EJ's Rants and Ramblings

An Idea for a New Book

2012-02-12T10:37:00.001-05:00

I am flushing out an idea for a new book and wrote this opening scene. What do you think?

Johnny sat down at his desk and fidgeted a bit before paying attention to Miss Wilson, who stood in the front of the classroom. She held a stick of chalk in her hand and Johnny followed the white point as it moved in the air with her gesticulations. He heard giggling coming from behind him so he twisted around in his chair to sneak a quick glance. Betsy, who sat behind him, and Antonia, who sat next to Betsy were leaning towards each other, covering their mouths hoping to stifle their laughter. Johnny stared in horror at Antonia. Half of her face was scorched. An empty eye socket, red and raw, stretched down what was left of her cheek. White bone poked through blackened flesh. Wisps of burnt curls crumbled into ash on her shoulder.

Then the smell hit. Putrid and stomach turning, Johnny grunted and stood up, knocking his book onto the floor where is landed with a loud bang. He ran out of the room, leaving a stunned class behind.

Two days later Antonia and her family; three brothers, a sister, and her parents, perished when their house burned to the ground.
This was Johnny’s first real memory of his “gift” and the moment when he realized he wasn’t like the other kids.

Self Doubt is an Evil Bitch

2011-10-13T22:21:00.008-04:00

I am in a downward spiral of self doubt right now. I usually experience this once or twice a year and no matter how many times I go through it, I'll never get used to it or like it. Self doubt just plain sucks. It's like the mean girl in high school who mocked your outfit (the one you spent the entire previous night picking out) or threw gum in your hair and laughed. Basically, self doubt is an evil bitch.

Rejection has been coming too frequently and the old adage "what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger" can bite me. All I want to be when I grow up is a writer. I'm not asking for a multi-million dollar career here, but to get to the point where I can earn enough to write full time. Right now this dream is as likely as it was for me to get named Homecoming Queen.

With each passing day, my dream seems to shrink farther back on the horizon. I continue to pursue it even though my heartbeat is erratic, I need an inhaler for a sudden onset of asthma and I have a cramp in my side the size of Manhattan. I fear that I won't have the stamina to keep up the pursuit. Complacency is on the side of the road trying to lure me in with an ice cold glass of water. How long can I last without taking a sip?

Ode to Stephen King

2011-09-20T22:09:00.003-04:00

My high school Creative Writing teacher hated Stephen King. From the day he made that known by chastising me for choosing King as my favorite author (and ripping my paper on him apart), I doubted his abilities to teach me anything. You can't get much more creative than Stephen King. He brings childhood fears to life and amplifies the pre-existing fear in your head. I still look sideways at storm drains and give them wide clearance because I sure as hell don't want to find a clown lurking down there (IT). Whenever a family member has really bad gas pains, I can't help but wonder if a shit weasel is incubating in their lower intestine (Dreamcatcher). I live in Maine and find it entirely plausible that frogs with razor sharp teeth will fall from the sky ("Rainy Season", from Nightmares & Dreamscapes).

I just finished reading Dolores Claiborne for the umpteenth time and I am still blown away by the sheer genius of his work. He tells the story in first person, in the voice of a sixty-five year old Down East Island woman. Dolores' life story is revealed, in great depth and detail, during her confession to the island police, which spans just one night. This is truly a masterpiece and focuses not on supernatural or paranormal fears, but on real life and how decisions or actions impact lives - not necessarily for the better.

Stephen King is a prolific writer and each story stands alone. The characters are unique and nothing ever seems formulaic. From the Dark Tower series to The Green Mile, each is its own unique work.

My creative writing teacher did teach me something after all... 1) I can hold a grudge for almost as long as Stephen King's writing career and 2) My creative writing teacher wasn't creative. (He wore khaki's and sweater vests - that should have been my first clue.)

Family

2011-08-03T23:52:00.003-04:00

My mom has always been a little vague about her side of the family. I was close with my grandparents before they passed and my grandmother's sister. I know my Uncle and his family, plus some of cousins on my grandmother's side of the family, but my grandfather's family has always been shrouded in mystery. All I know is my Boppa, who was Irish Catholic, fell in love with and married my Nana, who was Irish Protestant. Everything went to shit after that and my Boppa was practically disowned. My mother carries the grudge like the Olympic Torch, never letting the flame die out.

Tonight, on the way to gym, she revealed that her cousin (my Boppa's niece)had called the night before. Apparently her brother had passed away at the end of July. I asked if they were still in Canada, which is where my great-grandparents emigrated to from Ireland. "No," she said. "She's in Massachusetts."

For as long as I can remember, I don't recall her ever mentioning that we have family less than a two hour drive away. My grandparents settled in Boston, which is where my mom and her brother were born and raised. I have faint memories of my Great Aunt Mary, my Boppa's sister, living in Boston.

My mom must have sensed my interest (I'm into geneology and caught onto this lead like freaking Sherlock Holmes) because she started mentioning who was who and most of them were alcoholics. She also was quick to remind me that she doesn't associate with them "not after how they treated your grandfather". I didn't point out that most of "those" people are probably dead.

I choose my battles.

My grandfather is almost like a paranormal or mythological creature in my mind. I've heard stories of his abilities as a fortune teller, where he used a deck of cards and was well known for his accuracy. These stories fascinate me. Did he inherit this gift from his father? I want to know his family - my family, after all we share DNA. The elders are passing away and with them, they will take an untold history. A history probably more richly remembered than the bitter recollections shaped by a decades old grudge.

I choose my battles and my next move will most likely create one. My mom made a choice to ignore her relatives, but she can't make the same decision for me.

Summer Relaxation? Yeah, right.

2011-07-14T23:06:00.005-04:00

I remember when summers used to stretch out endless ahead of me. Nowadays they seem shorter than ever. True, I don't have three months off like when I was in school and most of my days are spent confined to an 8 X 10 cubicle. Since cubicalism a form of corporate torture, you'd think time would move painfully slow. What I've come to realize is, I'm just extremely busy and when you're trying to cram a full-time job (with a half hour commute each way), taking care of the family, marketing a bar and restaurant for your brother, plus writing into each day, well the pace can get exhausting.

Meanwhile, my teenage son had the nerve to say he was bored three days in to his summer vacation. I didn't roll my eyes...until my back was facing him. What I wouldn't do for a good, old fashioned "school's out for summer" summer. I know I would finish my book, spend some time chilling with my toes in the hot sand; breathing in the salt air. I'd dominate over the weeds in the flower beds and when I fell into bed exhausted at night, it would be a good exhausted. Not the "my soul was sucked out by the upholstery on the cubicle walls" exhausted.

I'd make lemonade from scratch, paint my toenails once a week, go hiking with the dog in the morning, and the hamper would stay empty because as with the weeds - I will conquer the dirty laundry. Oh, to have the time to sit all day (only moving to follow the shade) and read. I'd let Matthew accumulate all the driving hours he needs to get his license (making sure we stopped for ice cream along the way). We'd pick strawberries and eat them until our lips were stained red. Then we'd wait for blueberry season and do it all over again. I'd treasure the summer because he is sixteen and college is just around the corner.

Some nights we'd drive down the coast with the windows down. We (the whole family) would play miniature golf or check out one of the amusement parks. On hot sticky nights, I'd sit near an open window, hoping to catch a breeze, and watch the sky flicker on the horizon from a distant storm. I'd hold a glass up to my neck to let the cool condensation drip down and disappear underneath my shirt. I'd be relaxed because I'm not forced to do chores on one of the two weekend days we usually have off. Time would slow to a leisurely pace with seconds marked by the blinking of lightning bugs; hours counted by the rise and fall of the tides.

Just imagining this perfect summer is calming and I'm motivated to find a way to squeeze some of these moments into my schedule. Guaranteed there are some things I can set aside for a rainy day.

What would be your perfect summer?

The Healing Touch

2011-06-22T23:26:00.003-04:00

This is a story I entered for a monthly online flash fiction competition and it was the winning entry! The parameters were that the story needed to be under 715 words, the genre was Fantasy and the theme was "Heroes".

Here is The Healing Touch:

People were dying. Corpses of the young, old, and in between filled the streets. The stench was overwhelming, the swarms of flies even worse. The Bubonic Plague or the Black Death is what this horror had been named. These were dark days indeed.

Alesya had the power to slow the disease and to heal the sick, but she dared not to. Her mother possessed the same curse and ignited a wave of hysteria after displaying her abilities. Alesya was just five years old when she was forced to watch her mother die at the hands of the village leaders. Years later, the smell of burnt flesh still haunted her. Orphaned and fearing the same fate, she had hidden on the outskirts of the community and stayed there. Only at night did she venture in and scavenge for scraps of food or seek temporary refuge in the church.

Despite her harsh environment; her teeth didn’t rot, her skin remained clear of pockmarks, she never fell ill and she flourished into a beauty that rivaled any of the other young women in her village. Still no one wanted to have anything to do with her. She received glances brimming with suspicion and fear whenever she crossed anyone’s path.

Once the plague hit, the villagers had something new to fear. They forgot about Alesya and didn’t even notice when she started venturing into the village during the day. She was drawn to the sickness. Every cell in her body itched, practically vibrated, with the need to heal. Yet she fought it. These people didn’t deserve it. Plus, her mother’s death served as a warning of what would happen to her if she did try.

It was mid-day when Alesya made her way through the center of town. The usual bustling marketplace was empty. The heavy, wooden vendor carts were overturned; abandoned. Dead bodies lay in the street decomposing into the dirt. A man stumbled past her unseeing, his eyes clouded with disease. Alesya covered her nose and mouth with her hand, but nothing could mask the odor. Death had settled in and was here to stay.

She walked up the stone steps to the church, surprised to find the doors open. The pews were empty; a fine layer of dust muted the usual luster of the black walnut. Along with life, the plague claimed faith.

Alesya took a step towards the aisle when a low moaning caught her attention. She turned in the doorway towards the noise. The itching in her body manifested in her palms and grew stronger, pulsing out to her fingertips, as she took in the scene below.

A young girl and her mother had collapsed at the base of the steps. The daughter struggled to pull her mother to her feet, but didn’t have the strength. The mother, the source of the moaning, lay on her side. The skirt of her dress had bunched up around her knees, revealing grayish skin mangled with bruises and sores. The woman’s breathing was labored and wet, like she was drowning in mucus.

"Please help my mother,” the little girl pleaded, reminding Alesya of how she had tried to save her own mother’s life.

She descended the steps, knelt down on the cool stone and took both of the mother’s hands in hers. The itching in her palms stopped the moment they made contact. She closed her eyes and let her body take over.

As if traveling inside the dying woman, she saw the cells under attack, the organs bloated and toxic. One by one she drew the sickness out. Alesya’s body, a vessel immune to the plague, absorbed everything.

When only healthy pink tissue remained she opened her eyes. The mother, her breathing restored to normal, stared at her.

Alesya hung her head, waiting for the accusation. She took a risk saving this woman.

“It’s a miracle. Are you an angel?”

“No. I’m just a girl.”

***

The legend still exists to this day - when an angel in the guise of a young woman, with skin as white as ivory and possessing unearthly beauty, descended from the church and delivered the land from the grips of Death himself.

My First Public Reading - Update

2011-05-31T23:46:00.003-04:00

So, I survived my first public reading with only a couple of minor mishaps. Well, one minor, the other a little bit more traumatizing. Everything went according to plan; I put together the excerpts I wanted to read, edited them after reading the pages out loud and had one of my good friends read them over too. The day of the reading I printed out the pages and this is where I made a mistake...I didn't clip or staple them together (insert foreshadowing here).

The rest of the day consisted of a lovely late afternoon lunch (seafood chowder), some shopping with one of my best friends from high school who came up for vacation, and a beer at my brother's bar. This took my mind off of the nervousness which was slowly building as the time for my reading grew closer. My friend, Shannon, and I left my brother's bar to head home, meet the hubs, and pick up my pages. I grabbed them off the table and made my second mistake...I didn't check to make sure I had them all.

The reading was held at a small bar in Portland called Mama's Crowbar. The room filled up quickly and I was pleased that so many friends and family had gathered to support me.

One of the authors was sick, so there were just three of us and I was to go last. This was good because I had time to see what the other authors did. During the other readings I sipped on a beer to take the edge off. By the time it was my turn, I was relatively relaxed and confident in my reading abilities.

I only tripped over a few words and it was great when people reacted to something I said. Then the cell phone started ringing. It was one of those awkward moments where if I were in the audience, I'd hate whoever was responsible for not only distracting me, but the performer. Here, I was the performer and I tried to press on, but I could see people looking around the room. Being that I had the microphone, I took control of the situation. "Sorry," I said in a voie louder than my usual. "So, yeah, that's my phone." (This would be the minor mishap referenced at the beginning.) I was the asshole who didn't turn off my phone and ironically it rang during my reading. Fortunately people laughed. If at me, I deserved it.

My favorite excerpt was saved for last and it was just getting to the really juicy part when I turned the page and was back on page one. Yup, I left the last two pages at home on the kitchen table. What could I do, but admit my mistake and shrug my shoulders. People wanted to know what happened next, I left them hanging and the organizer of the event said I write suspense for a reason.

Anyway, I didn't get booed and I made some new friends so overall, it was a good night. Next time I do a reading (oh yes, there will be a next time), I will make sure to turn off my cell phone and staple the damn pages together!

Here are some pictures and a recap of the Scratchpad Reading Series http://www.scratchpadseries.com/recap/the-recap-scratchpad-6/

My First Public Reading!

2011-05-03T13:50:00.002-04:00

I'm one of the authors reading at the next installment of the Scratchpad Reading Series. This is my first reading and I am ever so thankful it's being held at a bar (Hemingway would approve).

Here's a link to details about the venue and the Scratchpad Series, a quarterly event. http://www.scratchpadseries.com/faq/
...
I'll be reading from End of the Road (working title), a novel I've been working on over the past year. Here's a brief excerpt:

I round the bend and can barely make out the shoulder of the road, which is wider because of a clearing. I decide to pull over until the storm passes. I speed up, but another flash of lightning reveals a group of people standing on the shoulder and I’m barreling towards them. Reflexes kick in and I turn left, over-correcting in the process. My tires hydroplane and before I can gain control, my car punches through the guardrail.

A scream is stuck in my throat and I can’t breathe. My car is suspended in mid-air and I am vaguely aware that my foot is still pressing down on the brake pedal. Don’t let go of the brakes, you’re not going anywhere as long as you keep your foot on the brakes, I think to myself. "Oh no,no,no...NO!” I shriek, wrapping my arms up over my face and head to protect them when the car begins to plummet.

Paranormal Activity...and not the movie

2011-04-19T22:04:00.003-04:00

Today I tweeted that the paranormal activity had returned to my house after a relatively quiet period. A couple people wanted details. These are hard to provide in 140 characters, so here we are.

The current house I live in with my husband and stepson is not the first house I've lived in with freaky, unexplainable occurrences. In fact, my first experience with the paranormal didn't happen in my own house.

Rewind to my childhood in New Jersey. I was a young adult, maybe a tween, when I had my first "encounter". This happened at my friend's house, who also happened to live next door. We were hanging out in her living room when a loud bang erupted from the kitchen. We screamed, jumped and crept (in stealth mode) into the kitchen to investigate as we were the only ones home. A mug was on the floor, shattered into pieces. My friend's mom had a rack of mugs on the wall which were used more for decoration than function. Anyway, the design was similar to a coat rack, with a knob on the end to prevent the mugs from sliding off. Someone, or something, had to physically lift the handle over the hook to remove a mug. This, of course, sent chills down our forearms. Then something out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned and saw, coming down the three small steps, which led to the kitchen, an apparition; cloudy, mist-like and transparent. Some facial features could be made out, but nothing definitive. My friend couldn't see it, but she wasn't too far behind when I ran shrieking from the room.

Fast forward to college, my senior year, and to a house in the Fairmount area of Philadelphia I rented with three friends. First, random things started to go missing. An item of clothing here and there, a serving dish, and other miscellaneous items. We really didn't think much of it since none of us were neat freaks. My cat, Winston, would act strangely at times...as if he was following something with his eyes, something we couldn't see. Plus, there were the cold spots, but it was an old house. All of this wasn't exactly paranormal and can easily be explained. What happened next couldn't. Two of my roommates were alone in the house, hanging out in the living room and watching T.V. It was winter, the windows were closed, we didn't have a lot of foot traffic on our street and the television wasn't that loud. It was also daytime and our neighbor, whose house adjoined ours, was at work. How they explained it was that, out of nowhere, it sounded like they were smack dab in the middle of a party; several voices murmuring and a piano tinkling in the background. This freaked them out and they abandoned ship.

My parents were the next to experience something strange and unexplainable. They were in town for my graduation. I stayed at a graduation party while they went back to my house to go to bed. My roommates weren't there and they had the place to themselves. One of the cool features of this late 1800's rowhome is that the owners had modernized it with a black metal spiral staircase which ran through the center of the house, from the finished basement to the roof deck. My parents were sleeping in a room near the staircase. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, they were woken by the sound of someone going upstairs, past their floor to the third. Moments later, on the third floor, my roomate's radio turned on, but he wasn't there. Noone was.

Needless to say I was happy to move out after college! I made my way north to Portland, Maine and moved in with my parents temporarily. They had relocated to a gorgeous cape while I was in college and it took me a while to get settled in and used to the sounds the house made. There was the usual creaking and settling, especially during the bitter cold winters. Footsteps walking upstairs, when your downstairs and nobody else is home? Not normal. So I asked my mom if she had seen or heard anything. She said she wasn't surprised because the father of the family they bought the house from had died. He succumbed to cancer after a long and painful battle. Initially I was unnerved, but his spirit was harmless...still is.

A year after moving to Maine, I set out across the country and settled in Phoenix, Arizona. I lived in a series of fairly new apartments and didn't experience anything out of the oridinary (except the gypsies that lived in the complex, but that's another story). I met my future husband and we moved in together, eventually renting a house in Glendale. A few weird things happened there, but really only a few. For example, the clothes dryer would turn on by itself and my husband got his ass slapped in the kitchen (once, and not by me, I was in the bathroom and we had 2 cats at the time - I don't think they could have reached that high). It was after we were married and had relocated to Clarkdale, Arizona, when the real fun started to happen. We rented a house from the original owners (they had built the house, which was less than a decade old). We had sweeping, panoramic views of the Sedona Red Rocks from the front yard and were in the foothills of majestic Mingus Mountain. We eventually bought the house, despite it's "character".

I can't recall when the activity started exactly, but I know it was summer because the windows were closed with the air condtioning on. This is significant because we didn't have a breeze or source for a draft. My husband and I were sleeping when our bedroom door slammed shut, forcing us awake. It was daylight and we both laid there in our sleepy state looking at the door when the knob turned and the door swung open. My stepson, who was seven at the time, was living with us and I expected him to be in the doorway, but he wasn't. No one was there. His room was on the other side of the house and he was still asleep.

The door slamming thing happened every once in awhile and alternated from closet, to bathroom, to office door. Then the thermostat would go to radically high heat or extremely cold. The most memorable phenomenon happened one night when my friend was over. We were all in the living room watching TV. The house had an open layout, where there was a wall which divided the kitchen and the living room, with the dining area a large, shared space. My stepson's bedroom was off of the dining room and our two dogs were passed out on his bed. So, there we were in the living room when a shrill whistle, similar to the one I used to call the dogs, came from the kitchen. We all stared at each other with our mouths hanging open and even more so after the dogs came running out of my stepson's room and directly into the kitchen. I was convinced after that we had something unusual going on.

Now here we are back in Portland, Maine. When we first moved here, we stayed with my parents. Myself, my husband and stepson all heard the footsteps (hence the he's still harmless part). A few months later we found a house and moved in. Just like in Philadelphia, things started to go missing. Namely our silverware. First the forks, so we bought more. Then the butter knives started to disappear, so we replaced them. Then the spoons started to dwindle in number! A flurry of activity has occurred since. We live in a ranch, so the main living space is all on one floor and we only have two bedrooms - our house is compact. We have a full basement, which is used all the time, and an attic we have yet to explore. A breezeway was contructed to connect the house to a two-car garage.

One day I was getting dressed for work (my stepson was at school, my husband at work) and it was just me and the cat in the bedroom when I heard the footsteps. Someone was walking down the hallway, from the kitchen, towards my open bedroom door. I called out, thinking my husband had come home. No response. My cat heard the footsteps too and she went over to the door to see who was here. Of course the hallway was empty.

Since then we've had the basement door open on its own, the bathroom faucet turn on, and knocking on the walls. We've heard a little girl singing. Her voice drifts up through the floorboards from the basement. Usually after one of is laughing or using a sing song voice, she'll carry on after we've stopped. That's definitely one of the freakiest sounds...ever.

Over the past six months or so, things have quieted down...until today. I was home alone this morning and in the kitchen doing my usual routine. My stepson's bedroom is right off of the kitchen and since he was at a sleepover, our dog was seriously depressed, so we left the door open for him to lay on Matthew's bed. The dog had been chilling on Matthew's bed until he smelled my eggs cooking and he wandered out, nose in the air. When he realized he wasn't going to get any human food, he turned around to go back into Matthew's room. He stopped just outside the open door, crouched down low and began growling. This is something he never does and it caught me off guard. I walked up behind him and he was staring at my stepson's bed, growling and the fur on his back was standing straight up. Bullwinkle backed up against my legs and I don't know if he was trying to get away or prevent me from going into the room. Applying the standard ghost hunting techniques, I called out for a sign or a noise. Nothin happened. I stepped into the bedroom and Bullwinkle stayed behind growling. Thirty seconds or so passed before he joined me in the room. He stopped growling, hopped up on the bed and obsessively sniffed the corner of the mattress as if something had recently been there.

This whole episode was definitely strange, but I still had to get ready for work and by this point, I'm running a few minutes behind schedule. When I'm in the shower, I hear the door to the garage from the house slam shut. A distinctive sound we are familiar with. I thought my husband had stopped by the house. He hadn't. I called him later, once I got to work, to confirm. I'm not the only one to have experiences today. My husband got home after work and went to use the bathroom. He was alone in the house so he left the door open. While he was sitting on "the throne", he heard the door to the garage slam shut. The dog even ran out from the living room to see who was here, but returned moments later when there was no one to greet. A few minutes after that, the basement door, which is across the hall from the bathroom, clicks open and slowly swings until it is wide open. My husband is watching this as the hairs on his arms rise with fear.

With this sudden onset of activity, I've been thinking about any signs we might have missed and it dawned on me...just last week when I was setting the table, I made a comment about how our forks are disappearing again.

Music and Emotion

2011-04-11T00:05:00.005-04:00

The conversation I had at dinner was so special, I needed to write it down. My husband's friend was over and a conversation about movies which made us cry segued to music. My sixteen year old stepson remarked that he doesn't understand how some songs can make people cry. Practically in unison, my husband, his friend and myself said that someday he would. I explained to him that at one point in his life he will experience a traumatic moment where his heart is broken and he'll find the one song which completely captures his mood...that totally gets him. This song will be so perfect that even though it's tortuous, he will want to play it over and over again.

The adults in the room proceeded to name off their said meaningful song. Mine is Black by Pearl Jam. After a particularly angsty period of my senior year in high school, I found myself with a broken heart. The boy I confided my true feelings to (after mustering up every ounce of courage my being possessed), had not reciprocated. This, combined with the uncertainty of what my post-high school life held, turned me into a weeping zombie. Black was my heartsong.

To this day when Black comes on the radio, I always sing these last lines the loudest and they still make my voice thick with tears:

I know someday you'll have a beautiful life, I know you'll be the sun in somebody else's sky, but why, why, can't it be, can't it be mine...

As far as I'm concerned, Eddie Vedder and Stone Gossard are the lyrical gangsters. Black is forever woven into the patchwork quilt that is my life. Any tears spilled were worth it and I don't regret any heartbroken minute.

Do you have that "one" song and similar memory?

The Mother of All Rants

2011-04-08T22:59:00.003-04:00

It is 2011, right? For all that is going on in the world, you’d think we were back in the 1970’s. Take the current potential for a government shutdown, just the icing on a layer cake; each layer made up of one political, social and global issue after another. All of these issues have been visited before…over 30 years ago.

1) Women’s Rights - Planned Parenthood is the tipping point for the budget. Basically women’s health and if you really want to get down to the core – abortion.

Back in 1973, Roe V. Wade hit the Supreme Court and the decision, which launched women’s rights ahead decades (or so we thought), really pissed off conservative Republicans and they have never been able to get over it. Once again, in 2011, women’ rights hang in the balance.

2) Environment - On April 22, 1970, the United States celebrated the first Earth Day. Despite this progressive moment, and massive protests, the government and greedy oil companies moved ahead and began construction on the Trans-Alaska Pipeline in 1973. The BP disaster in the Gulf of Mexico a year ago? The result of government and greedy governments.

In the same decade where the U.S. celebrated the earth and recognized the need for more environmental protection, a partial nuclear meltdown occurred at Three Mile Island Nuclear Power Plant on March 28, 1979. Now, Japan is reeling from one of the top three largest nuclear disasters in the world. Fingers are already being pointed towards Tokyo Electric Power Company for their faulty oversight.

The damage to the environment, from these two most recent disasters, is incalculable. Dead, baby Bottlenose Dolphins are washing ashore in the Gulf region; many pre-term fetuses. Farmers and fishermen in Japan have had their livelihoods snuffed out practically overnight as a result of radiation contamination and fears.

3) Immigration and Labor – Citizens and legislators fought hard in the 1970’s to establish legislation which put an end to discrimination. Affirmative action and equal opportunity employment were important policies passed with hopes that our segregated history would be just that…history. Our country no longer needed to stand divided and we could move forward in a positive direction.

In 2010, Arizona’s Governor, Jan Brewer, made national headlines when she basically declared war on the national immigration policy and tried to pass a bill which made racial profiling acceptable. Then there is the so called “Birther Movement”, which is spawned out of ignorance by people who believe President Obama was not born on U.S. soil, despite documentation being provided. Why, because he has a different sounding name and darker skin? Not since the 1970’s has our country seen so much divisiveness.

In 1975, the Mexican – American United Farm Workers walked away victorious when California required growers to collectively bargain with the elected representatives from the union. Wisconsin, as well as other states, are now re-examining, and attempting to strip away these collective bargaining rights. Workers are once again forming picket lines and protesting to keep what is rightfully theirs.

Sure there has been some progress…we have phones that think for us; beta was replaced with VHS, which was replaced with DVDs; the Berlin Wall was torn down and there have been great advancements in medicine.

Technology aside, when I examine the parallels between now and then, it’s sad to see how little progress has been made in my lifetime. The global climate (environmental, socio and political) has changed and we as a country, and as a people, have to evolve with those changes. Going backwards isn’t the answer. We certainly don’t want history to repeat itself (ie: Civil War, Hitler).

For those select few in our leadership who wish to remove funding for Planned Parenthood, maybe wait until everyone has health coverage under a national plan, with affordable access to all the services Planned Parenthood provides. Otherwise be prepared for back room abortions, self-abortions, and/or children which are unwanted and wind up burdening the system.

As a woman, I don’ think the government should have a say on when I should or should not have sex, conceive, go on birth control, or have any say over my body at all…period.

For those select few who have issues with immigrants and minorities, our founding fathers were immigrants. The Statue of Liberty is revered as a beacon of hope for a new life in a country which won't oppress and offers oppotunities. The “White America” you believe you are preserving doesn’t exist anymore. We are a multi-cultural, multi-racial nation. President Obama, who was elected by a majority, is representative of this fact. You need to stop trying to hold the country back and let our government evolve as needed.

If worker's rights are infringed upon, prepare for companies to take advantage of their employees and for unsafe working conditions to resurface. It's happened before and it can happen again.

Where the environment is concerned, I really hope history doesn’t keep repeating itself. Face it, nuclear power is bad. It’s like creating a disease without the vaccine. Maybe oil is so difficult to extract for a reason. What happens when you stick a syringe in an orange and suck the juice out? Exactly. Is oil a cooling barrier between the Earth’s core and its surface? What happens when the oil is being extracted faster than it can be replenished? It’s not just “we should” look at alternative energy sources, but we need to implement them.

Government pockets shouldn’t be so easily filled by corporations either, but that is a much longer rant and I’m running out of steam here. When I get mad and frustrated I need to write it out. Thanks to the many advances in technology, I’m able to share this on the internet, and will do so while this is still a free country.

Highs and Lows

2011-04-01T00:25:00.004-04:00

Life is a balance, this is true. With the highs, come the lows. I've never been more reminded of that than this week, particularly yesterday. Thursday morning started off with me thinking it was Friday. I flitted about the kitchen, getting my coffee and making my son's lunch. About halfway through spreading Miracle Whip on a slice of bread did it dawn on me that is was only Thursday.

Later that morning...

I'm at work, sitting at my desk and realize it's almost April. Yes, time flies blah, blah, blah, but the month is significant because March is my remission month and marked six years of being cancer free (Thyroid Cancer). How had I let this anniversary pass by unnoticed? No sooner do I think this when I get a text message from my dear friend who was diagnosed with the same type of cancer (only two years before me and at a later stage). She sent a picture of her and her husband with their freshly shaven heads. She has never been able to declare herself cancer free since her diagnosis and is on a drug trial which causes hair loss.

Tears sprung up and I rushed to the office bathroom for a good cry. It's difficult to celebrate my good health for it was my friend's condition, which made me schedule an appointment with my doctor (after I experienced discomfort in my neck). Seeing her bald head reminded me of the reality of her situation. Now, eight years after her diagnosis, she is still fighting and has never once stopped.

Later that afternoon...

I received news that a story I entered in a flash fiction competition was the winner and will appear in an anthology being published in 2012. This news made me want to jump up and do an Irish jig in my cubicle (I refrained). By this point in the day I had a headache from the volley of emotions. The "acceptance high" carried me through the rest of the day and into the night...until I had to go online and check me sons grades to see if they had improved since the previous week.

Later that night....

His grades were worse. *sigh*

Friday, April 1st, 1:00 a.m.

I'm sure today will bring more of the same highs and lows, just in different, equally exciting combinations. Life is grand and provides great fodder, doesn't it?

Drawing the Line

2011-02-18T00:32:00.003-05:00

As I write this, I have a cat perched on my arm. She is soft, purring and occasionally licks the back of my hand. She is a happy cat because she has me all to herself. In this showering of affection lies a problem...it's extremely hard to write when you have a cat perched on your arm. When she stretches her paws out and touches the mouse on the laptop, thus moving the cursor, that makes it even more difficult.

So why don't I just kick the cat off? Because I work all day and until the dog goes to bed with my son, Snowball (said cat) is in hiding. When it's just me and her she hangs out and gets her lovin'. I feel guilty dislodging her for all she wants is her share of attention.

The time has come though to evict the cat from her perch. I need to write as my stories aren't going to do it themselves and the cat limits my typing abilities.

Snowball, I'm drawing the line in the litter...you need to find a another spot to act cute in. We'll still be in the same room together, just with some space.

Now let's see how long this lasts. Her fuzzy face has a way of wearing down my will.

Back the Truck Up

2011-01-06T23:46:00.002-05:00

I learned a very important lesson - probably the most valuable lesson of the year - and the year has only just begun: you need to back up your work. Stop procrastinating and do it! Save to Google docs, a flash drive or a back-up hard drive - anything.

Twas two nights before New Year's Eve and my laptop started acting weird, so I stopped what I was doing and started running a security scan. One after the other threats kept popping up until, in total, the anti-virus detected eight Trojan viruses. All but two were able to be quarantined and removed. The others had already firmly implanted themselves in the core operating system. In other words, my laptop was on the road to becoming toast.

All of my short stories, one completed novel, and three other novels in progress (all over 40K words in length) were on there and I didn't have them backed up anywhere.

The irony of the whole scenario is I received a flash drive USB doo-hickey as a Christmas present with about 300 billion GB of storage space (tech geeks tell me this is a lot of space). Had I used it yet? Nope. My husband, who is tech savvy and part geek, attempted to save the My Documents folder onto the flash drive and it didn't work. Then the blue screen of death appeared. I saw all the hours I spent bent over the keyboard flash before my eyes at that moment. Anxiety, comparable to when I was diagnosed with cancer, took over my mind and body as quickly as the viruses had corrupted my computer.

I am probably being dramatic but writing is my life, it's what keeps me sane, and the thought of losing everything I had written terrified me. It's not like I have every single word stored in my brain and I can just type it out again.

Today was the moment of truth...my new Dell laptop arrived and my fabulous husband (who I now owe big time) managed to extract my files from the old laptop onto the flash drive. Every single file is intact. I let out a huge sigh of relief. I didn't realize I had been holding my breath for over a week (that has to be some kind of record).

So please, writers I implore you. Don't let this happen to you! Back up, back up, back up!

Girls Weekend

2010-11-09T21:17:00.004-05:00

This past Friday I traveled to Perkasie, PA for a girls weekend with several of my close friends from college.

Most of us met in the dorms our freshman year where we were all experiencing our first taste of freedom and independence. As we decided our majors and looked towards graduation, we started the transformation from teenagers to the adults we are today, and somewhere along the way the lifelong bond of sisterhood was formed. One by one we ventured out into the real world as strong, confident and well adjusted women. Some of us journeyed across the country, or to pig farms in Arkansas, but eventually we all ventured into the bonds of holy matrimony.

Time between visits or phone calls grew farther apart as we got caught up in the building of our lives. The annual Christmas photocard often became the only update and I looked forward to the images of growing children and families. Close to ten years had passed before we saw each other as a group again. It was April 2007 and we gathered to attend a dear friends funeral. None of us were prepared to lose Dottie. Her passing resonated deep within us and with her loss came perspective; we needed to honor Dottie's memory, and the love she so generously gave us, by staying more connected with one another.

A date was set for the girls weekend; no husbands and no kids, just the girls. Days were counted down with anticipation until finally the weekend arrived. We ate, drank, laughed and fell back into our old comfortable companionship that years apart hadn't changed. Not every one could join us, but as photo albums were brought out and memories reenacted, it felt like we were all there...even Dottie.

We talked about our marriages, children, and shared revelations about current or past hardships in our lives. Knowing that we weren't alone in life's grand adventure brought a sense of relief. Sometimes we get caught up in our own struggles and lose sight of the support system out there. A support system that has been in place since 1992. This weekend served as a reminder that we are still the same smart, strong and confident women...just a little older.

The time we spent together was brief, but it reinforced how important it is to spend time together. Not just on Facebook or via text message, but honest to goodness "sit next to each other and laugh until a drink shoots out your nose" time.

I miss my girls already and can't wait until next year, for we all agreed to make girls weekend an annual event.

Halloween

2010-10-17T19:25:00.004-04:00

I was talking about Halloween with my co-worker last week and learned she hates the holiday. I found this hard to believe because I'm Halloween's #1 fan. Who hates a holiday where there's free candy, you're able to scare people and not worry about getting sued and have the opportunity to dress up and pretend to be someone (or something) else? So, I asked her why she hated Halloween. One of the reasons she gave is that it's the one day out of the year where people try to dress as slutty as possible. I could see her point, some people do confuse Halloween with the Pimp n' Ho's Ball.

Today, I sat down and surfed the good ol' Intrawebs for some costume ideas. I have a closet full of bridesmaids dresses which I know I can recycle into something good. I googled "Halloween Costume Ideas" and clicked on images. My search resulted in pictures which could be used as covers for porn DVD's. I had to laugh because these very images validated my co-worker's complaint.

Halloween has been celebrated for centuries, has it always been used as an excuse to dress a little naughty or risque? I don't think so. Most depictions of witches are of the wart covered, hooked nose, hag variety. Monsters, zombies and other unsavory characters from slasher films dominate my recollection of the true spirit of Halloween. Although someone in a poorly fitted corset and fishnets can be pretty frightening, it's not on the same level as say the Headless Horseman, Norman Bates or Jason Voorhees.

This also makes me wonder, what do kids think? Do eight year old girls look at their Snow White costumes and compare it to their mother's "Ho White" get-up and want the latter?

Halloween has been divided into two very separate holidays celebrated differently depending on your age bracket and I think that needs to change. Why can't it be a horror, ghoul fest where adults and kids alike rejoice in the idea of trying to spook one another, without going to far of course (for any serial killers following my blog, this means you)?

This year I will wear a modest costume and I will make sure it leaves at least one person just a little bit afraid.

Happy Halloween!

The Short Story Collective

2010-10-15T20:41:00.005-04:00

It's been over a month since I last blogged and there are a few reasons why:

1) Life - I thought having the kid back to school would make life less hectic. Not the case for this SUV driving Football Mom!

2) Writing - I've been on a roll with my MS and didn't dare get off course...even with a blog post.

3) I joined a new blog called The Short Story Collective where I and other writers post short stories. I'm the Friday author. Check it out and please follow us http://thesscollective.blogspot.com/ A big shout out to Chris Brett for having the initiative to launch The Short Story Collective. I believe Chris is looking for a couple more authors to contribute...

I hope all of you have been experiencing a creative Fall thus far!

Summer Nostalgia

2010-08-29T23:30:00.003-04:00

Yet another summer is drawing to a close and like the last, I am left wondering, “Where did it go?” As a child, the summer stretched out if front of me - months full of days spent outside without a care in the world. Looking back, I like to think that I appreciated them. Had I the foresight to know how little time I have now for play, I would have embraced them more fully.

I grew up in Haddonfield, New Jersey; a Stepford-like town where the wide streets are still lined with lush, green trees which provide ample shade. Dots of sunlight break through and dance across the asphalt when a breeze stirs the branches. With a population of a little over twelve thousand, the town was small enough to walk around without parental supervision. In the late seventies and eighties, we didn’t have Amber Alerts, we didn’t wear helmets when we rode our bikes and it was okay for other adults in the neighborhood to discipline us if we were up to no good.

My summers were carefree. Usually a couple weeks were spent at camp in Hope, Maine, but the rest was full of adventure. From the moment the sun rose until the lightening bugs lit up the night sky by the thousands, I was outside.

I grew up on Mountwell Avenue where there were tons of kids all in various age groups. Somewhere along the way we were dubbed the “Mountwell Gang”, but we were far from gangsters. I think we earned the title because we always did stuff together. We played games like Kick the Can, Jailbreak and Capture the Flag. Occasionally we hung out on the second floor of my neighbor’s garage. We didn’t mind the stuffiness, the dust and cobwebs or the heat. Here secrets were told or dares were made. We all looked forward to sitting in the wrecked Corvette Stingray parked one level below. The once gold paint faded to a dull bronze.

My dad’s garden and fruit trees provided ample sustenance, as did the honeysuckle which grew along the fence by the train tracks. I would roam around barefoot and come home with feet stained reddish purple from trampling around on fallen mulberries. No matter how much I scrubbed my feet, they were discolored for days. Occasionally I received an invite to go to the pool club. My parent’s never paid for a membership, so when the opportunity arose, I jumped on it. After the chlorine became too much, my friends and I would drip dry as we walked to the corner store where we bought Swedish Fish and Jawbreakers for a penny each.

As we got older my friends and I found jobs around town. The days were absorbed, but our curfews were later and nights were spent roaming around the hang out spots, spending money on Big Gulps and cigarettes (sometimes cheap beer or Boone's Farm wine), and sneaking kisses with the romantic interest of the summer.

One of my friend’s parents had a house at the shore and we would drive down there, a caravan of three to four cars. At the shore, we attended parties on the beach among the sand dunes and around raging bonfires. The heat of the day would cool off along the ocean, our sunburned skin left us feverish with chills and we welcomed the warmth of the flames.

Earlier this summer I traveled to Philadelphia where two of my best friends from high school and I gathered for a reunion. One day we took NJ Transit over the bridge to our hometown. Stepping off the train was like stepping back in time. Nothing had changed; the air was still swollen with humidity and cicadas hummed above in the tree tops.

We walked down the main street, past all the shops and offices we recalled from our childhood. It had been eighteen years since we last tread the uneven brick sidewalks, which bulge from roots growing underneath. I waited for a car to drive by and honk, its occupants hollering and waving in recognition. We laughed and reminisced. Once again we were on summer vacation and we only thought about the day ahead, not the next. Even sweat dripping down and collecting in the small of our backs didn’t bother us. We had some money in our pockets and our cares about the real world were temporarily forgotten.

R.I.P. Rocky Fechenda

2010-08-18T22:54:00.003-04:00

Today we received confirmation our kitty, Rocky, had been hit by a car and killed on Saturday. The last time we saw him was on Wednesday, August 11th. He had just caught something ( a bird or mouse or squirrel...you never knew with Rocky) and he was on the front lawn meowing at us about his catch. We praised him through the open windows and went back to watching Man Vs. Food. That was the last time we saw him.

He didn't come in that night, which isn't unusual, but he didn't come in by the next night and I started to worry. On Friday, after walking the neighborhood and talking to neighbors without any success, I called the local animal shelter and filed a report. On Saturday afternoon I put up fliers in the area.

Saturday evening the phone rang and my husband answered. A woman claimed to have seen a cat, which looked like ours, get hit by a car on the major road a block over from our street. She and her husband stayed with the person who hit the cat until the animal control officer showed up. She gave us the officers name and was choked up. My husband called that night, but the officer was off duty until Tuesday. We still hoped the cat wasn't Rocky, but didn't find out until today that it was him.

The animal control officer returned our call and described the cat she collected. Orange tiger, big, white chest and double paws. She described our Rocky.

Our family is sad tonight and grieving over our loss. Pets become a part of the family and Rocky truly was a Fechenda. He and our dog, Bullwinkle, had a bromance like no other. Poor Bullwinkle's appetite has been off since Rocky went missing. Snowball, our other kitty, has taken up a vigil by the front door. Soon they will realize he's not coming home.

I take solace in knowing he was killed instantly from the impact of the vehicle. Also, we gave him a loving home and he reciprocated the love. I never knew a cat to drool, and Rocky did, much more than the dog. He left drool stains on the furniture. He was chatty too and would come into the house at the end of the day telling us about his adventures. What I will miss the most about Rocky is his snuggling. He would hug my neck, rub his head against my chin and purr. At night he draped himself across my pillow behind my head. His little motor would help me sleep.

Rocky may have only been on this planet for three years, but they were well lived. May he rest in peace.

Writer's Groups

2010-07-25T20:36:00.002-04:00

I love my writer's group! I want to shout it from the rooftops, but I won't, I'll just blog about it. If you're an aspiring writer and aren't part of a writer's group, I highly recommend finding one. For about six years I was working on a novel. People knew the premise, but never saw a single page I had written. Not my husband, not my mom, and not even my best friend. After taking a creative writing class in college and having the evil professor rip my work apart, I didn't have the confidence to share my novel with anyone.

A little over a year ago I finally got the courage when I joined a writer's group. I knew the group organizer as we had worked together and we encouraged each other to put our stuff out there. My pages were well received, the group members liked what I had written and offered feedback and suggestions. Not in a "I will destroy your soul" kind of way like my professor, but as fellow writers whose confidence was just as fragile.

Now, a year later, three core members are still active in the group and we have all noticed an improvement in our writing. Getting feedback from an audience actually helps me with sticky scenes or character flaws. We have become comfortable with each other to be more critical, but only to push ourselves. We can take it. Within this year I had a short story published and started sharing my writing with family members. My mom, who I feared would be my worst critic, believes I am capable of making a career out of being a writer and is willing to pay for conferences. She considers it an investment. That was a surprise and a relief!

If you are serious about writing, one of the first steps you should take is to find a writer's group. It might take a few visits to groups to find the right one, but it is definitely worth the effort. I found my group on the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance forum. Check with your regional or state writers association or other resources (Craig's List for example) to see if there are groups meeting in your area.

Mel Gibson's Rants

2010-07-20T19:36:00.004-04:00

Since my blog is titled EJ's Rants and Ramblings, I thought I'd sound off on the very public rants of Mel Gibson. Since every media outlet from Time Magazine to E.T. are weighing in, I didn't want to be left out.

Poor Mel, that's right I said Poor Mel, is getting chewed up in the media frenzy and I think it's unfair. First of all when people fight, especially ex-lovers, they can say mean and nasty things to one another. Usually these arguments are in private as these alleged arguments were. They were private until Oksana leaked them to the media. In the latest tape Mel accuses Oksana of being a golddigger and I think he's right. She probably did sign a paper where she gets none of his earnings so now she has to peddle these edited tapes for a paycheck.

Mel Gibson's ex-wife is coming forward to support him and still his sanity is being called into question. Who was Oksana before she met Mel? Exactly. Who better than an ex-lover to know what buttons to push to incite anger in a man, which is exactly what this golddigger is doing.

I hope that Mel gets through this latest scandal. He is a talented actor and director. Is he flawed? Yes, because he is human. We all are flawed in one way or another.

Who needs a Pulitzer when there's The Versatile Blogger Award?

2010-07-07T18:32:00.004-04:00

As you know, I'm not an active blogger. Since I've been traveling a lot over the past few weeks (for work and for pleasure), I have been super neglectful. So neglectful in fact, I didn't realize until now that my writer friend (and rebel), Olivia Herrell, honored me with The Versatile Blogger Award.

What is this, you ask? It's a great way to boost someone's spirit and acknowledge the work they are doing. It is also a way for you to get to know a little bit more about me. Here are the rules (which I don't think are too difficult to follow):
1. Thank and link back to the person who gave you this award. (*waves to Olivia*)
2. Share 7 things about yourself.
3. Pass the award to 15 bloggers who you have recently discovered and who think you are fantastic for whatever reason! (In no particular order...)
4. Contact the bloggers you've picked and let them know about the award.

I am a technotard at blogging still, so might not link to blogs correctly. My apologies in advance...

Now onto to step #2 - Seven things about myself:

1) I was born at home.
2) I'm a cancer survivor.
3) I've lived in Philadelphia, Phoenix and now Portland.
4) If desperate enough, I would exchange a kidney for a Whoopie Pie (jk, but I do loves me a Whoopie Pie)!
5) My favorite book of all time is Little Women. Louisa May Alcott and her MC, Jo March, planted the writer seed before I even knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.
6) I love being a stepmom.
7) My first concert was Def Leppard and my dad chaperoned. He rocks!

Now on to step #3...here are 15 bloggers who are definitely worth mentioning and following. There have been many slow days at the office where their entries warded off certain death by boredom.

1) Charity Bradford, My Writing Journey
2) Natalie Murphy, The Sound of Rain
3) Roland D. Yeomans, Writing In The Crosshairs
4) Rhonda Cowsert, Snarktastic Ramblings
5) VR Barkowski
6) Eric W. Trant, Digging With the Worms
7) Mia Hayson, Literary Jam and Toast
8) Betty Blue, 37.2 Degrees in the Morning
9) Kelly R. Morgan, Distracted by the Internet
10) Courtney Reese at Critique This WIP
11) Loretta8, Mega-Toad Productions presents...
12) JA Souders, Angels and Demons and Portals. Oh My!
13) Anne Riley
14) Donna Hole
15) Eisley Jacobs, Eisley's Ellipses

Whew, this took longer than I thought, but was worth it! Receiving the award lifted my spirits and I hope to pay it forward.

Missing Followers

2010-06-13T19:39:00.002-04:00

I checked my blog today and noticed I lost a follower. Most Facebook friends know me or know a member of my family, so they know I'm liberal and not afraid to speak my mind. Most of the time when they drop it's because Facebook isn't for them or their profile got compromised. Twitter drop offs can be attributed to Twitter bots.

My blog has very few followers so a loss of just one is noticeable. Now I'm left to wonder...was it something I said? Maybe I'm not posting enough? Are my blog posts not useful or entertaining? Maybe my posts are just so horrible that this person felt dumber for reading one? Who knows, but an explanation would have been nice.

I'm new at this whole blogging thang and any feedback or criticism is welcome. Since I'm an aspiring writer I don't feel I'm in the right position to offer advice to other writers. Occasionally I'll rant about a topic unrelated to writing, but mostly I use the blog to post scenes from WIP's as a way to receive input from readers outside of my critique group.

For those followers that have been blogging a lot longer than me, any insight you can offer will be greatly appreciated. To my followers, thank you for sticking with me! :)

Short Story in Progress

2010-06-10T22:39:00.002-04:00

I'm working on a short story and using this to stretch my comfort zone a bit. I normally don't write paranormal and thought I'd give it a try. The story is from the P.O.V of a demon. Walking around in a demon's shoes has made me write some pretty disturbing sequences, but it's been a thrilling process. Forcing myself to pull from the darkness (which I think exists in all of us, yet most of us choose to keep buried) is proving to be a challenging, yet beneficial exercise.

Here are the first few (still to be edited) paragraphs:

I hover above, watching my masterpiece unfold. Flashing lights from two dozen or so emergency vehicles cover the town square in a frenetic blue and red pattern. News reporters crowd around the front of the school, lying in wait for a glimpse of the macabre. Stretcher upon stretcher are wheeled out, full black body bags their cargo. The massacre occurred as school was letting out for the day. Now it’s close to midnight and the mess is far from being cleaned up.

Grief, anger, guilt and blame build in the air and swirl around me. I breathe it all in.

As the night wears on, the crowd dissipates. I grow tired of watching. My work here is done. Another town on the horizon is begging for disaster.

In my free form I’m a mist. If people catch a glimpse of me it’s fleeting; a shadow or dark cloud passing over the sun. I can still move objects in my natural state, cause goose bumps to ripple across skin, but when I find a body to manipulate, that’s when the fun really begins.

Humans make perfect puppets. They’re so malleable, emotional and weak.

Dream Blogfest

2010-06-04T22:09:00.006-04:00

Thank you Amalia http://hellia.blogspot.com/ for hosting the Dream blogfest! This dream sequence is from The Beautiful People, which has been the manuscript I've used for all other blogfests. I kind of feel bad for Natalie (my MC) as I haven't been very nice to her. She's a tough girl though and can handle it...

Soon I relaxed enough and began to doze in the tub. Sleep might come tonight after all, I thought as I dried off. I crawled into the king sized bed, which seemed enormous and empty without Dominic and fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.

The dream started out nice. I was swimming in the ocean, the sun high above and reflecting bright white off of the sand. I floated weightless in the water and bobbed with the gentle lapping waves. Dominic and Grant were on the shore waving at me. I waved back and dove under the surface. When I came up for air the atmosphere had changed. Dark, stormy clouds boiled in the sky and the water had become choppy. Alarmed I looked for Dominic and Grant on the beach. They were gone. Something bumped into my back and moved away then collided with me again. I spun around and screamed. A body floating face down in the sea moved with the surf. Panic set in and I started to swim toward the shoreline. When I turned, a different body blocked my path. Then I noticed the water was blood red and corpses floated on the top of the ocean, in every direction as far as I could see. I opened my mouth to scream again and nothing happened, the air around me was void of sound, muted.

I woke in a cold sweat and with a pounding heart. I reflexively reached for Dominic, but he was gone. Disoriented, I panicked, still caught between my nightmare and reality. Finally the surroundings of our bedroom became familiar and I remembered where Dominic was. My head ached and I had cottonmouth, the beginning of a hangover starting to set in. I rolled over and stared at the closed bedroom door. I wanted the comfort of my mom. On her good days she would make the nightmares disappear so I could fall back asleep. This time I couldn’t tell her the source of my terrors. The boogieman wasn’t in my closet and there wasn’t a monster under the bed, the horrors in my dreams were real.

Getting Published

2010-05-22T22:24:00.003-04:00

Thursday morning I checked my email and the very top message was from the Editor-In-Chief of Suspense Magazine notifying me that a flash fiction piece I submitted had been accepted and will be in the June issue. I squealed, jumped up and down, slapped the door frame of the bathroom and almost caused my husband to fall in the shower. Screw coffee, all I need is an email like that one every morning and I am good to go!

Seeing my name in the table of contents and seeing my story laid out with all the fancy font treatments on the pages of the magazine was and still is such a thrill. This acceptance is a stepping stone to greater things. I love writing and maybe, just maybe, writing loves me too.

Bad Girl Blogfest

2010-05-07T22:29:00.003-04:00

This is another scene from The Beautiful People, which is the MS I've used for all previous blogfests. Hope you like!

“Hi beautiful!” Dominic called to me. I made my way over to his bar and he met me halfway. “I missed you.” He hugged me and we kissed before he stepped back and reached into his pocket.

“I got you something to make up for last night.” He pulled out a small present, wrapped in silver paper and handed it to me.

“What did you get?”

“Open it and find out.” His eyes sparkled.

I ripped the wrapping paper off before he even finished. I opened the cream colored box and gasped. Inside a diamond solitaire stud gleamed on a cushion of white satin.

“Dominic! You shouldn’t have!”

“It’s a navel ring.”

“Is it a real diamond?”

“Of course it is, nothing but the best for my girl.”

“Thank you.” I fell against him, wrapping my arms around his waist. His lips grazed the top of my head.

I squeezed him once more before I reached for his hand and pulled him with me into a dark alcove.

“What are you doing?”

I lifted up my shirt to reveal the silver bar in my bellybutton. “Do you want to put it on?”

Dominic’s Adam’s Apple bobbed when he swallowed hard. Licking his lips, he knelt down in front of me. His fingers brushed against my stomach, tickling me and causing me to giggle.

“Hold still.” Dominic said, grabbing my hips.

Biting my lip, I kept the laughter in check while he finished. Suddenly I felt his hands move up underneath my skirt. Cupping my ass, he pulled me towards him covering my belly with soft kisses. Groaning, he released me and stood up.

“You have no idea what you do to me woman, that was the sexiest thing ever.”

“Looks good,” I said, studying my new naval ring.

“Looks better than good, I’m going to cover you in diamonds.”

“Dom, no, I’m not worth it.” His eyes grew dark when I said this, resembling Tony’s glare. Shocked, I took a step back.

“Yes you are, every diamond in the world doesn’t add up to your worth.” His eyes softened and he pulled me into his chest. Tears welled up and breathing in the spice of his cologne helped calm the swell of emotion, allowing me to savor the moment.

“Ew. Get a room!” A voice said from behind us. I jerked my head up and saw Brittany. Her normally pretty face was twisted into a sneer.

“Fuck off Brit,” Dominic said. She shot him an evil look before stalking off towards the employee lounge.

“What is her problem?”

“She’s used to getting what she wants. God help the world if she doesn’t. You know what? Keep your stuff in Miranda’s office. You don’t have to use the lounge anymore.”

“Dom, I can handle Brittany. She’ll just have to learn how to deal. I’m not afraid of her.” I wasn’t the tallest of girls and still towered over Brittany. What was the tiny blonde going to do anyway?

“Just watch your back.”

“Yes, dear.” I gave him a quick kiss and left to get ready for work.

Brittany glared at me when I entered the lounge. The heavy, dark liner around her startling blue eyes made her look meaner. Ignoring her, I went to an open locker to hang up my jacket and purse.

“Slut.”

“What did you say?” I asked, whipping around to face her.

“You heard me. I called you a slut.”

“You’re just jealous.” I slammed the locker door shut.

“It’s so obvious what you’re doing. Throwing yourself at the owner’s nephew,” she spat.

“Brittany, you’re being fucking ridiculous. Dominic doesn’t want you. Get over it!”

“He’s just using you.”

I closed my eyes, willing her to go away. Rubbing my belly I felt the navel ring and smiled.

“Let me ask you something Brittany?” I said in the sweetest voice I could muster. “Did Dominic ever give you diamonds or did he just fuck you in the back seat like a cheap whore?”

I thought I saw her blanch before she charged at me, squealing like a pig in heat. “YOU BITCH!”

Joey D. stepped into the lounge to see Brittany barreling towards me. His eyes widened and he ran after her. Just before Brittany could take a swipe at me, he yanked her back. She struggled against him, kicking and screaming. Poor Joey looked like he was wrestling an alligator. The veins on his muscular arms bulged and the chords on his thick neck stood out.

Everyone heard the commotion and came pouring in to the lounge. Dominic ran in and stood beside me. His arm wrapped protectively around my waist, setting Brittany off even more.

“What makes her so special Dominic?” Brittany yelled. Her face almost matched her red lipstick.

“Brittany, you need to stop.” Dominic turned us to leave, but the doorway was blocked. Grant and Miranda had arrived. They rushed over to me.

“Oh, I get it you’re all one big happy fucking family now!” Brittany’s rage hadn’t ebbed and Joey was still struggling to contain her. “She’s not one of us. I don’t even know why that bitch works here!”

Those words stung as if Brittany had physically slapped me. I wasn’t a Crimson girl and I hadn’t really felt like I had fit in since my first day.

“Shut up!” Grant bellowed. “Joey, get her out of here.”

“Go home Brittany. You’re not working tonight,” Miranda said. The crowd parted and let Joey through.

Body Language Blogfest

2010-04-25T00:13:00.002-04:00

Okay, this was a challenge. I picked a scene from The Beautiful People, which has been the MS of choice for the other blogfests I have participated in. In this particular scene my MC, Natalie, is stuck in a bad situation with one of the most powerful Mafioso's in the country.

He sat on the edge of an old, bare mattress decorated with a pattern that may have been popular twenty years earlier. It might as well have been a throne the way he sat there with authority, his back straight and shoulders squared. He didn’t say anything to me, just patted the empty space next to him, inviting me to sit. I stayed rooted to the floor and didn’t budge. He smiled at my defiance. Then he stood up and walked over until he was right in my face. I held my breath and turned my head away so I wouldn’t have to inhale his noxious odor. Grabbing my chin, he dug his fingers in and forced me to look at him. I glared back. He smiled, briefly, before kissing me. He pried my lips apart and invaded with his tongue. He might as well have shoved an ashtray in my mouth. I started to gag, bile rising in my throat. I placed my hands on his chest and tried to push him away. His arousal grew the more I struggled and he made sure to press against me as I protested. I lifted my knee up and hit him square in the balls. Instead of dropping into a fetal position, which is what I expected, he backhanded me again and I felt my lip split open. The pain was sudden and surprising, but I would take that over his ashtray lips on mine.

He shoved me against the door, my skull cracked hard on the wood. Dazed I shook my head to clear my vision. Mr. Genovese used his body weight to subdue me and attempted to rip my skirt off. His bare shoulder leaned in towards me so I bit, sinking my teeth into the flesh as deep and as hard as I could. He howled in what I thought was pain, but when he looked at me I saw a tobacco stained grin and anticipation in his eyes.

Bar Scene Blogfest

2010-04-11T12:47:00.003-04:00

I participated in the Murder Scene Blogfest yesterday and this bar scene is from the same manuscript (The Beautiful People). My murder scene is where my MC discovers that her brother is a soldier for the mob an her boyfriend, Dominic, is as well. This scene takes place before Natalie knows all of this and is in the beginning stages of falling in love with Dominic.

And action!

As I sat at the bar, zoning out, it dawned on me. I was beginning to like Dominic in more ways than just lust. Not good. Maybe he was right in distancing himself. I chugged my drink and stood up.

“Well, good night,” I said, hoping he couldn’t hear the panic in my voice. I walked up to the employee lounge to get my things. Brittany was getting ready to leave too.

“Hey Natalie! A bunch of us are going over to Blue, wanna come with?”

“Yes!” I jumped at the opportunity, grateful for the distraction.

We passed Grant on the way out and he seemed relieved that I would be hanging out with a bunch of girls. “Be careful,” he advised. “Call me if you need anything.” I rolled my eyes, but knew he would be the first to call if things got out of hand.

A huge line of people stood outside Blue. Many swayed in place and probably should have been home sleeping the booze off and not waiting to get into another club. I recognized several customers from Crimson as I walked past the line. I thought cutting in front seemed rude, but followed Brittany’s lead and we were ushered inside by the bouncer at the door.

Blue was bursting with people and steaming hot; the air heavy with perspiration and the stench of stale booze. We checked our coats at the coat check and filtered through the crowd to the bar. Once I had my drink, I spun around to people-watch and instead came face to chest with Dominic. Gin and tonic splashed all over my shirt.

“Shit!” I gasped as an ice cube dropped down the front and became lodged in my bra. I reached down to fish it out. Dominic seemed amused at the sight.

“I would have gotten that out for you,” he teased.

“So you’re talking to me now?” I countered. The smile vanished from his face.

“Er, yeah. Sorry about earlier. Your bro didn’t like us getting so friendly in the back of Miranda’s car last night.”

“That’s Grant for you.”

“I can’t say I blame him. I’d probably do the same if my little sister started to get involved with someone like me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, he’s being a big brother. I get it.” He leaned over to order a drink sandwiching me between him and the bar. His closeness made my stomach flip. I shook my head slightly in an attempt to focus. Don’t do it Nat. Don’t start liking this guy, I warned myself. The counter dug into the small of my back so I shifted. This resulted in being pressed closer to Dominic. He looked me up and down. “I owe you a drink, don’t I?” He asked his voice soft and husky.

“Um, I guess so?” Minutes passed while we waited for the bartender to return with our drinks. Dominic kept me pinned.

“So what’s your story, Natalie?”

“Nothing terribly interesting, I’m afraid. I go to the University of the Arts and I’m graduating in May.”

“What are you studying?”

“My major is sculpture and my minor is painting. What about you, do you go to college?”

“I took a couple semesters, but college didn’t appeal to me. Besides, I’m going into the family business anyway.”

“What business is that?”

The bartender arrived and I never got an answer to the question. Dominic kept me pinned beneath him and he leaned down.

“I wanted to do this last night,” he whispered in my ear. I closed my eyes, anticipating his next move. Sure enough his lips found mine and he pulled me closer to him. I grabbed his bicep, which was flexed from holding me so close. This kiss was like nothing I had ever experienced. Not wet, not sloppy, it was…incredible. I stopped holding back and fell into the moment. The loud club ceased to exist. When we pulled apart I had to catch my breath. My insides were begging and pleading for more. I could very easily have taken Dominic back to my apartment, slept with him and then be done. I was about ready to propose this, but stopped myself as another realization hit me.

I wanted more than a one night fling.

We moved in at the same time for another kiss. Our lips had barely touched when Brittany emerged from the crowd, pulling me away from Dominic and onto the dance floor.

“Brittany, I was kind of in the middle of something back there,” I yelled over the music.

“Really?” She seemed oblivious, but I had a feeling she knew exactly what she was doing. I looked back towards the bar, but Dominic was gone. Damn.

Murder Scene Blogfest

2010-04-10T11:21:00.004-04:00

When I saw that Anne Riley was hosting a Murder Scene Blogfest, I became intrigued. This is my first blogfest, but since my finished manuscript is about the Philly mob, I had more than one scene to choose from. My MC, Natalie, doesn't know that her brother, Grant, is a soldier for the mafia or that her boyfriend, Dominic, is either. In fact, Dominic's uncle is the mob boss. This is Chapter 13 (fitting number) where the truth is revealed in a rather graphic manner. The setting is what appears to be a condemned building form the outside, but is really an exclusive after hours club for the mob.

The ride was quiet. Dom’s dark eyebrows creased together forming a pensive expression. There was something on his mind that much I could tell. My repeated attempts to find out didn’t yield anything, sending my imagination into overdrive. Dominic navigated his Mustang down the dimly lit street. By the time he parked in front of the now familiar condemned building I was convinced he was going to break up with me. Once inside he placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me to the same small table where we always sat. Dominic went up to the bar and ordered drinks. He came back with a bottle of Dom Perignon and two champagne flutes. His face was brighter and the smile he flashed, reached his eyes.

“What the hell?”

“We’re celebrating.” He said as he popped the cork and poured the bubbly. He held up his flute to toast. “To us!” He clinked his glass against mine and we sipped. After a couple of glasses I was feeling the buzz. We were both laughing uncontrollably at anything. I rested my head on his shoulder to catch my breath.

Suddenly a commotion broke out in the back room. A bunch of men were yelling and the doorman, Sam, took off down the hall. Gunshots exploded and I hit the floor. Dominic hunched over me protectively. Our champagne bottle was on the floor having been knocked over when I bumped against the table. Several other patrons were crouched down in similar positions. Dominic made sure I was okay and then stood up.

“Where are you going?” I hissed, alarmed.

“To see what happened.”

“Are you crazy? You’re going to get shot!”

“Relax Nat. Everything’s fine.” He spun around and left the room.

I stood up slowly, on shaky legs to follow him. Acrid gun smoke clouded the air, tickling my throat. I peeked around the doorway and down the hall. My eyes saw the blood first. A pool crept outwards from a man lying on his back, motionless on the floor. The force of the bullet had knocked him backwards in his chair when it entered his head. What was left of his skull was the source of the pool of blood. I couldn’t look away. The slow creep hypnotized me. I could identify bits of bone; stark white islands in a red sea. Chunks of brain matter settled in the pool like gelatinous mounds. The dead man’s right arm was flung up over his head, damming the flow, which had already started to coagulate and collect in the grooves of the wooden floorboards. A gun lay a few inches from his open hand.

I wasn’t aware of the sets of eyes staring at me. The sound of my brother speaking broke my fixation, “What is she doing here?” There was an accusatory tone to his voice.

I looked up from the body and into the back room. Grant was standing on the other side of the table flanked by Dominic and Sam. All three were looking at me. Sam’s expression was of wariness, Dominic’s concern and Grant’s anger. I quickly broke eye contact and wished that I hadn’t. Two other men were lying face down on the table in smaller pools of blood. My eyes moved to Grant again, he was the only one holding a gun.

The vodka tonics and champagne I had earlier burned up the back of my throat forcing me to bend over and vomit onto the floor of the hallway. Dizzy, I reached one hand out against the wall for support. I wiped my mouth with the back of my other hand and stared at a spot on the floor that wasn’t covered in vomit or blood or brains. My heart thundered in my ears and I tried to slow my breathing. I needed to sit but was unable to move at first. Slowly, I slid down the wall and hugged my knees to my chest. I didn’t care that my skirt hiked up to reveal my thong. That really seemed inconsequential at the moment. I closed my eyes and willed myself to get a grip. The smell of the death and my barf wasn’t helping to clear my head, but I was eventually able to calm down and became vaguely aware of people talking in the bar area behind me. No one else had gotten up to investigate.

“Hey Uncle Al,” Dominic called down the hall, “Can you help Natalie for me?”
Dominic was trapped on the other side of the body and the lake of blood and couldn’t get to me. A tall, wiry man with salt and pepper hair and a goatee appeared at my side and helped me up. He wrapped his arm around my back in a fatherly gesture and helped me across to the bar. My legs were still shaking and I welcomed the bar stool. The bartender set a glass of ice water in front of me and I gingerly took a sip, grateful to wash down some of the bile residue. Uncle Al sat down next to me.

“How you doin’?” He asked.

“I…I don’t know how to answer that.” I honestly didn’t. I was scared sick, horrified at the gruesome scene I had just witnessed and in shock that my brother was responsible for the carnage. I was even more unnerved that everyone else was so calm. It was like nothing had ever happened. “I need something stronger than water.”

The bartender set a glass of cognac in front of me. I took a healthy swig and braced myself for it to come back up. Fortunately, it soothed my stomach instead and the warmth spread out through my muscles; acting as an anesthetic for my nerves.

“There. Feel better?” Uncle Al patted my hand. He must have seen me relax. I turned to look at him and saw the same green eyes as Dominic and Miranda, only lined with crow’s feet. His skin had an olive complexion, like Dominic.

“I do. Thank you.”

“You just sit here. That mess will be cleaned up in no time.” My hands started shaking again and I quickly took another sip. “I’m Dominic’s Uncle, Al Grabano.” He shook my trembling hand.

“I’m Natalie Ross.” It seemed to be an odd time for introductions. He was looking at my profile and I could feel him evaluating my behavior. Now that the initial shock had worn off and the booze had started to kick in I thought I was ready to process the situation, a little bit at a time. “What happened?” I asked, hesitantly.

“I think we better wait for Grant and Dominic to answer your questions.” We sat in silence. The smell of bleach wafted into the room and soon filled it up completely. Scrubbing sounds drifted down the hall and a door slammed a couple of times. The other men in the room carried on their conversations over drinks, oblivious to the activities around them. After the second glass of cognac my stomach burned a little and my eyelids grew heavy. I rested my head against my hand and dozed off.

The Last Storm

2010-03-31T21:13:00.002-04:00

Aspiring Writers is a LinkedIn group that holds a monthly short story competition. At the end of the year each monthly winning story, and some of the runners up, will be compiled into a book that will be sold on www.lebrary.com. A panel of judges will select the grand winner and the winner picks a charity for the proceeds to be donated to.

My story, The Last Storm, was selected as the winning story for the March competition. I received the email first thing this morning notifying me of my win. Needless to say, I've been stoked all day. This notification came during a period of self doubt and provides the affirmation I need to keep on keepin' on.

The topic was "snow", it could be any genre and had to be 715 words or less. Here's the story:

The Last Storm
By EJ Fechenda

A loud commercial on TV woke me up. I had been watching the local news for updates on the supposed “Storm of the Century” that was barreling its way north. I yawned and creaked out of the recliner. The weatherman always blew storms out of proportion and I knew this one wouldn’t be any different. So after switching off the TV, adding more wood to woodstove for the night, I shuffled down the hall to my bedroom.

Frank had died over five years ago, but I refused to take over the whole bed and stayed on my side as if he were still slumbering next to me. Despite the howling wind and branches scraping against the side of the house, I fell asleep.

A creaking noise coming from the attic woke me in the wee hours of the morning. I went to switch on the bedside lamp, but the power was out and the generator hadn’t started. I sighed and could see my breath in the dim light. I put on my glasses before retrieving the flashlight out of the table drawer.

The hem of my flannel nightgown brushed the tops of my slippers, trapping warmth against my bare legs. I made my way through the house, the creaking noise growing louder as I reached the kitchen. I pointed the flashlight up and noticed a crack had formed. Part of the ceiling was on the verge of collapse. Alarmed, I backed out of the room, unable to take my eyes off of the damage.

With the power out, the heat hadn’t kicked on after the fire in the woodstove had burnt out. I opened the back door to get more firewood off of the small porch and faced a wall of white. The entire doorframe was packed with snow. I had never seen so much. A small avalanche tumbled into the house, covering my slippers. Snow slipped down the sides, freezing my already cold feet.

Cursing under my breath I stomped and shook the icy powder loose before walking back to the bedroom. I changed into pants, a turtleneck and a thick Irish cable knit sweater that used to belong to Frank. With my feet encased in warm wool socks, I slipped on boots and prepared to walk onto the porch.

Initially, I thought the wall was caused by drifting and the accumulation wouldn’t be that deep beyond the door. I was partially right. Yes, drifting had caused the excess amount, but at least four feet of fresh snow had fallen overnight, which explained the roof caving in. The firewood was buried and wet and in order to get to the shed that housed the generator, I would have to make my way the length of half a football field through chest high snow. My old body balked at the challenge.

With the phones out, the house growing colder by the minute and the generator closer than any neighbor, I decided to give it a try. I spent a good ten minutes feeling around for the shovel usually propped against the side of the house, but couldn’t find it. Assuming the wind had blown it out of reach, I went without. After twenty feet I was winded, sweaty and…had to pee.

“Well, crap!” I muttered to myself and debated going back to the house. No one was around and the snow provided privacy, so I pulled up my parka, dropped my drawers and squatted.

I didn’t plan on falling. I landed hard and felt my hip shatter. Pain ripped through my body and I tried to get up, but the agony was too immense. I lay on the ground and tried to calm down. Never had I missed Frank more. He always handled the woodpile and the generator. I tried to crawl, but each movement made me quiver with pain. I yelled for help, but nobody came. It was well below freezing and with my pants stuck around my knees the cold sank in fast. I could feel my heart rate slow and imagined the blood in my veins getting sluggish. I struggled to stay awake and knew with hypothermia, once you succumbed to the sleep, you rarely woke up.

I thought of this as my eyelids closed.

Lean on Me

2010-03-24T20:23:00.002-04:00

Last night as I was cooking dinner, the phone rang. My sister-in-law needed a favor. I instantly thought that she needed my son to watch her son or something of that nature. Nothing could have prepared me for what she said next.

"Your brother cut off his finger at work and it's being reattached."

"WHAT?"

"He cut off one of his fingers and is in the ER at Mercy Hospital. I need to meet him there. The kids aren't answering the phone at the house. Can you go check on them?"

We live about 5 blocks away from each other and I was already looking for my car keys.

"They will need to fend for themselves for dinner."

"Nonsense," I said. "I'm cooking spaghetti and there's enough for everyone, I'll bring them here and feed them."

Within minutes of hanging up, I had my two nieces, my nephew and my stepson piled into the car. The kids were excited for spaghetti and meatballs and only mildly concerned that their father had chopped his finger off. They were debating how many stitches he was going to need while shoveling pasta into their mouths. Bless their hearts.

An hour later my brother and sister-in-law showed up at the house. Apparently it was the tip of his finger (right above the first knuckle) and it was only 3/4 of the way cut-off. Gruesome details such as the skin being peeled back, exposing raw flesh, were revealed, much to the disgusted delight of the kids. Our dog was more excited about the new chew toy attached to my brother's hand. "No, Bullwinkle! Bad dog!"

"It could have been worse," my brother said.
"Yes, it could have been your middle finger," I responded. Many laughs ensued. We could laugh about it because it wasn't as bad as we all had imagined.

How does this tie into writing?

Today I kept thinking about support systems. My sister-in-law was able to call on me in her time of need and I was there for her. The security of knowing one person (or a couple people) you would trust with your life and who will be there to bail you out, no questions asked, is important.

The same applies for writing. All writers go through periods of self-doubt where we are convinced anything we've ever written is crap (also explains why Poe and Hemmingway had a problem with the drink). Having someone you can call during these dark periods is essential. Even if it's one other person, this person is your writing lifeline.

My writing lifeline is my friend Nicole. We found each other by accident (or maybe fate brought us together), when Nicole posted on a forum she wanted to start a writer's group. This is when I discovered we already knew each other through a project at work, which we outsource to her company. We had worked together for a year and neither of us knew the other was a writer. After our first writer's group meeting we realized we had the same goals, the same drive and even gave ourselves the same nickname, "Hard Core" (no not porn). Fortunately, we write different genres and aren't competition, otherwise we'd probably have to kill each other. He he.

She understands when I begin to hate every word I've written or I start to doubt I'll ever attain my dream. She pushes me through and encourages me to stay the course. When she begins to doubt herself, I'm there for her. We can vent to each other and share new ideas without the fear of criticism.

Also, through Twitter and shewrites.com, I've found a great group of writers who experience the same growing pains. It's nice to know a support system is out there; a net has been cast to catch me when I fall.

Who is your safety net? I'd love to hear about how they've helped you with your writing.

Editing is a Form of Torture

2010-03-09T21:55:00.003-05:00

I love to write. Escaping into my character’s heads and living vicariously through their crazy adventures is fun, cathartic and sure beats the heck out of my day job. I whipped out an 89,000 word novel and had so much fun writing it, I quickly moved on to the next book in the series. Then people started asking me when I was going to send my book out and try to get it published. “I have to edit it first,” became my static response. Three months of saying this made me face the inevitable; I needed to edit the manuscript. So I shelled out $22.50 to print it out in its entirety, sat down in a quiet room and began a hard edit.

Twenty minutes later I started to panic. I don’t have OCD, but I can get obsessive (which explains the 300 posters of Skid Row and Sebastian Bach that covered my bedroom walls as a teenager). I started to analyze every sentence, every punctuation mark. I noticed that I liked to use the same words…a lot. I became convinced that somewhere in the world editing is used as a form of torture, like water boarding. I pushed on and forced myself to only pick out glaring mistakes the first read through. This helped tremendously and I actually began to get absorbed into the story. The character’s made me laugh, some scenes were so intense they made my stomach tighten and I realized underneath all the potential nit-picking, that I had written a book and it wasn’t half bad.

I finished the first read through, made corrections, added some scenes and beefed up the back story of some of the characters. Then I stopped. I went back to writing another novel in progress because I missed writing and this editing business is a lot of work!

It has been almost two months and The Beautiful People (my finished novel) sits on the end table collecting dust. The pages beg to be edited and whisper to me as I type away on another manuscript. Since I've had such a bad case of writer's ADHD lately, I've decided to focus on The Beautiful People and get all of the edits out of the way.

To help make the characters more real for me, I picked celebrity muses who best physically represent my main characters (pictures enclosed). This was a fun little project and made me excited to go back and edit. I mentioned this to a friend, who is also a writer and struggling with editing her manuscript, and she is thinking about taking my idea one step further and creating a scrapbook to collect images representative of her fictitious town plus her characters – almost like a storyboard.

Going forward I think I’m going to include this exercise as part of the creative process and not wait until the editing part. Do any of you have suggestions for getting through the editing process?

BettyJo Jenkins

2010-03-08T15:33:00.002-05:00

BettyJo Jenkins is led into the visitor’s area where an officer removes her handcuffs. She sits at an empty table and waits for her attorney – the only visitor she’s had since she started her prison term seven years ago.

A woman dressed in a tailored suit sits down across from BettyJo.

“You’re not my attorney,” she states. Her eyes narrow with suspicion.

“I work for the Department of Corrections,” the woman says. “Now let’s see here…” She flips open BettyJo’s folder and skims down the first page, quickly moving on to the next.

BettyJo chews on the skin around her already gnawed down nails.

The woman looks up at BettyJo. Her brown eyes meet piercing blue ones, only briefly, as BettyJo is quick to break eye contact.

“You have quite the record. Multiple possession charges, breaking and entering, homicide…”

“Yeah, so. Everyone in here has a sheet like mine.” She doesn’t like her history being repeated back to her. She knows what she’s done.

The woman silently regards BettyJo. She takes in her agitated appearance; the quick jerks and nervous tapping of her feet.

“If you could go back in time, is there one moment in particular that you would change?”

BettyJo stops fidgeting and leaning forward, reestablishes eye contact with the woman.

“I am who I am. Nothin’ can change that.”

“But, what if you could?” She gives BettyJo a conspiratorial wink.

BettyJo sees the woman’s eyes are kind and do not judge. She thinks back over her life. What moment would she change? It doesn’t take her long to figure it out.

It was a memorable day because she and her mom had gone shopping for her first bra. The white cotton undergarment fit snugly over her budding breasts. She was thrilled about this rite of passage, a sign that the little girl with scabby knees would soon be just a memory. Her excitement didn’t wear off and she fell asleep still wearing the bra. This isn’t what made this day memorable though, it was later, after the house grew still. BettyJo woke suddenly. At first she thought a dream had crossed the threshold into reality – how she wished that was the case. Her stepfather had joined her in the twin bed. She felt his calloused hand around her tiny breast and smelled his beer breath as it steamed up her neck.

Terrified and desperately confused, she let him touch her in places where no one ever had. When he was done, the threat, although just a whisper, was very clear.

BettyJo feels the shame creep up from her stomach and flush across her cheeks. She hangs her head to hide the tears that threaten to spill.

The woman recognizes this moment.

“Look at me.”

BettyJo slowly raises her head.

“I don’t work for the Department of Corrections,” she pauses and surveys the room to make sure their conversation isn’t being overheard and then leans in closer. “I can take you back, but you have to tell me what it is.”

BettyJo sits back, disbelief washing over her features. However, the woman’s eyes convey the truth. She considers this and decides it can’t hurt. She’s in prison for the next fifteen years and doesn’t have anything to lose.

“If I could go back...I would never let him touch me.”

******

The sun filtering through the window wakes BettyJo. Something’s different though, the bed she’s lying in is soft and the sheets smell freshly laundered. She sits up in surprise and finds herself in an unfamiliar bedroom.

There is movement beside her and she wills herself to look. A handsome man slumbers on the other side of the bed. He isn’t the source of the activity though. A little girl peeks up from under the down comforter. Her face, a mirror image of BettyJo’s, lights up in a gap toothed grin.

“Morning Momma!”

Stunned, BettyJo pinches her arm. She looks down and sees the red impressions her fingers left and also sees that the scars from years of heroin use are gone, as if erased overnight. She reaches up and touches her hair. It is no longer dry and limp, but thick and healthy.

“Did you have a bad dream Momma?” The little girl throws her arms around BettyJo’s neck, triggering a flood of emotion.

“Yes, a very bad dream.” She hugs her daughter back, embracing her innocence. Right then and there BettyJo silently vows to protect her daughter and never let anything bad happen to her.

Rejection

2010-03-05T15:29:00.002-05:00

Today I received a rejection email that one of my stories wasn't chosen for a anthology. Ordinarily I would probably mope around the house in a foul mood or read and re-read my story, trying to figure out what went wrong. Instead, I am going to go against the ordinary and view the latest rejection as an opportunity. It is so easy to let rejection consume you, but I refuse to fall into that trap. If this sounds arrogant, I apologize, but I like my writing and it is pure entertainment to me. Hopefully others will find enjoyment in my writing as well. The story I wrote is decent and I will take another look now that I've had some time away, make any necessary revisions and submit it elsewhere. I'm also relieved that the wait is over. Waiting to hear whether a story has been accepted can take forever just like waiting for medical test results or the grueling three minutes after peeing on a stick to find out if your pregnant or not. Now I know and will move on.

Time

2010-02-25T19:51:00.000-05:00

This weekend I am traveling to Atlanta for a business trip and will meet up with some friends and family I haven't seen in a while. By a while I mean 20 years. When I really stop to think about it I get overwhelmed. First I am going to see my Aunt & Uncle and their two boys; Adam and Kyle. The last time I saw Adam he was a toddler. Now he is 20 and recently returned from a tour in Iraq. I've never met Kyle. Well, we're friends on Facebook, but that doesn't count.

I'm also going to meet up with my friend Liz who I haven't seen since high school. This was 1992. She is now a mom and somewhat responsible adult (he he). Finally, if I get time, I am going to meet with my friend Kristen who I haven't seen since 8th grade graduation in 1988. She and her twin sister went to a Catholic high school and their family moved out of our hometown.

It really doesn't seem like that much time has passed, but it has and serves as a reminder of how quickly it can. Carpe diem, live every day to it's fullest, etc...all these common phrases (albeit some older than others) are words to live by. I don't want another twenty years to pass without having something to show for it.

Over the past two months my commitment to my writing has waned. My goal of writing 1,000 words a night, five nights a week hasn't been achieved in some time. Tonight I am renewing my commitment and pushing my inner slacker. Twenty years from now I want to look back and be proud of my accomplishments and know that I fought hard for my dreams. I am also vowing to not let another twenty years pass between visits with family and friends, they are the true riches in life.

Why Driving in Maine During the Winter Sucks

2010-02-18T22:10:00.000-05:00

There is a steep hill on one of the roads in New Gloucester that I take every day. Normally I don’t have an issue with this road...until the other night. It had started to snow a few hours before I left the office to begin my journey home. What a journey it turned out to be.

With the fresh snowfall most of the cars were going slow, especially when we passed an emergency vehicle assisting a driver that had slid off the road. I was going about five mph behind another car when we crested over the top of the hill. The car in front of me put on its brakes and I hit mine. That’s when I started sliding and lost control. When it came down to hitting the car in front of me or going into the ditch, I opted for the latter and I’m glad I did!

The ditch rushed up to greet me and I flattened a sapling before I came to stop. I made several attempts to reverse and extricate myself, but the car was stuck. The volunteer fireman in the emergency vehicle saw me go off the road and called it in. So when I called 911 they already knew of my predicament. The volunteer fireman had to go up and turn around in order to assist me. While I waited for him, I was able to pull forward, but I was on a slant and thought the car was going to roll so I stopped. At one point I opened the door and could only open it around 8 inches before it hit the ground, that’s how much of a slant I was on. I don’t think if it would have done me any good to get out of the car (if I could) because of course I was wearing heels with an open back – very practical footwear for this type of incident.

The firefighter arrived (he looked nothing like Kurt Russel in Backdraft *sigh*) and helped guide me out to where my car was straddling the ditch, but I kept sliding and was getting closer to the river at the base of the hill, which made me severely nervous. He gets a call on his radio that there is another accident and the driver was bleeding from the head. He looked at me and said, “I’m going to have to leave you.” I understood because I wasn’t hurt, just stuck, and a head injury takes priority, but the thought of being abandoned made me panic – just a little bit.

Meanwhile, back in Portland, my husband (nicknamed Bubba) was plotting a rescue mission. He was going to grab steel cable, rope, jumping cables and duck tape…whatever he needed to pull me out of the ditch himself. He was a half hour away, but at least I had back-up.

Before the fireman left to go work on a real accident, he helped me give it one or two more tries and fortunately I was able to get back up on the road. With a wave I was off. My car was driving fine and I took it slow. When I got to the stop sign where I need to turn right onto the road that leads to the turnpike; wouldn’t you know it’s blocked off because of another accident? I had to turn around and take a detour.

It was truly the drive home from Hell, but it could have been a lot worse. You know, like no traffic to witness my situation, no cell signal, a total white out where my white car isn’t visible, banjos playing in the woods...

Why I Love Writing

2010-02-14T23:42:00.000-05:00

My love of writing started in grade school for this is when I fell in love with reading and the two definitely go hand in hand. The inclination towards reading and writing came naturally as I was a complete spazz at math. In fact, my math aptitude (or lack thereof) prevented me from being bumped up a grade.

Flash forward to high school where I became obsessed with entertainment journalism. Basically any magazine that featured a hair band on its cover, I wanted to write for. This evolved to Entertainment Weekly and by college, where I majored in Journalism, I was determined that Vanity Fair was going to be my future employer. When a girl in one of my classes dare voice out loud the same goal, not only did I give her the stink eye and wish that a city bus would run her over, but I realized that my dream wasn't unique.

So here I am, fifteen years out of college and not a byline to my name in any magazine. Instead, I've established a career in marketing and advertising. My love for writing never waned though. Ten years ago I started writing a book. An idea had gotten lodged in my brain and refused to budge. This idea is now a novel in progress (about 40,000 words) called Cancerville. While writing Cancerville, I got married, moved about 5 times (one of those moves was cross country with my husband, stepson, two cats, two dogs and two vehicles), and became a cancer survivor. Needless to say, I was busy and my writing suffered.

About a year and a half ago I decided to get serious and finish writing Cancerville, which is a government conspiracy thriller about environmental cancer. A good friend from college passed away after losing her battle to melanoma and this was a major motivating factor. While writing Cancerville, I joined a local writer's group and wrote a completely different novel. This idea kept pestering me, so in conjunction with Cancerville, I wrote (and completed) The Beautiful People and have yet another novel in progress. It seems that once I let the words loose, they refuse to stop.

Yes, it would be great if I can share my stories with a larger audience. Do I envy Stephenie Meyer? Hell yes! There are dark moments of self doubt, but these are temporary. I focus on how cathartic it is to write because at the end of the day, I can escape to another world for a while, and that is why I love writing.