Julia Jean's Blog

Writing by Julia Jean

Dear Readers,

You can check out my work in progress or my short stories on Wattpad for free. Comments are always welcome.


http://www.wattpad.com/story/18169955...

social media puzzle

I am not what they call a technology native. Navigating the IPAD and social media sites is not intuitive for me. I literally just starting texting this year, so I was rather horrified when I realized that if I was going to self-promote my book, I was going to have to figure this all out and FAST.

So, with the help of my husband and my children who are technology natives, I created a Facebook page and a Twitter account and began trying to use my blog here on Goodreads. But truthfully, I just don't get it. I am a married school teacher with three kids and, frankly, my life isn't all that exciting. That is why I create fiction.

I have realized that the reason, I never jumped on the Facebook bandwagon before, is simply because I am not a public person.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a hermit by any means. I enjoy meeting new people and talking to my friends, but I prefer hearing their voices on the phone or seeing them face-to-face with a good cup of coffee or a glass of wine.

I know many argue, that Facebook connects people who have distance separating them, but I wonder if it really brings people together or is it just a band aid for the world's lack of connection?

I'm open minded and exploring the social media world but I'm not sure I'm sold.

Blink Free Promo

If you haven't gotten a copy of my debut novel, Blink, check it out tomorrow on Amazon Kindle when it is FREE! Promotion lasts until Thursday, August 8th.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DPN1RXS

Excerpt from Current Work in Progress

Dear Friends,
Below is an excerpt from my current work in progress, Currents. I welcome your thoughts and comments. If you like my work, please tell friends.

I stare at my cell phone clenched in my hand. It twitters as another message appears. I don’t need to see what it says because the messages from Sophie are the same as they were yesterday and the yesterday before that. Need to talk. Callee. Know YR there.
I won’t. I can’t. There is nothing I can say to her. I toss the phone on my bed; it lands without a sound, and I trace my fingers over the sequined pillow and contemplate sleep. I want to bury myself under my comforter, cocoon, smother myself in my chrysalis of sadness and never emerge. It would be so easy to do, to stay her forever. But, instead, I snag my IPOD, crank the volume, take a deep breath and say to myself DEE –COM- PRESS. Just like that, nice and slow. I even say the words out loud and work my mouth in an exaggerated way because, surely, this will make it actually happen: DEEEE- COM- PRESS. Then I hit the floor for some sit ups.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale… Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. When I get to fifty, I flip over for push-ups. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. I want my arms to throb and my stomach to burn. I want every muscle, every tendon to scream. The thought of needing ice and heat later, makes me smile. Sweat begins to trickle down my chin and neck, and my t-shirt sticks to my back. I know I’ll be peeling my sports bra and t-shirt off later like a wet swim suit. This makes me smile too. A good workout shouldn’t feel good. It should be smelly and inconvenient. It should hurt like hell.
I push my breath out and can hear Dee’s voice, “You push too hard.” I pause as I descend and my arms begin to quiver. I shake out the sound of her voice in my head and grunt; Dee is gone so why do I hear her voice all the time? I push myself up and down. Two, three, four more times. “You’re kind of scary when you get like that,” she says and I see her sitting on my bed, legs crisscrossed pretzel style. “You don’t understand,” I say to Dee “Sometimes I just need to push myself more. My exercising, how much I exert myself, these are parts of my life I can control.”
“You can’t control everything,” she retorts. I wince at her words. No, not everything, I think. But my body, yes.
I push myself harder. I flip over for crunches. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. My stomach is beginning to burn so I do more crunches. I burn more. I crunch faster, little pulses with my legs up and my arms out straight. Sit ups with my legs flat on the floor. Squats. Lunges. More push ups. Hands turned in. Hands straight. Wisps of my hair fall into my face and stick to my cheek. More short breaths. Each short breath takes me farther and farther away from the day Dee disappeared... Away from the things I couldn’t control.
“Don’t go there,” Dee’s voice cracks. I look up towards the bed, and she’s gone. I’ve pushed her away again.
Then, inevitably, I’m pulled back, and I get that tingling sensation. I shudder, not an ice-cream, brain-freeze kind of shudder, but a whole body, deep down, in my the marrow of my bones, in deepest part of my soul, burning, shudder because I know, if I feel her presence this intensely, this painfully, if I see her so clearly, than she is no longer with us. I concentrate on my breath and the fiery burn in my arms and belly, so I won’t think about anything else. But the burn ... it’s still not enough. I want to feel … something more, so I push harder. I throw on a sweatshirt, lace up my running shoes and thunder down the stairs.
“Callee,” I hear my mother yell after me as I dash out the front door. “What about sweatpants? It's freezing out!”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I yell back even though it's a total lie. I haven't been fine in weeks. I’m stuck in that place --- that hating, self-loathing, nothing-I-can-do-will-make-me-feel-better place. Dee calls it my “funk,” and she’s the only one who can kick my sorry ass out of it. It’s totally ironic that Dee, Queen of Quietness, happens to be the ass-kicker here. But she is. And I guess that’s just what BFF’s do – they take care of each other. Except now Dee isn’t here, and I’ve been in my “funk” ever since. And, even though I know this “funk” is probably gonna kill me, I can’t climb out of it. I don’t even know if I want to.
Outside is brutal, icy, cold but it doesn’t stop me from running through the November rain, splashing and cracking my way through nearly frozen puddles, soaking my socks, shoes and bare legs. The cold water pricks my legs, my wet hair sticks to my face and water drips from my bangs into my eyes, but the cold -- it's nothing. I feel nothing, when I’m in my funk. I am nothing. I am a hollow empty body. For a brief moment, out of the corner of my eye, I see her running next to me, her hair streaming behind her. I feel blood rush to my face… excitement at the thought of Dee running beside me, just as we always did before… I shake my head. I am freaking losing my mind. There is no Dee, only gray and drizzle and tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. I blink them away and continue to run. Nothing can stop me.
I run until my wet feet blister and my body … my fingers, nose, everything, is numb, and hours have passed. I run until the charge in my IPOD has drained, and there's only the squelch of my sneakers on the wet pavement. Slap. Squelch. Slap. Squelch. I keep running, even when the cold begins to seep into my chest and settle there. I run until my father drives up alongside me, rolls down the car window and asks, then commands me to get into “the damn car before I freeze to death.” And, only then, sinking into the seat, the warmth from the car enveloping me, do I rest.
“My God, Callee! Where have you been? Your mom called frantic and sent me out here to look for you,” he says. “You can’t just take off like that. I bite my lip to keep from saying, “Why not, Dad? You did,” but I wasn’t looking to fight with him tonight. Our relationship was on the mend, and I wanted to keep it that way. My father doesn’t hammer the point home like he normally does in his, authoritative-sit-up and listen tone, instead he voice takes on a softer tone, one that I haven’t heard in a long time. "We're doing everything we can, Callee Cat," he sighs and pats my knee, and I bridle at the sound of his term of endearment. I haven’t been his “Callee Cat” in years, not since we were together as a family, not since the days when he was my own personal super hero in his police uniform. He couldn’t win my love back by stirring up old memories with tired words. It wasn’t that easy. Based on my experience, everyone lies including those closest to you.
Yet, despite my anger at my father’s feeble attempts to treat me like I was eight, I have to believe him because I want to believe him so damn badly it hurts, and he wants me to believe him because that’s his job, to make people believe he can protect them. And, really, what else is there for me to do, but believe? Because if I stop believing and hoping then what kind of friend am I?
They're still looking for Dee. They'll find her. My dad will find her.
Sensation returns to my toes, with sudden sharp pricks. I nudge my shoes off with the opposite heels, and then, reluctantly, draw my feet up, peel my wet socks off to reveal my pruned feet and a nail clinging to the inside of my sock. Blood is everywhere.
"Callee, is that blood?" My dad asks.
"It's nothing, Dad," I say and, even though it hurts like hell, I smile for the first time in three weeks.






I stare at my cell phone clenched in my hand. It twitters as another message appears. I don’t need to see what it says because the messages from Sophie are the same as they were yesterday and the yesterday before that. Need to talk. Callee. Know YR there.
I won’t. I can’t. There is nothing I can say to her. I toss the phone on my bed; it lands without a sound, and I trace my fingers over the sequined pillow and contemplate sleep. I want to bury myself under my comforter, cocoon, smother myself in my chrysalis of sadness and never emerge. It would be so easy to do, to stay her forever. But, instead, I snag my IPOD, crank the volume, take a deep breath and say to myself DEE –COM- PRESS. Just like that, nice and slow. I even say the words out loud and work my mouth in an exaggerated way because, surely, this will make it actually happen: DEEEE- COM- PRESS. Then I hit the floor for some sit ups.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale… Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. When I get to fifty, I flip over for push-ups. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. I want my arms to throb and my stomach to burn. I want every muscle, every tendon to scream. The thought of needing ice and heat later, makes me smile. Sweat begins to trickle down my chin and neck, and my t-shirt sticks to my back. I know I’ll be peeling my sports bra and t-shirt off later like a wet swim suit. This makes me smile too. A good workout shouldn’t feel good. It should be smelly and inconvenient. It should hurt like hell.
I push my breath out and can hear Dee’s voice, “You push too hard.” I pause as I descend and my arms begin to quiver. I shake out the sound of her voice in my head and grunt; Dee is gone so why do I hear her voice all the time? I push myself up and down. Two, three, four more times. “You’re kind of scary when you get like that,” she says and I see her sitting on my bed, legs crisscrossed pretzel style. “You don’t understand,” I say to Dee “Sometimes I just need to push myself more. My exercising, how much I exert myself, these are parts of my life I can control.”
“You can’t control everything,” she retorts. I wince at her words. No, not everything, I think. But my body, yes.
I push myself harder. I flip over for crunches. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. My stomach is beginning to burn so I do more crunches. I burn more. I crunch faster, little pulses with my legs up and my arms out straight. Sit ups with my legs flat on the floor. Squats. Lunges. More push ups. Hands turned in. Hands straight. Wisps of my hair fall into my face and stick to my cheek. More short breaths. Each short breath takes me farther and farther away from the day Dee disappeared... Away from the things I couldn’t control.
“Don’t go there,” Dee’s voice cracks. I look up towards the bed, and she’s gone. I’ve pushed her away again.
Then, inevitably, I’m pulled back, and I get that tingling sensation. I shudder, not an ice-cream, brain-freeze kind of shudder, but a whole body, deep down, in my the marrow of my bones, in deepest part of my soul, burning, shudder because I know, if I feel her presence this intensely, this painfully, if I see her so clearly, than she is no longer with us. I concentrate on my breath and the fiery burn in my arms and belly, so I won’t think about anything else. But the burn ... it’s still not enough. I want to feel … something more, so I push harder. I throw on a sweatshirt, lace up my running shoes and thunder down the stairs.
“Callee,” I hear my mother yell after me as I dash out the front door. “What about sweatpants? It's freezing out!”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I yell back even though it's a total lie. I haven't been fine in weeks. I’m stuck in that place --- that hating, self-loathing, nothing-I-can-do-will-make-me-feel-better place. Dee calls it my “funk,” and she’s the only one who can kick my sorry ass out of it. It’s totally ironic that Dee, Queen of Quietness, happens to be the ass-kicker here. But she is. And I guess that’s just what BFF’s do – they take care of each other. Except now Dee isn’t here, and I’ve been in my “funk” ever since. And, even though I know this “funk” is probably gonna kill me, I can’t climb out of it. I don’t even know if I want to.
Outside is brutal, icy, cold but it doesn’t stop me from running through the November rain, splashing and cracking my way through nearly frozen puddles, soaking my socks, shoes and bare legs. The cold water pricks my legs, my wet hair sticks to my face and water drips from my bangs into my eyes, but the cold -- it's nothing. I feel nothing, when I’m in my funk. I am nothing. I am a hollow empty body. For a brief moment, out of the corner of my eye, I see her running next to me, her hair streaming behind her. I feel blood rush to my face… excitement at the thought of Dee running beside me, just as we always did before… I shake my head. I am freaking losing my mind. There is no Dee, only gray and drizzle and tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. I blink them away and continue to run. Nothing can stop me.
I run until my wet feet blister and my body … my fingers, nose, everything, is numb, and hours have passed. I run until the charge in my IPOD has drained, and there's only the squelch of my sneakers on the wet pavement. Slap. Squelch. Slap. Squelch. I keep running, even when the cold begins to seep into my chest and settle there. I run until my father drives up alongside me, rolls down the car window and asks, then commands me to get into “the damn car before I freeze to death.” And, only then, sinking into the seat, the warmth from the car enveloping me, do I rest.
“My God, Callee! Where have you been? Your mom called frantic and sent me out here to look for you,” he says. “You can’t just take off like that. I bite my lip to keep from saying, “Why not, Dad? You did,” but I wasn’t looking to fight with him tonight. Our relationship was on the mend, and I wanted to keep it that way. My father doesn’t hammer the point home like he normally does in his, authoritative-sit-up and listen tone, instead he voice takes on a softer tone, one that I haven’t heard in a long time. "We're doing everything we can, Callee Cat," he sighs and pats my knee, and I bridle at the sound of his term of endearment. I haven’t been his “Callee Cat” in years, not since we were together as a family, not since the days when he was my own personal super hero in his police uniform. He couldn’t win my love back by stirring up old memories with tired words. It wasn’t that easy. Based on my experience, everyone lies including those closest to you.
Yet, despite my anger at my father’s feeble attempts to treat me like I was eight, I have to believe him because I want to believe him so damn badly it hurts, and he wants me to believe him because that’s his job, to make people believe he can protect them. And, really, what else is there for me to do, but believe? Because if I stop believing and hoping then what kind of friend am I?
They're still looking for Dee. They'll find her. My dad will find her.
Sensation returns to my toes, with sudden sharp pricks. I nudge my shoes off with the opposite heels, and then, reluctantly, draw my feet up, peel my wet socks off to reveal my pruned feet and a nail clinging to the inside of my sock. Blood is everywhere.
"Callee, is that blood?" My dad asks.
"It's nothing, Dad," I say and, even though it hurts like hell, I smile for the first time in three weeks.

I stare at my cell phone clenched in my hand. It twitters as another message appears. I don’t need to see what it says because the messages from Sophie are the same as they were yesterday and the yesterday before that. Need to talk. Callee. Know YR there.
I won’t. I can’t. There is nothing I can say to her. I toss the phone on my bed; it lands without a sound, and I trace my fingers over the sequined pillow and contemplate sleep. I want to bury myself under my comforter, cocoon, smother myself in my chrysalis of sadness and never emerge. It would be so easy to do, to stay her forever. But, instead, I snag my IPOD, crank the volume, take a deep breath and say to myself DEE –COM- PRESS. Just like that, nice and slow. I even say the words out loud and work my mouth in an exaggerated way because, surely, this will make it actually happen: DEEEE- COM- PRESS. Then I hit the floor for some sit ups.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale… Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. When I get to fifty, I flip over for push-ups. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. I want my arms to throb and my stomach to burn. I want every muscle, every tendon to scream. The thought of needing ice and heat later, makes me smile. Sweat begins to trickle down my chin and neck, and my t-shirt sticks to my back. I know I’ll be peeling my sports bra and t-shirt off later like a wet swim suit. This makes me smile too. A good workout shouldn’t feel good. It should be smelly and inconvenient. It should hurt like hell.
I push my breath out and can hear Dee’s voice, “You push too hard.” I pause as I descend and my arms begin to quiver. I shake out the sound of her voice in my head and grunt; Dee is gone so why do I hear her voice all the time? I push myself up and down. Two, three, four more times. “You’re kind of scary when you get like that,” she says and I see her sitting on my bed, legs crisscrossed pretzel style. “You don’t understand,” I say to Dee “Sometimes I just need to push myself more. My exercising, how much I exert myself, these are parts of my life I can control.”
“You can’t control everything,” she retorts. I wince at her words. No, not everything, I think. But my body, yes.
I push myself harder. I flip over for crunches. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. My stomach is beginning to burn so I do more crunches. I burn more. I crunch faster, little pulses with my legs up and my arms out straight. Sit ups with my legs flat on the floor. Squats. Lunges. More push ups. Hands turned in. Hands straight. Wisps of my hair fall into my face and stick to my cheek. More short breaths. Each short breath takes me farther and farther away from the day Dee disappeared... Away from the things I couldn’t control.
“Don’t go there,” Dee’s voice cracks. I look up towards the bed, and she’s gone. I’ve pushed her away again.
Then, inevitably, I’m pulled back, and I get that tingling sensation. I shudder, not an ice-cream, brain-freeze kind of shudder, but a whole body, deep down, in my the marrow of my bones, in deepest part of my soul, burning, shudder because I know, if I feel her presence this intensely, this painfully, if I see her so clearly, than she is no longer with us. I concentrate on my breath and the fiery burn in my arms and belly, so I won’t think about anything else. But the burn ... it’s still not enough. I want to feel … something more, so I push harder. I throw on a sweatshirt, lace up my running shoes and thunder down the stairs.
“Callee,” I hear my mother yell after me as I dash out the front door. “What about sweatpants? It's freezing out!”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I yell back even though it's a total lie. I haven't been fine in weeks. I’m stuck in that place --- that hating, self-loathing, nothing-I-can-do-will-make-me-feel-better place. Dee calls it my “funk,” and she’s the only one who can kick my sorry ass out of it. It’s totally ironic that Dee, Queen of Quietness, happens to be the ass-kicker here. But she is. And I guess that’s just what BFF’s do – they take care of each other. Except now Dee isn’t here, and I’ve been in my “funk” ever since. And, even though I know this “funk” is probably gonna kill me, I can’t climb out of it. I don’t even know if I want to.
Outside is brutal, icy, cold but it doesn’t stop me from running through the November rain, splashing and cracking my way through nearly frozen puddles, soaking my socks, shoes and bare legs. The cold water pricks my legs, my wet hair sticks to my face and water drips from my bangs into my eyes, but the cold -- it's nothing. I feel nothing, when I’m in my funk. I am nothing. I am a hollow empty body. For a brief moment, out of the corner of my eye, I see her running next to me, her hair streaming behind her. I feel blood rush to my face… excitement at the thought of Dee running beside me, just as we always did before… I shake my head. I am freaking losing my mind. There is no Dee, only gray and drizzle and tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. I blink them away and continue to run. Nothing can stop me.
I run until my wet feet blister and my body … my fingers, nose, everything, is numb, and hours have passed. I run until the charge in my IPOD has drained, and there's only the squelch of my sneakers on the wet pavement. Slap. Squelch. Slap. Squelch. I keep running, even when the cold begins to seep into my chest and settle there. I run until my father drives up alongside me, rolls down the car window and asks, then commands me to get into “the damn car before I freeze to death.” And, only then, sinking into the seat, the warmth from the car enveloping me, do I rest.
“My God, Callee! Where have you been? Your mom called frantic and sent me out here to look for you,” he says. “You can’t just take off like that. I bite my lip to keep from saying, “Why not, Dad? You did,” but I wasn’t looking to fight with him tonight. Our relationship was on the mend, and I wanted to keep it that way. My father doesn’t hammer the point home like he normally does in his, authoritative-sit-up and listen tone, instead he voice takes on a softer tone, one that I haven’t heard in a long time. "We're doing everything we can, Callee Cat," he sighs and pats my knee, and I bridle at the sound of his term of endearment. I haven’t been his “Callee Cat” in years, not since we were together as a family, not since the days when he was my own personal super hero in his police uniform. He couldn’t win my love back by stirring up old memories with tired words. It wasn’t that easy. Based on my experience, everyone lies including those closest to you.
Yet, despite my anger at my father’s feeble attempts to treat me like I was eight, I have to believe him because I want to believe him so damn badly it hurts, and he wants me to believe him because that’s his job, to make people believe he can protect them. And, really, what else is there for me to do, but believe? Because if I stop believing and hoping then what kind of friend am I?
They're still looking for Dee. They'll find her. My dad will find her.
Sensation returns to my toes, with sudden sharp pricks. I nudge my shoes off with the opposite heels, and then, reluctantly, draw my feet up, peel my wet socks off to reveal my pruned feet and a nail clinging to the inside of my sock. Blood is everywhere.
"Callee, is that blood?" My dad asks.
"It's nothing, Dad," I say and, even though it hurts like hell, I smile for the first time in three weeks.