’s not here yet. Should I start filling the shakers?” I ask, tying an apron with only a few stains around my waist.
“Julie’s gonna be late, honey,” he says, patting my back. “Think you can handle it awhile all alone?” He doesn’t wait for my reply, already knowing my answer, and starts through the swinging door to the kitchen. “Alejandro is sick—least that’s what he says—so I’ll be manning the grill today. I think he doesn’t want to sort through the supply shipment I got last night. He’s sleepin’ in the back room.”
Connected to the diner is a small storage area where, between toilet paper rolls and stacks of industrial-size ketchup bottles, stands an old army cot. I slept there a couple of nights when I first arrived in town. I’d coasted in about 2:00 am on fumes and spent my last $2 on a bowl of chili and a glass of tea. Lucky for me, Mr. Lewis was working alone that morning. He offered me a slice of apple pie, and I burst into sobs. I guess he knew a stray when he saw one because he offered me the cot then a temporary job. Julie’s sister, Gwen, one of the other waitresses had started her maternity leave the day before I arrived, so my timing was perfect. That’s the only thing about these last three months that has actually been easy.
When the morning sun begins to peek in the front windows, the truckers start to wander in for breakfast, and my shift officially begins with an order of ham and eggs from a big, bearded man. By noon, my feet ache. Customers have steadily streamed in all morning, and for a Thursday, we are really busy. Thankfully, I haven’t had time to think about my family or feel sorry for myself, and I already have $30 in tips.
“Vivian, I’m so sorry!” Julie yells, rushing past me, throwing her purse behind the counter and tying on her apron. “Joey got called in to work an extra shift, and I didn’t have a sitter till Gwen got back from the doctor.” She grabs an order pad and tucks it into her apron front. “He couldn’t not go. We really need the money, and he makes double what I do, so . . . I’m late,” she rambles while she looks for a pencil.
“That’s okay, not a problem,” I assure her and point to a table of three who need to place their order while I deliver a grilled cheese and fries to a man at the counter. Grabbing the pencil stub from behind my ear, I move on to a table near the side window where an old guy in an oil-stained cap is sitting.
“I want a steak, medium rare—not well done and not totally rare. But I better see blood when I cut into it, or you’ll be getting it right back, girlie.” He scowls at me while I smile sweetly. I really want to tell him where he can shove that medium rare—not well done—steak, but I need those tips even if it means being nice to grouchy, dirty jerks. “And sweet tea. You know what that is means, girlie? Sweet, as in real sugar, none of that fake crap!”
“Is that all?” I’m scribbling the order and marking it ‘rush’ so that we can get this guy out of here quickly when I feel a tingle trip down my spine. The hairs on my arms stand up. I’ve felt that tingle before. Then it thrilled me; now it scares the hell out of me. I slowly lift my head to look out the window, knowing already what I’m going to see.
The sun glares off the windshield of an SUV, obscuring the faces within. The driver’s door opens and strong fingers grasp the top of the door as he swings his long legs out. The tingle is so strong now it borders on painful. As the door closes, I see his face, aqua eyes clear even at this distance. Easton is walking toward the diner.
February 25, 2012
Prologue to book 2
The flame of a tallow candle sputtered below the rim of the pewter candleholder, casting eerie shadows beyond the narrow circle of light it afforded. Shuffling in the darkness and shivering in her threadbare nightshift, the girl knelt and poked at the dying embers in the hearth. Outside, lightning momentarily lit the sky and the kitchen while thunder near rattled her already chattering teeth. Wind whistled around the edges of the door leading into the storm and whipped the branches of the budding oak tree outside the window.
“Curse this weather!” she grumbled to herself while she added a log to the fire then filled the heavy teakettle from a bucket near the fireplace. “Curse this hour!” Her grandmother used to say that during the witching time of night evil women worked their magic and ghouls sought the souls of the unborn. She unconsciously rubbed her rounded belly where her shift stretched tightly and crouched in front of the crackling fire. Her babe, her firstborn, would arrive by the next full moon she felt sure of it.
She prayed for a boy—a son, even an illegitimate one—would be valued, maybe even loved. She should never have traveled to this godforsaken colony, but her father had given her no choice, indenturing her for four years to help reconcile his debts to a nobleman most considered insane, and when that nobleman packed his household for the colonies, she’d left her life, left England, and sailed to Jamestown. Grown and nearing the end of her servitude now, she wanted nothing more than to find some cottage and to live life for herself and her child.
Her fingers worried the ends of her long brown braid as she thought of her freedom. Mayhap Robert would leave with her. She knew his father, Lord St. Clair, would never agree to his only son marrying a servant little better than a slave, but Robert loved her. He would do right by her and the babe. She had to believe that. Robert didn’t even know about their child since he’d left for England before she realized she carried, but when he returned, he’d set all to rights.
A boom of thunder made her gasp and jump; a shiver that had nothing to do with the chilly room raced along her spine and raised the hair on her arms. She rubbed the ache in her lower back that had kept her awake. The sturdy ladder-back chair stood within reach, and she used it to push and pull herself awkwardly to her feet.
“Now, where did I put that cup?” She spoke aloud to the babe who kicked a reply as she lifted the candle to find the cup she’d already filled with the special tea blend the strange, old midwife had given her. Goody Smythe lived on the outskirts of Jamestown, nearly in the forest, and was feared by most of the respectable women in the settlement, but she was also the only midwife who would speak to an unmarried, indentured serving girl. Witch or no, for two months now, Goody Smythe’s brew had eased her aches and somehow given her the energy she needed to stay on her feet and fulfill the grueling daily duties heaped upon her by Goody Crowe, the head of the household staff. Today, she had scoured the pewter dishes now gleaming in a hutch near the door to the servants’ quarter.
Goody Crowe ruled the house servants with an iron fist in the absence of a proper mistress, Lord St. Clair having lost his wife two winters past. No excuses from work would be given to an unmarried servant girl with child, and she’d asked for none but rather counted herself lucky that she’d not been turned out when her growing child could no longer be concealed. Her master had been so busy with his work of late that she doubted he’d even noticed. He had never asked her about the child’s father, but she would not have told him she carried his grandchild anyway. That was for Robert to do.
“There you are!” Picking up the cup in her other hand, she turned back to the kettle that must surely be warm by now. Grabbing the towel from the scarred work table, she gingerly pulled the kettle hook toward her and lifted the heavy kettle. She breathed in the pungent steam as she filled the cup to its rim then lifted it to her mouth. The familiar burn in her throat soon gave way to warmth that spread throughout her muscles and eased her aches.
Raising the cup in a mock toast, she said, “Thank you, Goody Smythe.” She smiled and rubbed her swollen abdomen. “Robert will return, and all will be well, little one.”
In answer, the clouds let loose a rumble. As a flash brighter than all the others drew her attention to the window, a searing pain ripped through her.
“Curse this weather!” she grumbled to herself while she added a log to the fire then filled the heavy teakettle from a bucket near the fireplace. “Curse this hour!” Her grandmother used to say that during the witching time of night evil women worked their magic and ghouls sought the souls of the unborn. She unconsciously rubbed her rounded belly where her shift stretched tightly and crouched in front of the crackling fire. Her babe, her firstborn, would arrive by the next full moon she felt sure of it.
She prayed for a boy—a son, even an illegitimate one—would be valued, maybe even loved. She should never have traveled to this godforsaken colony, but her father had given her no choice, indenturing her for four years to help reconcile his debts to a nobleman most considered insane, and when that nobleman packed his household for the colonies, she’d left her life, left England, and sailed to Jamestown. Grown and nearing the end of her servitude now, she wanted nothing more than to find some cottage and to live life for herself and her child.
Her fingers worried the ends of her long brown braid as she thought of her freedom. Mayhap Robert would leave with her. She knew his father, Lord St. Clair, would never agree to his only son marrying a servant little better than a slave, but Robert loved her. He would do right by her and the babe. She had to believe that. Robert didn’t even know about their child since he’d left for England before she realized she carried, but when he returned, he’d set all to rights.
A boom of thunder made her gasp and jump; a shiver that had nothing to do with the chilly room raced along her spine and raised the hair on her arms. She rubbed the ache in her lower back that had kept her awake. The sturdy ladder-back chair stood within reach, and she used it to push and pull herself awkwardly to her feet.
“Now, where did I put that cup?” She spoke aloud to the babe who kicked a reply as she lifted the candle to find the cup she’d already filled with the special tea blend the strange, old midwife had given her. Goody Smythe lived on the outskirts of Jamestown, nearly in the forest, and was feared by most of the respectable women in the settlement, but she was also the only midwife who would speak to an unmarried, indentured serving girl. Witch or no, for two months now, Goody Smythe’s brew had eased her aches and somehow given her the energy she needed to stay on her feet and fulfill the grueling daily duties heaped upon her by Goody Crowe, the head of the household staff. Today, she had scoured the pewter dishes now gleaming in a hutch near the door to the servants’ quarter.
Goody Crowe ruled the house servants with an iron fist in the absence of a proper mistress, Lord St. Clair having lost his wife two winters past. No excuses from work would be given to an unmarried servant girl with child, and she’d asked for none but rather counted herself lucky that she’d not been turned out when her growing child could no longer be concealed. Her master had been so busy with his work of late that she doubted he’d even noticed. He had never asked her about the child’s father, but she would not have told him she carried his grandchild anyway. That was for Robert to do.
“There you are!” Picking up the cup in her other hand, she turned back to the kettle that must surely be warm by now. Grabbing the towel from the scarred work table, she gingerly pulled the kettle hook toward her and lifted the heavy kettle. She breathed in the pungent steam as she filled the cup to its rim then lifted it to her mouth. The familiar burn in her throat soon gave way to warmth that spread throughout her muscles and eased her aches.
Raising the cup in a mock toast, she said, “Thank you, Goody Smythe.” She smiled and rubbed her swollen abdomen. “Robert will return, and all will be well, little one.”
In answer, the clouds let loose a rumble. As a flash brighter than all the others drew her attention to the window, a searing pain ripped through her.
February 11, 2012
It's not a block. It's a detour.
I refuse to say I have writer's block, but I definitely have writer's detour. I am 16 chapters into my sequel, and I am a little stuck. I know where I want to go; I just don't know how to get there from here.
I need inspiration. Anybody have some advice?????
I need inspiration. Anybody have some advice?????
