No one, and I mean NO ONE could be happier that it is Friday than I. NO ONE I SAY! It’s been a long, trying couple of weeks week for me at day job and I’m just really happy that I get a few days to myself. I have plans to read and write, eat good food and laugh with my girlfriends. Let’s get this party started!

But first… let’s talk about what we’re reading! Yay.

Friday Reads: Week of January 30

This week, I blew through Betty White’s fifth book, Here We Go Again. It was a wonderful trip through the beginning of television, told with Betty’s self depricating and cherished humorous voice. I really had no idea she had such a robust career in radio and TV… and I’ll tell you what– back in the day that it was LIVE, those folks worked hard! Five and a half hours a day each week, on air, live. I can’t even believe it! I wish she’d told more Golden Girls stories and I wish the end of GG wasn’t all on Bea’s shoulders. Estelle also had some issues with her dementia, not able to remember lines, etc. I hardly believe one pony stopped that show, but… she refuses to dish dirt so I guess we’ll never know.

I started listening to Getting to Happy by Terri McMillan but I’m not far enough along to give it any kind of opinion. I never read Waiting to Exhale, but I’ll let this one stand on it’s own two feet.

I’m also re-reading, by way of audiobook, Lisa Genova’s Still Alice. I really enjoyed this the first time around, but since one of the characters in my novel has Alzheimer’s Disease, reading it has brought up all of the questions I need to ask about him and his condition, his mannerisms and habits and behaviors and also how his daughter relates to him, both before and after the disease. Besides that, it’s just an enjoyable book from a scientific, intelligent standpoint. The main character is a beloved, brilliant Harvard Linguist. When she develops early onset Alzheimer’s, her entire world is turned upside down, but life has to go on. HOW it goes on is the problem. Soon, Alice feels abandoned and crippled by a disease that she is too young and too healthy to be cut down by. All valid emotions and experiences that I can use as reference for when I am writing Bernard.

I started a couple of books and decided not to continue reading them. I don’t even remember what the titles were. I’m just not into forcing myself to read something just because I once thought it sounded interesting. My To Read list is already out of control. No pity adds!

Shut Up And Write 2012

This is my mantra (along with PERSIST) for the year. And I am certainly doing some writing. Not as much shutting up as I’d like. I feel like I’ve told everyone that I started writing a book and I will soon regret that decision. So the best thing for me to do is to just Shut Up and Write.

I CAN tell you that it is going well so far, and after this weekend I should be on a  good track. I’ve been writing on my lunch hour and for two hours at night. Between this and audiobooks, my TV has been off more than it has been on, which is a great feat for me. I waste a lot of time with TV, and now when I watch, it’s like a treat!

How was your week? What did you read? What did you write? 

That has nothing to do with anything, it’s just funny to me and it came to mind this morning when I woke up.

It’s February 1, and today I start writing my new project.

Well, to be clear it is my new OLD Project and I am REstarting it. I tried to be one of those hip, cool writers that just write scenes and then put them together later and I had about 4 scenes written that were just directionless blather and I was lost and gave up.

And then I took a month off from reading and writing because I was so frustrated.
Six months later, I’m going at it again with something that resembles a plot and, knowing that I am a linear writer, I am starting at the beginning and writing my way through.

I’m nervous about it, if I’m honest. I have a history of getting to the end of Chapter 1 and then thinking…….well, now what? Hopefully that’s where the plot comes in. It’s like knowing what a book is about but not what happens in it. I can’t plan every page, but I know my major beats… it’s getting TO them that’s the challenge.

And if you need something to laugh at, watch Chris Farley bust out of a too-small wool coat. It eases the tension!

Anyone starting something new, digging up something old to bang on, working on something today? Please share in my excitement!

Monday Morning Warm-Up (courtesy Jo Knowles): Share a quote that makes you think and feel hopeful.

One of my friends forwarded a quote to me late last year and it has become my mantra, chiefly the word PERSIST.

I don’t know why, and I suppose I am not the only one, but I am encouraged when I hear about people who are famous for their craft struggling, like I do, to create. It makes me feel more normal and human and less like a talentless hack. I guess in some ways I seek validation in that, in knowing that I’m not the only one doesn’t know what to write after the end of Chapter 1.

The only difference between a failure and a success is persistence. People who persist eventually end up somewhere with something to be proud of.

If you haven’t seen this post at lettersofnote.com, please take a second and visit the site.  Austin Madison of PIXAR, who penned the note, wrote:

PERSIST on telling your story. PERSIST on reaching your audience. PERSIST on staying true to your vision… the next time you hit writer’s block, or your computer crashes and you lose an entire night’s work because you didn’t hit save (always hit save), just remember: you’re never far from that next burst of divine creativity.

Work through that 97% of murky abysmal mediocrity to get to that 3% which everyone will remember you for! I guarantee you, the art will be well worth the work!

That gives me hope. It makes me feel like all this hard work, laboring down here in the salt mines will someday be worth it.

PERSIST

Thanks for dropping in!

“Do you ever think about where you’ll be in the future? Like years from now, I mean.”

JC looked up from the People magazine he was reading, left by some other patron before him. He hadn’t paid attention to pop culture in so long, he didn’t know who any of the people were. Like, who was Justin Beiber? And what was Twilight?

“Years from now?” He shook his head, suppressing a laugh and went back to his magazine. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said, looking up again. He closed the magazine and tossed it back onto the pile he took it from. “I had other goals for this time in my life, the time I’m living right now. I let myself down. I let everyone down. Why get my hopes up? Why dream, when something could happen and snatch it away from you?”

“Maybe so you have something to hang onto? How do you make it through life with no dreams?”

“Easy. I live every day as it comes and I don’t plan on tomorrow. If I think about tomorrow, I have to think about the next day, and the day after that, and you know what? Thinking about day after day after day of nothing is pretty fucking depressing.”

Phee squirmed and bit down on her lip. He hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable. She was just so unrealistically optimistic that it made him want to scream.

“Have you ever failed at anything? Have you ever fucked anyone over? Have you ever destroyed someone’s life? I’m guessing no.”

She shook her head, confirming his assumption.

“Don’t try it. It makes you bitter and hopeless. I’m sorry I don’t live in the same world you do, where shacking up with some guy that looks like your dead boyfriend, or coddling a grown ass woman with kids who can’t clean up her own goddamn house makes you feel better about your life, but I don’t. I don’t live in that world.”

He got up, kicking his chair back in his tantrum and headed for the machines. They ought to be done washing in a few minutes and he needed something to distract him from the sensation of Phee staring him down from across the room.

I shouldn’t have said that.

He could just walk back over to her and say that. He was thinking about doing it, but his feet weren’t moving. Instead, he leaned against the table used to fold laundry, his hands shoved in his pockets. He saw himself in the reflection of the machine in front of him. His hair was puffy and standing straight up, despite the great cut from the night before. His cheeks were sunken, his shoulders slight. His face bore a sullen, woeful expression.

He turned away from the vision. The sight of his own reflection made him sick. And angry. He was such a far cry from the man he used to be.

Phee didn’t say anything else to him at the Laundromat. She found reasons to not be near him or say anything to him. She folded her laundry across the room from him, packed it neatly into the bag she had brought and waited for him to finish a few minutes later. They walked out of the Laundromat and the several blocks back to the hotel in complete silence.

At her room, she was digging into the boxes under the desk, again. Those seemed to be reserved for Davey’s things. She pulled out a shoe box and opened it, smiling at the contents. There were miscellaneous things in there, from what JC could see—a watch, a necklace, ticket stubs. And pictures. She flipped through them for a few seconds and pulled out a few, then spoke to him for the first time in hours.

“This is him,” she said softly, laying the photos on the desk, one by one. Davey was a thin, wiry man. Tall. In one of the photos, he was squinting into the sun, a half smile on his face. He looked like he was laughing. In another, he wasn’t smiling at all. He seemed serious, pensive, troubled. His eyes were blue and he had dark hair and pronounced chiseled features. He had been a good looking man.

“Davey was tall like you. Dark hair and light eyes like you. You both have high cheek bones and great, classic noses. You’re both smart, you like to read and stuff. You’re both way too serious for your own good.”

She chuckled for a moment but then the smile slid from her face. “But one thing Davey wasn’t, was cruel. He wasn’t a victim. He never had the mentality that whatever happened to him, just happened. He went after things. He created opportunities for himself.

“You probably think he was a loser but Davey was an even bigger dreamer than I am. He wanted to be more than a ratty kid from the south side with nothing going for him.  Maybe we didn’t have a place to live but he always took care of us and we had plans. Davey died trying to make me happy. I’ll never forget that.”

She slapped a hand onto the desk, sliding the photos off of its surface and back into the box. “All you’ve done so far is stick your dick in me and you think you have the right to hurt my feelings and say whatever comes to your mind because you’re mad at yourself. Maybe it’s not the Taj Mahal and it’s nowhere near your old life, but you could still be sitting on that fucking park bench wondering where your next meal is coming from and freezing your balls off.”

Phee slid the cover back onto the box and set it back inside the larger box she had pulled it from, then slid the that box back under the desk. She turned then and flounced to the kitchen area, opened the refrigerator, stared into it and slammed it closed.

She stood in front of the refrigerator, facing the wall. Only slightly did she turn her head when she said, “You don’t have to go. I want you to stay, but don’t be an asshole. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not an asshole.”

JC nodded but she didn’t see it. After a few seconds she turned and walked around him. “I need to go to the store. I’ll be back.”

“I’ll go,” he said quickly. “What do you need? I’ll go.”

She rolled her eyes while shoving her arms into the sleeves of her coat. “No. I don’t—look, I will be right back. Sit here and watch TV or read or… whatever.” She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

“Phoenix.” She stopped, her arm in mid-reach for the doorknob. He knew that would get her attention. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m really sorry. I don’t mean to disrespect you. I’m sorry for being an asshole. I’m grateful for how nice you’ve been to me and I suck for saying that to you. I’ll go to the store for you. Or with you, if you want. I owe you.”

She hadn’t turned around, but she hadn’t moved yet, either. A few seconds passed. JC heard the neighbors upstairs watching TV. The volume was up so loud, he could tell what show they were watching.

“I’m not sending you to the store. You’ll never get all the right stuff. If you’re coming, let’s go.”

JC smiled and dove for his bag, grabbed his wallet and followed her out the door. The return of her attitude, he hoped, meant he was forgiven.

Courtesy campfirechicblog

This Friday Reads finds me at the tail end of a great book, The Grapes of Wrath. Yes, I did just call this a great book. I was thinking this morning, as I was driving through the pre-dawn morning traffic, that this story is so wasted on the youth. I have no idea why teenagers are made to read it. I never had to, but I can’t say I would have enjoyed it or understood it better than I understand it now. It’s eerie how it’s so relevant to today – families being forced out of their own homes due to the economy with no choice but to pack up and go where the work is. Only when they get to what is supposed to be the promised land, they find they’ve been sold the same dream as so many others, and there’s only so many pieces of the dream to go around. So much work and sacrifice, sometimes for nothing—and all you can do is keep going.

Yes, I’ve really enjoyed this book. It’s been slow going though, since I’m reading via audiobook. At night I follow along with my e-copy. I’ll probably read more Steinbeck.

My reading has been lax this week because I’ve been devoting time to my new project. My novel, tentatively titled Brunch at Ruby’s, will officially launch February 1.That is, I’ll start writing it.  I’ve been doing some prep-work, working through plotting the beats and having fun with developing my characters, their tastes and likes. I’ve been using Pinterest to build a pin board of things I think my characters like—everything from physical features to persona style, where they live, their decorating flair (or lack thereof), even what kind of food they like. It’s been fun, but also hard work to create a person from dust. Paired with the character survey, I feel more and more like these are real people living in my head.

I’m nervous to start writing next week, but I also know I’ve been holding back a few words, making myself wait until my official start date. Deciding to NOT write in January has been good for me. It’s made me long to get back to it and planted a few ideas in my head. It also took away the pressure of updating and editing and the old ‘ I’ve got to think of something new right STAT now!’  I like to harass myself by imposing impossible deadlines to complete difficult tasks.  I guess I feel like I’m not really working if I’m not working my fingers to the bone.

But that’s next week. This weekend will be one of reading leisure. I’ve a ton of books to choose from—I purchased Gathering of Waters by Bernice McFadden (big fan of her work) and I’ll be reading that tomorrow. Joshlynn Jackson has a new book out this week as well, and I picked up a few new ones in the last few weeks.  Just have to pick one and open it up.

A fine problem to have. :)

Happy Friday, Lovers!

Describe your favorite quiet and alone time. Where are you? Inside? Outside? Is it cold? Warm? Is there an animal nearby? What do you see? Hear? Smell? Why does this time matter to you?

I’m single and a bit of a loner. While I do get together with friends now and again, I’m mostly at home with the books and the appliances and the heater. Always the heater. It’s where I am comfortable and it is conveniently also where I keep all my stuff.

So for me to have a specific time of quiet is a big deal. I’d have to say that this is Sunday morning. My Saturdays can be ragged, but Sunday morning is glorious to me. I’ve had a great night’s sleep, I’ve awakened when my body is ready, I have the day to do as I like, which usually involves a lot of reading and minimal TV.

I love a quiet Sunday morning, whether it is sunny or rainy, whether I can hear the birds chirping outside my window or the dogs across the street barking or the neighbor kids outside playing– yeah, I find that endearing. The kids in this neighborhood play outside.

On a Sunday morning I’m usually still snuggled down in the bed, all of my electronic dearhearts near to me– phone, eReader, laptop. I might venture downstairs or out for a cup of coffee and a a breakfast sandwich, but until around 2:00, that time is mine.

And I love it.

What’s your favorite quiet time? 

The entire story can be read at my fiction archive here. 

He grunted as he moved around, trying to find a comfortable position. “I have to wear this for the rest of the game?”
“Yep! It’s your turn.”
“Hmmmm,” he mused, settling for laying across the bed, ankles crossed. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“You would ask for truth.”
“Yeah cause there’s no way I’m putting on my old band uniform.”
He laughed. “We could make a bad porn movie.”
I giggled, wiggling my brows at him. “Don’t tempt me. Go. Ask me something.”
“Alright. Why the hell am I wearing this get-up right now? Are you enjoying this?”
“Yeah, I’m enjoying this right now.”
“What, humiliating me?” He was pulling at the pants again, trying to keep the fabric from plastering itself to his skin. It wasn’t working.
“I’m not trying to humiliate you. Let’s say that you’re fulfilling a fantasy.”
His head tipped up until the confusion in his eyes met the glimmer in mine. He sat up, paying full attention, now. “Tell me.”
I grinned, my cheeks glowing red and my pulse pounding. I reached for a button on the shirt and popped it open, and then the next one and the next until his chest was exposed- manly pectorals and a flat belly. My heart beat twice as loud in my ears.
“I sort of used to wonder what it was like to be with you back then. And uh… I thought that maybe we could…”
My voice trailed off as my fingers took over, loosening the belt and slipping my hand beneath the band of the pants. I dipped my head to his lips and kissed him deeply. After a few moments, he pulled back.
“My turn.”
I eyed him while my fingers danced along his length. “Truth or dare.”

A few weeks ago

“So,” my friend S says to me. “I have questions. You read a lot. What’s that about?”

I laughed, because I can only imagine what it looks like to people who follow me on twitter or Facebook. I don’t party, I rarely eat out, I don’t drink. I don’t wax on about the latest vampire show or singing competition (except for Criminal Minds or Golden Girls. I stan for both of those shows!). What I do is read. I read incessantly. I’m kind of addicted to getting lost in a fictional world, fictional characters for 300-500 pages at a time. I am a member at Goodreads, and when I stop for the moment or the day, I record my progress. If I don’t tweet anything else, it looks like I haven’t been doing anything but reading all day. And on the weekends, you’re probably right, on that one.

Over time I have developed the skill of reading quickly (okay and sometimes if there’s 7 pages of description, I skim. SHHHHHH don’t tell anyone!). So yes, I read a lot. A few books at a time, especially if one is particularly heavy. I need something light to detract from that.

I read all the time. In the morning, I’ve been listening to audio books as I get ready instead of watching television. CNN just ticks me off right now, anyway. I keep it going as I get in the car and drive the usual 45– but sometimes 60– minute drive to work. At lunch, I pull out my eReader and feast on something else that I’ve got going, that I ONLY read on my lunch break, so I have something to look forward to. When I leave, I cue up the audiobook where I left it that morning and get in another good hour.

You’d think I’d be tired by the time I got home, but you’re wrong there! After dinner a few nights a week, I snuggle into bed with Nookie (my name for my Nook Color) or a print book and dig in. I’ve been known to be up way too late just trying to finish something or get to the end of a chapter.

So yes. I read a lot. But why?

People ask me this all the time. I guess not why I read, but why I read so much. And I figure… why not read so much? What else should I be doing? Another reason is because it helps my writing. I’m a big proponent of Stephen King’s adage that writers read. And read and read and read. The more I read, the better I write. In fact, I’ve started reading “Reading Like a Writer” by Francine Prose. A lot of things I have been doing by rote… watching how an author skips over time, opens a new scene, pulls back on descriptions, makes the mundane seem important to the story. My brain tucks these things away, and when I go to write a scene, I remember that Eric J Dickey wrote this scene about two friends at a club and it was really casual but told so much, or that Stieg Larsson was too descriptive, so watch that.

So what am I feasting on this week? Well, I’ve had an itch for the classics lately for some reason. I listened to 1984 and The Crucible via audiobook– both great. I have a thing for the Salem Witch Trials, so the Crucible in particular was great. I also listened to Betty White’s If You Ask Me… which was another great but short read. I knocked it out in two commutes!

I just started John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath because I have never read it. YES I have been warned against this book, but everytime I read the synopsis, it sounds interesting to me. Then again, I enjoyed 1984 and The Crucible. I might be weird.

I’m going to pick up something light and fun this weekend and read that, probably tomorrow. Don’t know what it’ll be yet, but it’ll be great.

Suggestions??? 

*~*

His palm shredded the thin sheet of paper as he crumpled it and tossed it against the wall. It ricocheted and rolled toward him, the news coming back around again.

She couldn’t say to my face that she was pregnant?

He was hot, then cold; dizzy, then painfully lucid. He had to sit down.

The edge of the couch just barely caught him as his knees gave out. He sprawled along the cushions, rubbing his eyes, raking his fingers through his hair, trying to stop the avalanche of thoughts crashing through his mind.

Maybe she’s just late. Maybe she’s stressed out. Maybe— He sat up, his eyes wide. Maybe the baby isn’t mine.

The front door opened and then closed. Timid footsteps crept down the hallway and then a head of dark hair appeared around the corner.

“Hi,” she said shyly.

“Hey. Got your note.”

“I see.” She eyed the tightly coiled ball lying in front of the entertainment center and, as if it was against her better judgment, edged into the room. “So… wanna talk?”

“Why don’t you write me another note?” he sneered. “Leave it where I can find it and then disappear for a few hours.”

She blanched, wringing her hands so tightly that the knuckles were a blinding white. “So you’re mad?”

A haughty chuckle escaped his lips. “Tell me something, Jules. Is this baby mine?”

“What the—“ Her eyes narrowed and she moved further into the room. “What did you just ask me?”

“You heard me. Is this baby mine?”

In the next moment, she had lunged across the room and gripped his neck in both hands. Screaming and crying and thrashing, the two were a ball of anger for several minutes until he had flipped them over, his hands pinning her arms down so her back pressed into the couch cushions.

He was panting, sweat beading above his brow. “Are you done?”

“Let. Go!” She grunted, kicking her legs in one last tantrum.

“Calm down and I will.”

“Fine. I’m done!”  He released her, sitting back but eyeing her closely. “I can’t believe you asked me that.”

“I can’t believe you left me a note like that. Why else would you not tell me to my face that you’re pregnant?”

“Maybe I thought you’d be angry, like you are right now.”

He glared at her, to which she glared back. “Spare me the melodramatics, Julia. You know why I’m mad.”

She sniffled and sat up, stifling a cough.

“You okay?”

“You weren’t concerned when you had me pinned to the couch. Don’t feign concern now.”

He sighed. Then closed his eyes. Then took a long, deep breath.  “Truce, okay? I’m concerned. Did you go to the doctor?”

“Yeah,” she answered quietly. “And it was positive. He says I’m about eight weeks along.”

Quickly, he did the math in his head. That would have been… and did we… Oh, yeah. Mardi Gras. He grinned without meaning to.

“Are you mad at me? I mean, what do you want to do?”

“Honestly?” He gently pulled her toward him. She fit so nicely, as she always had, in the crook of his arm. He kissed the top of her head and gave her still-flat belly a pat. “Right now I just want us to worry about having a healthy baby.”

“That’s what I want, too.”

Nine months later…

“One more push, Julia. One more.”

“I caaaaaaaaaaaan’t!” She wailed, but pushed anyway. Moments later, a beautiful sound—the ear piercing scream of a newborn filled the room.

His grin was bright and proud and never ending as he watched the doctors perform the routine tasks of delivery. That was, until he got a good look at the bouncing baby boy.

The blonde hair. The brown eyes.

He glanced at Julia, who seemed deliriously happy, smiling and cooing at the wiggling creature in her arms.

Julia dyed her hair dark, but she wasn’t blonde. And she had blue eyes. And maybe he was just newly born, but that baby didn’t look anything like him.

His heart sank as he backed out of the room. He’d spent months preparing for this baby and now the fear that it wasn’t his had resurfaced.

He appeared in the opening to Julia’s room and lightly tapped against the doorframe. The baby was dozing in a bassinette next to the bed and Julia, who had been dozing herself, stirred at the sound.

“Hey,” she said, smiling and beckoning him closer with a nod of her head. “Did you see the baby?”

He stepped into the room, but not very far. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Isn’t he beautiful?”

He nodded. “Yep. Good looking kid.”

Her smile froze and then disappeared. “What’s wrong with you?”

He closed his eyes, shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall. “How dumb do you think I am, Julia?” He shook his head then nodded toward the sleeping child. “That is not my son and you know it.”

“JC…I mean, I don’t understand…what…”

“I want a blood test,” he said. And then turned around and walked out of the room.

He almost didn’t notice the wide, official looking envelope in the stack of mail lying near the front door. He flipped it over, broke the seal and withdrew the single piece of paper revealing the results of the blood test. He stared at the page for a few moments, then tucked it back into the envelope.

The next day, Julia came to pick up the last of her boxes.  “Mail,” he said simply, handing the envelope to her. Her eyes scanned the page and eventually she looked up at up at him.

“I’m sorry I made you hate me.”

He inhaled. Then exhaled, then pulled her into his arms and gave her one last, long hug. “I don’t hate you. I loved you. All the way until yesterday.”

One of my fave music artists once said that he wanted to be a part of a song that lived on forever. Even after his career was over or he was long gone, when people listened to that song, they’d know he was a part of it.

I think that artists- musicians and painters and sculptors and writers want the same thing, to create something that lives on beyond them and bears the mark of their effort, their talent, their dedication.

I want to write something that speaks to people’s hearts, perhaps reminds them of someone or something in their lives. Most of all I want to write something that entertains and brings joy, provides a space for escaping life as we know it and living the lives of fictional characters through my words.