In Her Shadow

Hi All,
I haven't posted in a while, so I thought I would share the initial pages of my novel for those of you who haven't gotten a peak. I've been busy working away on my second, querying agents to represent my first and enjoying life overall. I hope all's well in your world, too!
Best,
August


She gulps the swig of poison like an eight-year-old inhaling cough syrup – nose plugged, eyes squeezed shut, her face pulled into a tight round ball. Toxic, metallic tasting vapors trail the liquid down her throat, filling her with venomous stench and nausea. Swallow, she instructs. Gulp. Breathe. There, that’s it. She did it.

She trembles on the floor, her sweaty back pressed against the bedside, awaiting action. The wrapper from the candy bar he forced into her mouth lies on the floor beside her, crumpled like an odd bit of wrapping paper on Christmas morning. No celebrations today, though. Well, maybe after. She withholds her tears, clinging as though to a ledge of which she can’t let go. If she cries, the poison might come out and that would ruin everything. Come on, she thinks, work. Damn it, work! If it doesn’t start soon, she’ll have to sip some more.

A moment later she feels it. The gurgling in her stomach, the slight lift in her gut, the poisoned-food-particle-stuff moving raucously around inside of her, ready to be regurgitated. Yes, she thinks, it’s working!

Vomit shoots violently from her, a volcano erupting. It cuts slashes in her esophagus, wounds that will sting like paper cuts. She doesn’t mind the pain. In a way, she likes it. Proof of her efforts, her un-doing of the food forced in.

She stands, dizzy, and grasps the countertop for balance. She takes a moment to collect herself. Easy does it. Bumping around or toppling over would make noise, and any noise is too much. She tucks the bottle away with caution, conceals the evidence before flushing. The gushing water obscures the swishing sound in her mouth. She puffs warm breath onto her cupped palm and sniffs it. Well done. No scent, no flavor, no cause for HIM to suspect.

She teeters back to her bed, heaviness pulling like a vacuum on her body. Dizziness clamps her brain as she tucks herself in, the sheets now cool from her absence. She rests her head on her pillow. Slumber finds her quickly, a far cry from the insomnia to which she’s accustomed. A dream captures her before she can detect the blood trickling from her nose.

The Ultimate Decongestant

I couldn't figure out why I kept waking up feeling like I'd been tumbled around in a clothes dryer rather than sleeping...or why the mucus in my chest and nose lingered, regardless of my super-infusion of soup, tea and vegetables...or why, in response to a friend's question, "How's your new novel going?," I felt chest pain. Roughly 3.5 seconds later, I realized what I'd missed: I'd moved my novel-writing slightly lower on the totem pole in order to make more money, yadda yadda yadda...Another 0.5 seconds later, my totem pole was rightly configured—mine happens to have a Christmas star on top—and my nasal passages, clear.

I woke up the next morning after bumpy sleep...(My novel kept waking me up and telling me to work on it...) feeling again tossed and tumbled. As soon as I began clacking away on my laptop my angst dissipated and I returned to my usual, if hyper/obsessive self. Who needs Nyquil? Dayquil? Those nasty nasal sprayers? Sleep? (Ok, maybe that's important.) I've known for some time what writing creatively means for my emotional health. This episode showed me my body needs it, too.

According to a study published in the "Journal of Psychosomatic Medicine," science may support my "findings." Researchers studied the health and happiness of 334 healthy volunteers at Carnegie Mellon University for 2 weeks. Afterwards, the researchers inserted the rhino virus into each of the volunteers noses. While pessimistic, less-happy individuals weren't more likely to develop cold symptoms, people assessed as "happy" and "fulfilled" developed the fewest cold symptoms. In other words, go get happy! Or stay happy. Or...get even happier.

Bouchercon...Festival of Kindness

When I told an author friend of mine that I'd finished my first novel he told me I "must" attend Bouchercon. ("Boucher-what"?) Well, I've just returned from the crime fiction writer/agent/fan conference, this year hosted in San Francisco, and knew within minutes of arriving that my friend had been right.

I'd contacted the conference registration office to find out if there were opportunities to network with agents. "Just hang out in the bar," the friendly woman told me. Okay... I really had no idea what I was getting into, but figured it was worth a shot. I contemplated strategies. Should I bring business cards? Have my "elevator pitch" ready? Prepare a song and dance?

More importantly, how would I avoid pestering agents the way I've seen actors harass Hollywood executives, agents and models/actresses with agents. As it turned out, the only "strategy" required, if you could call it that, was good old genuine kindness. I've never been in a more welcoming community; the kindness was reciprocal to say the least.

An author from the U.K. shared an on-going joke and point of tension in the British writers community. Apparently someone high up in the mystery/thriller genre commented that mystery/thriller writers are the "nicest bunch of blokes" because they get all of their angst out in their novels. Romance writers, on the other hand, are "a bunch of caddy bitches." I can't say the latter is true, but from my personal experience thus far, the mystery/thriller writers is.

I loved the conversations with fellow writers that went something like, "Are you enjoying the conference?" "Yes! It's great. I love your sweater." "Thanks! Yours too. What's your novel about?" "A man who eats policemen's feet for dinner. Yours?" "That sounds fascinating! Mine's about a cannibal who stalks pedophiles." "Awesome!" And so on...

At one point I was wandering in a spaced-out cloud, contemplating the novel I started that morning in my hotel room, when an author I'd met previously approached me. "Did you hear me calling your name and waving my arms wildly?" "Sorry..." I mumbled, blushing. "I was...writing?" Rather than look at me as though I was crazy, the multi-published author smiled, nodded and said, "You're gonna do all right, kid." Affirming, to say the least...

A highlight of my trip came when I stepped out of a panel to get a beverage and decided to sit at a table of two men and an empty chair. "Mind if I sit?" They looked at me, seeming a bit stunned. Fearing I had food bits on my face, I sat down anyway. They promptly asked me if I was a writer.

"Yes, I just finished my first novel—a thriller. I'm starting the "find an agent" process."

The men exchanged knowing glances then asked me what my novel is about. I told them. "We'll take a look at it," one of them replied. "Sure," said the other.

"You will?" (My turn for a shocked glance.)

Anyone with guts enough to talk to them was worth a shot, they said.

*GULP* I walked away clutching a business card, hoping my palpating heart wasn't apparent through my blouse... It wasn't until I returned home that I discovered via Google that one of the men owns a prestigious literary agency. (HOLY CRAP!) The other represents a slew of authors I admire.

Perhaps one day someone will ask me the proverbial "How did you get an agent?" question and I'll reply: "I was thirsty." or "Ignorance." I suspect it will be something like "By being friendly." Of course you have to write your heart out, produce good work, tell great stories, etc... Regardless of what happens next, I left the conference feeling like I was leaving a gathering of friends in a community in which I fit.



"Do it. Whatever it is. If you have a dream, go ahead, take the risks, and make whatever sacrifices you possibly can."
~Robin Black

Celebrating the Path...and Emulating Gabby

How is it late-September already?! Okay, so I already know the answer... I've been, shall we say... busy. I would venture to guess that you all have been, too, and hope you are happy, healthy and enjoying the beginning of fall.

I finished polishing the final draft of my novel and celebrated with my mother and a group of close friends at a "Novel-Tea Party." I knew as soon as I started my novel that I wanted to share and celebrate its completion, before and regardless of agent/publisher interest. (It's all about the journey...right???) Thus, I scheduled the party before my up-coming meetings with two agents and before my truck-load of query letters go out. The party was a blast, its main hight light, hearing of dear friends' wishes, successes and dreams. I have a feeling that the lot of us will reap success from simply spending that time together... I feel I already have. (Thanks, you guys!)

Our collective dream-board:



Speaking of dreams, one has been drifting through my thoughts since I read Yahoo News this morning. The 25th anniversary edition of Elle Magazine features Gabourey Sidibe—the talented actress and star of the movie, Precious. In my eyes, there is no one better suited to grace the cover of Elle than Gabby. She is beautiful inside and out, talented beyond measure and inspiring to boot. I wish more women, men and children accepted and loved themselves as I've seen Gabby express in interviews. They lightened Gabby's skin substantially for the shot, however, and revealed very little of her physique.



As someone who has been on both sides of the photoshop issue (I've seen photos of mine photo-shopped in various publications and have had various parts of my body "stand-in" for other more recognizable peoples'...whom, I can't say...or I might end up in the hoosky...) I have a serious problem with the images the general public is faced, no—bombarded with. When I was modeling full-time, I often tried to justify my career path in my head. "It's like basketball," I once coached myself. "Some people are born athletes." And I was born...photogenic? Unfortunately it isn't simply about photogenic-ism or how well one moves before the camera. I'd feel far more pride regarding my modeling career if the industry portrayed, and society accepted or demanded, a broader definition of "beauty." Some days I feel we're making progress...others, not so much.

I hope we can all emulate Gabby's character. She is a model in truest form:

mod·el (mdl)
n.: One serving as an example to be imitated or compared; worthy of imitation; a preliminary work upon which others will be based

Stories Untold

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
~Maya Angelou

I believe this with every ounce of my being. I had the pleasure of visiting a good friend of mine last week and the added pleasure of hearing her idea for a novel. She's had the story in mind for years and now feels it's "the time." I hope she does write it; it's a fascinating story and she has the brights and passion to complete it. Writers should write and not let anything stand in their way.

I like cleaning?!

I don't actually...Love a clean house, dislike the cleaning process. As I remove the dust and grime from my novel, though, I can't help but wonder if Mr. Clean reaps similar satisfaction from polishing floors. Perhaps I've been saving my cleaning fervor all these years for this process.

I recently read Stephen King's, On Writing--a fabulous part-memoir, part "how to" writer's guide. He writes about his first mentor who told him that the first draft is for you (the writer); the revision is for everyone else (the readers). Though I'm polishing my revision, not my first draft, this insight rings helpful and true.

I'm surprised that I enjoy this tidying phase as much as I do...I get to enjoy my novel as a reader and experience the final draft as it reveals itself. Some days I feel like I'm dusting dirt away to find hidden treasures. When I come across Good Will giveaways instead, I'm happy to make cuts. (So is my editor.)

A few more quotes from On Writing I dig:

"Write with the door closed; rewrite with the door open."

"Fiction is truth inside the lie."

"The road to hell is paved in adverbs."

"A short story is a kiss in the dark from a stranger."

"If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot."

"A little talent is a good thing to have if you want to be a writer. But the only real requirement is the ability to remember every scar."

"Life isn't a support system for art. It's the other way around."

(All quotes from Stephen King)

Black Hole PC

Last time I dropped my husband off at the airport, my car battery died in front of LAX. Today after dropping him off, it was worse--my COMPUTER. Rather than the novel I was eager to submerse myself in while dodging rush hour traffic, I hit the power button and found nothing to pursue but a black hole. (Sounds to me like a cheesy greeting card, right?... "My lights go off without you!" In this case, it's tragically true...)

Long story short (not my strong suit, but this is a blog and I've exhausted myself in computer salesman schpeals (sp?) and "how to cut and paste in Mac" tutorials...which isn't as rough as Mac-loathers make it out to be, by the way...

You guessed it--I BOUGHT A MAC. Leaving my trusty...(more like DUSTY, bird feather/dog fur filled) old Toshiba at Best Buy to retrieve the contents the black hole ate made me sad... We've been through a lot together, the "shib" and me. *sigh*

But here I sit, all MAC-ed out, and digging it. I have lots to learn, of course...such as...how did the sales guy use it to take our picture during price check...and how do I make the internet screen and font bigger...and where do my documents disappear to after I upload them...and why is there a purple cup and saucer-type type thing (or is it a paintbrush?) bouncing around on my screen's bottom right now...?

If any writers have pointers on MAC's that might accelerate my learning curve, I'd appreciate hearing them. As for my hubby, I'm grateful I have someone to miss so much...especially in the dark. ;)

I had something deeper to chat about today, but it's long-since forgotten...or at least lurking in the "hole" contents, yet-to-be-recovered. More--hopefully--soon.