How to use this Page

This is it, we’re down to the final hours. NaNo starts at midnight tonight. Of course, I won’t be up at that time, but the challenge officially starts. Just to forewarn you now, posts will be different this next month. I usually try and post three times a day, it’s unlikely that trend will continue every day. I do plan on posting periodic videos of my NaNoWriMo progress, and of course, I’ll post excerpts (with the comments turned off. Not because I don’t value your feedback, but because I can’t afford to feed my self-doubt and entertain my inner editor to stop and rewrite anything), but I’m not sure how much “real life” posting I’ll get to.

I have pre-posted a TON of posts though, so things shouldn’t be TOO different around here. And there are some pretty monumental moments in November - GD’s AND the hubs’ birthday (they share the same birthday), and of course Thanksgiving (which will be fun considering we’re hosting the dinner this year for my husband’s family so I’m REALLY going to be pressed for time), so hopefully, I’ll be able to talk a bit about those things. So please, be patient with me - I’ll try and continue a somewhat normal schedule, but I can’t make any promises at this point, it really depends on how smoothly my writing goes.

Keep an eye on the NaNo gauge in the sidebar. *points to word count widget at top of sidebar* I also plan on posting a cute cartoon (like the one below) that shows my progress, too. If you don’t see the graph steadily inching upwards over the next weeks, email me and ask me why the heck not?? Tease me, torment me, goad me into finishing. You see that nifty NaNoWriMo 2007 participant graphic in the right-hand column? I want one that says WINNER. And you can only get one of those IF you submit 50,000 words or more by the end of November.

Do I have any idea what I’m going to write about? Yes, I have a tentative outline that will guide me for the first several chapters, after that, well, I’ll let the characters take control and see where they take me.

So, consider this “official” notice - this blog will have a slightly different format in the coming weeks. I’ll try to write a word here and there and let you know how I’m doing but really, the gauge will say it all.

In the meantime, in following the Halloween tradition, I stumbled on this GREAT link. It’s scary, creepy and it gave me goosebumps when I watched it so I wouldn’t recommend watching it in front of little children. Shoo them out of the room, dim the lights, turn your speakers waaaay up and enjoy. If you get a chance, browse around the rest of the site. There’s quite a few creepy stories to watch and read. Happy Halloween!

I’m off to mentally prepare for the next 30 days of intense writing.

From my NaNoWriMo 2006 project entitled: Reality Check

Need to catch up? Read the first, second, third and fourth installments.

______________________________

Clarke studied her for long moments before responding slowly. “Y … yes, someone was hurt. Pretty badly.”

“Who? Oh my God! Was it Mr. Garrison? What about Diane? Her kids didn’t get hurt, did they? I would never forgive myself if I caused a child to die. Am I under arrest? Oh God, am I going to jail?”

Clarke shifted uneasily. “Ms. Foster … uh … who are Mr. Garrison and Diane?”

Brenna blinked owlishly at him. “The people in my apartment building,” she spoke slowly, her expression transforming from apprehensive to confusion.

“The people in your …” he paused. “Ms. Foster, what is today’s date?”

She blinked at him again. “Uh … well,” she whet her lips nervously. “How long have I been in here?” She gestured toward the hospital room.

“Three days.”

“Three days? For second-degree burns? That … that doesn’t sound right. I mean, second-degree burns are serious but … three days serious?”

“What is today’s date, Ms. Foster.” Clarke continued to watch her.

“Well, if I’ve been in here for three days … and geez,” a nervous chuckle escaped, “that seems weird for burns, then that would make it … Tuesday (1).”

“The date. What’s the date?”

She shot him an impatient look. “November 3rd.”

“Right, November 3rd. What year?”

She laughed. “You don’t know what year it is?”

He frowned. “Just answer the question, please.”

She shrugged. “Two thousand five.”

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll be right back.” He straightened from the bed so fast the railing rattled.

What was the big deal? She thought. Why was he acting so weird? And where was he going? She watched him walk to the door and peer around the corner. She heard the timbre of his voice but she couldn’t make out what he was saying.

He came back moments later with Dr. Donnelly trailing him. He looked grave.

“What’s wrong?” She felt panic bubble up in her gut but she refused to give in to the feeling.
Dr. Donnelly took out a penlight from his pocket and shined it into her eyes.

“Okay, what’s going on you guys, you’re freaking me out.”

Dr. Donnelly placed both his hands on her head and began to examine her skull. His expression was concentrated and serious.

“Ow!” She pulled back as he touched on a bruised area just above her left ear.

“That’s sensitive?” Donnelly asked in absent tones. He left her and reached for the chart hanging from the end of the bed.

“Yeah, it’s a little sensitive.”

“Do you have a headache right now?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean sort of.”

“I mean, it hurts but I’ve had worse. What the hell is going on?”

Donnelly faced Clarke. “Did anything fall on her?”

Clarke whipped out his notebook and examined notes. “I … don’t have anything about that, but I can ask the fire chief. It all happened so quick and the were desperate to get her out of there …”

“Right, right.” Donnelly waved his explanation aside and turned toward Brenna again. This time he appeared more relaxed and he smiled. “Well little lady, it appears you’ve had a head trauma.”

“Okay …” she said slowly. “What does that have to do with him asking me …” she stopped. “What IS the date?”

Clarke looked to the doctor for permission to proceed.

He nodded, his mouth set in grim lines.

“November 3, 2006,” Clarke answered her.

“Pardon me?”

“November …”

“Never mind,” Brenna held up a hand to stop him. “I heard you the first time.” She turned toward Donnelly. “Why do I think it’s 2005?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you remember,” Donnelly said.

“Well …” Brenna ran her knuckles across her lips while she considered the question. “The … last … thing … I remember …” She spoke slowly, distinctly. “Was watching TV and eating an apple.”

“What was on TV?” Clarke asked.

“Um … an episode of “Lost”, I think.”

“Season two or three?”

“There’s a season three all ready?” How could she have lost a year of her life? People lose shoes, car keys, even children, but they don’t lose time! Her heart began to beat faster and she was having trouble breathing.

“Whoa … it’s okay, Brenna. Relax,” Dr. Donnelly said as the machines by her bed began to beep. “Let’s slow down.” He continued to smile at her, but his command was aimed at Clarke.

“Right, sorry. Continue, please.”

“Um … well, I watching “Lost”, season TWO apparently,” she shot Clarke a disgusted look, “eating an apple, drinking bottled water … It had been a stressful day at work. Our clients, I’m an art director at Liberty Advertising,” she stated matter-of-factly, “didn’t like our proposal and were being difficult. I remember feeling depressed and so tired. I was even thinking about quitting – though it would never come to that. I’m always thinking about doing that.” She shrugged. “Marcus was supposed to come over later …”

“Who’s Marcus?” Clarke asked, pen poised above his notebook.

“My boyfriend.”

“Marcus what?”

“Marcus Waters.”

“Marcus Wa …” Clarke blinked at her. “Marcus Waters. He wouldn’t happen to be a lawyer would he?”

Brenna glanced between the two men. “Uh, yeah. How would you know that? Do you know Marcus?” She sat up straighter as a thought struck her. “He’s okay, right? He wasn’t hurt in the fire, was he?”

“No, no … it’s just that Marcus is …”

“It doesn’t matter right now, Brenna, please continue.” Donnelly said. He gave Clarke a warning look.

A frown line creased Brenna’s brow. She made a mental note to ask Clarke what he was going to say about Marcus later. “I was … smoking a cigarette.” She blushed. She had always been ashamed of the habit but it helped soothed her nerves, especially after stressful days. They were all stressful days, now that she thought about it. “And … and I guess I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, I’m here and you guys are looking at me like some weird science experiment gone horribly wrong.”

The men were quiet. Dr. Donnelly continued to study her while Clarke made notes in his pad.

“I … didn’t cause the fire, did I?” She swallowed. If she were responsible for the fire, or worse, responsible for having someone get hurt, she would never forgive herself.

Silence.
______________________________

Thanks for reading, everyone! This was the last excerpt I planned on posting from my 2006 project. The next NaNoWriMo excerpt that’s posted will be from my 2007 project (tentatively entitled: Broken Silence) Stay tuned!

From my NaNoWriMo 2006 project entitled: Reality Check

Need to catch up? Read the first, second and third installments.

______________________________

Brenna felt as if she were flying. She was weightless, as light as a feather. And like a feather, she gently swayed, twisted, and flipped with each gust of wind. The sun shone brightly and she had to squint to see past the haze and dust particles sparkling and twinkling like tiny diamonds carelessly tossed into the air. She smelled flowers, the scent both intoxicating and overwhelming at the same time. She slowly opened her eyes to mere slits: petals of various shades of purple, pink, yellow, red and white danced before her eyes. She blinked in an effort to bring them into focus. Her vision was blurry, fuzzy around the outer perimeters, where were her reading glasses?

“Doctor, she’s awake.” A low voice rumbled next to her and she started with surprise. The voice sounded kind and understanding, though held an underlying thread of authority.

“I can see that.”

Brenna blinked harder in an attempt to bring the man bending over her into focus. He was wearing a white coat; his stethoscope came dangerously close to knocking her in the nose. She pressed back against the pillows in an instinctive gesture to avoid being thwacked.

“Oops, sorry about that.” The man tucked the instrument between his lapels with an apologetic smile. “Good morning, young lady. Or should I say good afternoon?” He peered intently into her eyes for long moments before snagging her wrist between strong, cool fingers. “We were beginning to wonder if you would wake up today.”

She continued to study him curiously. He appeared to be in his late 50’s. He had a full head of salt and pepper hair, dove gray eyes and a dimple just under his lower lip. He continued to time her pulse, his expression thoughtful, but not serious. She noted the nametag pinned to his coat – Dr. Nathan Donnelly. Dr. Donnelly noticed her stare and offered a kind smile.

“How are you feeling, little lady?”

She couldn’t help it. She grinned back at him. Her father used to call her that. “A bit groggy. Where am I? Why am I here? What time is it?” Her voice cracked and sounded like a bullfrog.

Dr. Donnelly raised a brow. “You … don’t know why you’re here?”

“No.” One simple word and yet she wanted to ask so much more. She had the feeling she didn’t really want to know more.

“You’ve … been in an accident, my dear.” The doctor gestured toward her bandaged arms.

Brenna tried to glance down, yet couldn’t. A momentary stab of panic coursed through her body. The doctor, noticing her alarmed expression, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Relax, Brenna. You’re going to be all right. You’ve sustained second-degree burns on most of your body. Your arms were the worst. They said the towel you were holding caught fire and adhered to your skin …”

“I’ll take it from here, doctor.” It was the man’s voice again.

Brenna tried to turn her head in his direction but was unable to get very far with her bandages. The man, sensing her need to see him, stood up from his chair and leaned into her line of vision. He gave her a stiff smile.

She gasped and nearly choked on her saliva. He looked like Tom Cruise.

“What is Tom Cruise doing here?” Brenna’s eyes darted back to the doctor in alarm.

The doctor chucked, the man did not. “That’s not …” the doctor sputtered out with amusement. “That’s Detective Clarke. He’s here to ask you a few questions about the accident.”

She could feel a slow blush creeping up her neck and pooling into her cheeks. She hoped the men wouldn’t notice it or just attribute it to her injuries. “Oh, of course. I knew that.”

She turned back to study Clarke. She felt foolish now that she was getting a good look at him. He did indeed resemble the actor, but he was more … rugged looking, a little more rough around the edges perhaps. His hair was cut close to his head, like a buzz cut, only longer on top and spiky and the color of charcoal briquettes. She noticed the points were shiny with hair product and she nearly smiled at his vanity. His eyes were so dark blue they looked purple, his eyebrows thick and bushy. He had a boxer’s nose, misshapen and slightly crooked, grooves extended from either side of his nostrils and curved around to the corners of his mouth; they deepened as he smiled.

She offered a tight smile in return. “Hello Detective.” Why did she sound like a squeaky mouse? She cleared her throat and tried to hold on to her composure.

Clarke nodded, “Ms. Foster.” He turned his beautiful grape-colored eyes to the doctor. “Is she okay to question?” He glanced doubtfully back down at her.

Brenna bristled under his gaze. Okay, so she may be feeling weak, burned, disoriented and a tad self-conscious in front of this gorgeous man, but she was tougher than he thought. She bobbed her head in determination, only the bob, restricted by bandages, appeared more like an involuntary jerk. “I’m okay, ask away.”

The doctor’s voice sounded far away. “She’s the boss. I’ll be by later to check on her.”

Clarke pulled his chair closer to her bed and sat down. “Right, thanks doc.”

“Would you mind?” She didn’t bother to disguise the irritation in her voice.

“Mind what?”

“I can’t see you down there. Would you mind sitting up here?”

“You mean, on the bed?” He sounded horrified, as if she had just asked him to empty her bedpan.

She smothered a chuckle and forced her voice to remain impassive. “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” He sounded like he minded very much, but was too polite to refuse. He stood up, lowered the bed railing and sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress sank under his weight and her body tilted toward him, her outer right thigh pressed against his jean-clad leg. “Oh, pardon me.” He shifted uncomfortably away from her.

She smiled. She discovered she liked making him uncomfortable. “Do I make you uncomfortable, Detective?” She couldn’t resist teasing him. He blushed and she felt triumphant, and that puzzled her.

“Not at all, Ms. Foster. Can we get on to the questioning?”

“Of course. Ready when you are.”

“Tell me about the fire.”

“There was a fire?” Panic seized her heart. And then she remembered the doctor had said her injuries were burn related. She nodded, “Yes, let’s talk about the fire. What happened? Was it arson? Did an appliance melt? Or …” a sudden thought occurred to her. “Was it my fault? It was my smoking, wasn’t it. I caused the fire. Did I burn the place down?” She gasped. “Oh my God, was anyone hurt?”
______________________________

Thanks for reading! Last excerpt Monday.

"It's still been an excellent experience -- it gave me the discipline to work on novels I never would have attempted otherwise, as well as bringing spontaneity to my writing when I might have otherwise gotten bogged down in research or rewriting."

That's Pete from the litblog PeteLit explaining why he joined the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) writing marathon last year. For the fifth time in his life, he attempted to write a 50,000-word novel draft during the month of November. 

I crossed the NaNoWriMo finish line in 2005 (it took me another two years to edit the goshdarn thing into something presentable, but that's another story), and ever since, I've sympathized with these crazy writers. This year, I'm cheering on our NaNoWriMo-ing readers again--offering them any technical advice or moral support they need.

If you're taking the NaNoWriMo challenge (or know somebody who is), drop me a line in the comments section. I'd love to add your name to the Crazy Novelist Support Group®, and follow your adventure. Last year we cheered on Johann Black, a blogging teacher, and Newsvine writers Yasmin and Miss Dev and RWarner and E to the Z.

If you are taking the challenge, you should tell us why you are writing 50,000 words this November.

The National Novel Writing Month--or Nanowrimo--is a thrilling, exciting experience where you get to write a complete novel in exactly 30 days! It starts on November 1st and ends on November 30th.

Last year close to 70,000 people from around the world joined--I among them. If I remember it correctly, less than 10,000 actually managed to finish the 50,000-word goal.

Get all the details at the official site: www.nanowrimo.org

I wrote my tween novel, The Luthier's Apprentice, on the same marathon two years ago. The manuscript is in the hands of an agent at the moment. I've been editing/polishing it on and off for one and a half years! Yes, writing it on nanowrimo can be quicly, but then comes the EDITING.... Read the rest of this post

From my NaNoWriMo 2006 project entitled: Reality Check

Need to catch up? Read the first and second installments.

______________________________

“There, all done now. Does that feel better, champ?” There was no response, puzzled, she glanced down; he was fast asleep. She smiled again and as gently as she could, carried him to his room. She slowly lowered him to his crib. The child stirred, turned onto his side, curled his fist under his chin and sighed in contentment. Brenna felt an overwhelming wave of pure love wash over her very soul. He was so precious. Her son had been her beacon of light in her emotional turmoil these past months. She wasn’t sure she would have recovered without him.

She pulled his Thomas the Tank Engine blanket over his prone body and tucked it in around his body. Ethan had always loved to be swaddled. She had carried him close to her body in one of those baby slings until just a few short weeks ago. He was getting too heavy for her to handle. Her baby boy would have his first birthday in two weeks.

She shook her head in wonderment as she gazed down at the dark-haired boy. It was only one year ago that she gave birth to the little tyke – it seemed only yesterday. She remembered the nurse handing her baby boy over to her, her face wreathed in smiles, her eyes twinkling with pleasure and something else … wisdom perhaps?

Brenna gently swiped strands of hair from the boy’s forehead. Marcus had been there, though he had shown up late. He had promised to be there for her whenever she went into labor. It was the first of many broken promises.

She couldn’t believe she had been so naïve. Friends had tried to warn her, she had ignored them. She was so sure he was the one, that he loved her. She had loved him. In fact, she had been close to giving him that one special piece of her heart, the part she had never given to anyone else ever before – and now never would.
“Bastard,” she whispered under her breath. She lightly traced Ethan’s ear with the pad of her finger. He stirred and whimpered slightly.

Brenna exhaled a long breath and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest for long moments. She would die for this child, for he had certainly saved her. She turned on the 15-watt lamp next to his bed and exited the room, pulling his door closed behind her, but not shut.

She made her way to the kitchen, her stocking feet swishing against the cold tile floor with each step. She made herself a cup of hot cocoa, idly staring at her reflection in the window over the breadbox. Where had she gone wrong? How did Marcus slip through her defenses so easily? How did she not see him for what he truly was? How did she miss the signs? “You’re an idiot,” she said to herself in the glass. She frowned.

Hooking a finger around the handle of the mug, she made her way back to the living room. She sank down into the deep sofa cushion. She felt so old. Was 30 old? She took a cautious sip of the hot brew and stared at the branches swaying in the wind. She needed to stop feeling so sorry for herself. She was healthy, she had a beautiful, intelligent baby boy, she had a nice house, albeit small, she had been promoted to art director … she … she didn’t have anyone to share it with.

She groaned and placed her mug on the end table. She was so tired. So tired of trying to balance her professional life with her personal life. Tired of worrying whether Ethan was all right at the daycare center, tired of worrying about whether a client would like their designs, tired of meeting stringent deadlines, tired of being alone.

“Stop it,” she muttered. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. You can do this. It will get easier.” With determined resolve, she closed her depressing thoughts, her hurting heart and her tired eyes.

She awoke with a jerk. What in the world? She blinked sleepily. What had wakened her? She stared up at the ceiling, fingers of dark shadows from the tree limbs outside danced and swayed seductively with each puff of wind.

She listened. Everything was quiet. The air was heavy and still and smelled faintly of diaper rash ointment. She glanced toward the clock. A moonbeam slashed across its face – 2:53. She snuggled deeper into the couch and sighed. She really should go to bed and she would, she just needed to lie there for five more minutes.

She could feel herself succumbing to the comforting darkness again … she was falling … falling … falling into a thick, soft cushion of delicious nothingness when she smelled it.

She sat bolt upright and immediately felt dizzy and disorientated. She lifted her nose like a bloodhound catching the scent of it’s prey – yes, it was definitely smoke.

She rolled off the couch so fast she bumped her leg against the coffee table. “Shit!” She scrambled to her feet and ran toward the kitchen. Only as she reached the doorway, she could tell the smoke was not coming from that room. She veered away from the kitchen and turned toward the hallway. She stopped dead in her tracks.

Thick, black plumes of smoke billowed out of Ethan’s room. She would recall later how the smoke curled, coiled and rolled against the ceiling, almost caressing it with long ebony fingers of destruction. She heard a loud hissing roar, like the sound that emits from smoke stacks at a coal factory. A sharp crackle sounded and Brenna knew without a shadow of doubt that it was the sound of Ethan’s crib snapping into bits.

She screamed. The sound was ripped from the depths of her soul and disappeared into the dense blackness now rolling toward her with increasing speed.

“Ethan! Oh my God, ETHAN! ETHAN! BABY, WHERE ARE YOU?” She continued to scream as she ran toward his doorway. She kicked the door open and blinked in utter astonishment. She was staring down the throat of hell. Flames so hot they were a brilliant white were snaking their way up the walls. Bright blue wallpaper sprinkled with tiny boats began to peel, curl and slide down the walls – it looked like a waterfall, strips of liquid paper cascading down the sides and pooling onto the floors. Stuffed animals were ablaze and vaporizing before her eyes.

She continued to scream her son’s name as she attempted to enter his room. The heat was so intense she could feel her eyebrows singing. Her cheeks, lips and earlobes felt as if they were made of wax and melting onto her shoulders. She didn’t care, she had to get her son out of there.

She strained forward only to be pushed back by a wall of intense heat. She stumbled and fell back into the hallway, gasping and coughing, desperate for fresh air but frantic to rescue her son. She crawled toward the bathroom her legs unable to support her. Blood roared in her ears, her brain felt like a lump of white-hot coal in her head, searing all rational thought. When she finally reached the bathroom, she grabbed two towels and frantically soaked them under the bathtub spigot. She wrapped one around her head and carrying the other one, she staggered back toward the bedroom. She couldn’t see past the tears, sweat and blood in her eyes. It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe but she still moved back toward the inferno. In a small room at the back of her conscious mind she thought she heard sirens. She couldn’t stop to see if she was right. She had to save her son!

She beat back the flames now greedily licking the doorframe. A wave of nausea coursed through her body as the fire looked almost sexual in its desire to consume everything in its path. She beat her just past the doorway. She was in!

“ETHAN! OH GOD, ETHAN WHERE ARE YOU?” She thought she heard a cry, just to her right. She lifted the towel in front of her as if it would somehow push the wall of fire back to hell where it belonged. She strained to make it past the molten pillar of fire that used to be the rocking chair. The towels, now bone dry, caught fire and she was forced to drop them. Her hands were blood red and stinging but she forced the pain to the darkest regions of her consciousness. She could smell her hair burning and still she pressed forward.

She croaked out an animal cry of pain when she saw the spot the crib used to occupy – it was a pile of red, glowing kindling. Brenna sank to her knees and covered her face in her hands. She no longer cared if she lived or died, her son was gone.

Brenna’s insides felt hot and crusty. She could feel her heart desperately knocking and beating against her chest, like a bird desperate to escape its cage. Her lungs felt small and tight in her chest, choking and squeezing the life out of her body; her breathing became shallow. She knew it was only a matter of minutes before her clothes caught fire. She would be burned alive. She didn’t care. She deserved to die; she wasn’t there to save her son’s life. What was the point of living without him? She welcomed death.

Hell beckoned to her with open arms.

Brenna allowed it to embrace her.
______________________________

Thanks for reading! More on Thursday.

From my NaNoWriMo 2006 project entitled: Reality Check

______________________________

“No. I mean, I messed up with us, didn’t I?”

Never one to go out of her way to hurt people’s feelings, she shrugged once more. “I can’t offer you anything more than friendship, Paul. It’s too soon. And to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I have those kinds of feelings for you.”

His jaw clenched noticeably and he gave an abrupt nod. “Right.” He stepped toward her. She stepped back. He sighed. “We’ll talk some other time.” He looked over his shoulder and nodded toward Ethan. “See you later, kiddo.”

The child began crawling furiously toward them as soon as his presence had been acknowledged.

Brenna stepped in front of her son to prevent him from crossing the threshold. “Good night, Paul.”

“Nite, Bren. Sleep well.” He put on his jacket and walked toward his black ’04 Mustang GT.

Brenna quietly closed the door and leaned back on it in relief. She hugged herself tightly and shivered gently. “Geez, that was weird.” She picked Ethan up and hugged him tight. “Just me and you, kiddo. Can you handle that?” The boy squealed and bumped his moist mouth against her jaw line. She laughed. “We need to work on your kissing skills, little guy.” She carried him back to the couch, sank down in it and playfully tossed her son into the pillows. “I’m thinking that was the last time Paul comes over. What do you think?”

Ethan grinned, graham crackers clinging to the corners of his mouth. He rolled and slid off the couch.

Brenna pulled her cigarettes from the drawer in the end table and lit one up. She inhaled deeply for long moments before laying her head back on the headrest. “Yep, you and me, Ethan. Just the two of us.” She sighed heavily at the lonely prospect and took another drag.

The grandfather clock ticked in the growing silence. The clicks of the machinery sliced through the peace and quiet. She could feel her eyelids drooping; she imagined tiny men pulling on the ends, like window shades being drawn for the night. She was so tired. So tired of the never ending frantic pace of her job, tired of taking care of herself and Ethan, tired of never having enough time or energy to do the things she really wanted to do, tired of being alone.

“Marcus.” She mouthed the name wistfully. “Marcus,” she repeated, savoring the sound of his name on her lips. They had met shortly after she had gotten promoted to art director at Liberty Advertisement. She had always known whom the handsome brown-haired lawyer with the dreamy hazel eyes was, but had never had an opportunity to actually talk to him. Marcus was the company lawyer, well, the head honcho of the legal department anyway. He had been exiting her boss’ office just as she was entering. They had collided.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.” She had stammered and blushed, like a high school girl being caught practicing different ways to sign her lover’s name. Her heart had jumped into her throat at his touch. The areas of her body that actually made contact with his husky form tingled, like when your foot falls asleep and you try to walk on it before the circulation had returned.

“Well, hello.” Marcus had smiled down at her, his perfect white teeth gleaming seductively off her reading glasses.

“Hi.” She remembered reaching up to tug off her spectacles, self-conscious and worried he would think her a geek with them on.

“I hear you were promoted. Congratulations.”

She ducked her head and then promptly chastised herself for acting so immature. She lifted her head and determined to at least act mature, nodded brusquely. “Thanks. It was a long time coming.”

It was a long time coming? She mentally kicked herself for her stupidity. The man probably thought she was one of those people who thought too highly of themselves.

“Indeed. According to Tom, it was. He’s had his eye on you for too long.”

Brenna couldn’t help it she preened at his words. “Yeah well, I’ve worked here for almost eight years now, I suppose it was either this or bring in new blood.”

New blood? What was she trying to do, be a hip twenty-something? She coughed to cover her embarrassment.

“Yeah, longevity definitely has it’s advantages, but knowing Tom and his drive for perfection, I have a feeling it’s about more than just the number of years you’ve been here.”

“Thanks.” She couldn’t help herself, she flashed a cheesy Cheshire grin up at him.
Could her attraction for him BE any more obvious?

He started, “I was wondering …” His cell phone began to buzz and cut off the rest of his sentence. “I hate this damn thing.”

Brenna had remembered laughing into his yellowish-brown eyes, tiny flecks of green mesmerizing and numbing her brain; like a butterfly caught in a spider’s web and awaiting execution.

Tom had called her into the office at that moment and there wasn’t a chance to stick around to see what he had intended to ask her.

A baby’s short shriek of pain jerked her abruptly awake. Ethan, curious about the smoke coming from the stick dangling from his mother’s fingers, had tried to fist the red-hot tip in his chubby hand.

“Oh baby! I’m so sorry! Mommy wasn’t paying attention!” She hastily snubbed the cigarette out and lifted Ethan into her lap. “Let me look at it, champ.” Her son looked up at her with watery hazel eyes. A lone tear rolled down his plump cheek and he cradled his injured hand close to his chest. “Please baby, let mommy look at it. I promise I’ll make it all better.”

Ethan gave her a doubtful look before offering his palm. His lower lip quivered with the effort to keep his emotions in check. Brenna gently held his tiny hand and examined it. The skin was red and irritated, but wasn’t blistering.

“There, there now, it doesn’t look that bad. Let’s go put some ointment on it and make it all better.” She glanced at the grandfather clock – 9:03. “Boy, I’m really dropping the mommy ball tonight, aren’t I.” She muttered into her son’s downy hair before giving him a kiss on the forehead. “First I let you stay up past your bedtime, and then I burn you with one of my nasty cigarettes. I need to give those up, don’t I.” She nodded down at him soberly. He mimicked her and nodded back, equally serious. “I always meant to, you know. When I found out I was pregnant with you, I told myself, ‘Self,’” she lowered her voice a notch which prompted a reluctant smile from Ethan. “’you need to stop this nasty habit right now. Your baby doesn’t need to be breathing all those nasty fumes.’ But did I quit?” She cocked her head as she stood up from the couch; Ethan snuggled close to her chest.

“Well, I tried. I didn’t smoke as much when you were in my tummy,” she tickled his stomach for emphasis, “but then you were born and I was nervous about supporting the both of us, who would take care of you … would I have the energy needed to get my promotion …” she tugged on her lower lip as she remembered how scared and worried she was when she found out she was pregnant. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. It’s all excuses. From this point on, I’m quitting. Is that all right with you?”

Ethan inhaled a heavy sniff and nodded enthusiastically.

“Fine. It’s a deal then. Let’s go patch you up.”

She carried him to the bathroom, snagged some aloe ointment from the medicine chest, sat down on the toilet with Ethan in her lap and began to softly hum while she administered the cream to his palm. Her son rested his head against her shoulder and she could feel his tense little body relax against her.

She smiled. Dear God in heaven she loved this child. She couldn’t imagine not having him in her life. There was a time, a short pocket of time right after she found out she was pregnant, that she entertained the idea of getting an abortion; it certainly would have made her life easier. She had even gone as far as making an appointment, but in the end, she knew she couldn’t do it. Ethan was conceived out of love, even if his father had betrayed her.

______________________________

Thanks for reading. More on Tuesday.

Here is the first part of my NaNoWriMo 2006 project entitled: Reality Check.

_________________________

Brenna Foster was sick of being pawed and groped like a cheap, pole dancing stripper. She continued dodging, twisting, and bending around Paul’s clumsy advances. She felt like a character in “The Matrix” avoiding bullets in slow motion.

Paul Gibbons. A sweet-looking guy on the outside: 6’1, slim athletic build, bleach-blonde hair, light green eyes, not so sweet on the inside. Though Paul was nice to look at, he wasn’t always so nice to be around. His people skills lacked a certain … finesse, polish if you will. His abrupt change in moods often made people uncomfortable and they avoided him like a slobbery dog trying to plant wet kisses all over your face.

Brenna released a soft, pent-up chuckle of frustration. “Look, Paul …” She evaded his descending lips; she quickly turned her head. His kiss landed on her cheek instead of her rather thin lips. “Could you please stop?”

“Bren, come on, don’t be like this. Just one kiss. What’s the harm in that?”

She winced at his words. Harm? There was no harm in allowing him to kiss her but she knew it wouldn’t stop at that. He would want more; he would demand more – all men demanded more sooner or later.

“Paul …” she forcibly shoved him away from her. She was surprised, and not a little repulsed, that it was fairly easy to get away from him. She had always been strong. Standing at just under 5’6 and weighing no more than 130 lbs, people often misjudged her.

Paul sighed with exasperation. “Geez, Brenna. We’ve been dating for five weeks now and you haven’t let me kiss you once. What’s up with that?”

“Paul …” she assumed the tone of voice she reserved for her son, Ethan – soft, soothing, and placating. She swallowed her impatience. “We’re not dating, we’re friends. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Friends, dating … it’s all good.” He reached for her again and drew her up against him. He ground himself suggestively against her groin. “Come on, Bren. We’re attracted to each other. We’ve been hanging out a lot these past weeks …” his fingers buried themselves in her shoulder length brown hair, “it’s only natural things would progress to the next phase.”

Brenna knew all about the next phase; the proof was five feet away. “Paul, come on. I’ve told you, I’m not ready to start another relationship. I need more time. I need a friend now more than a lover.” She placed her hands against his chest and pushed. When he didn’t budge, she pushed harder. His arms tightened around her rib cage, squeezing the air from her lungs. She suddenly felt claustrophobic and a finger of fear snaked through her annoyance at his uncharacteristic aggressive behavior. “Paul,” she kept her voice low. She didn’t want to sound as alarmed as she was feeling. “Ethan.” She nodded toward the boy playing at their feet.

“Yeah, so?” He dipped his head toward her and nuzzled dry, chapped lips against her neck.

She blinked in surprise at the painting over the fireplace. What was wrong with him? He had never been this pushy before. She had been able to dodge his advances in the past with soft and self-deprecating excuses. It was her. She wasn’t ready so soon after Marcus. She had a headache, she was too depressed, tired, distracted and so on. He had accepted, and respected, her wishes up to this point. What had changed?

“Look,” she pushed harder, for once grateful her strength. “I said no.” Her voice was flat, authoritative.

Ethan looked up at them at the sound of her voice. A small wrinkle marred his baby-soft forehead.

“Brenna, I’m losing patience here. I’m just a man. A man with needs. You had to know that this is what I wanted, what I was waiting for, from the very beginning.”

“Actually,” she arched away from him as his face advanced toward her again. “No. I didn’t know. I’ve always been very honest with you, Paul. I made it very clear, from the very beginning, that I wanted nothing more than friendship from you. You’ve been a really good friend and I’m very grateful that you’ve been there for me, listening to my problems, offering advice, watching Ethan …”

“Grateful.” He spat the word. A droplet of spittle landed on Brenna’s upper lip. She resisted the urge to cringe in disgust. He pulled her tighter against him, his hands dropping to cup her firm, round buttocks.

“Ma, ma.” A small voice sounded at their feet. Ethan had crawled over and was clutching Brenna’s pant legs, using her body to pull his into a standing position.

Paul’s hold on her eased somewhat and Brenna took advantage of the distraction to step back and scoop her son up into her arms in one fluid motion.

“I think it’s time for you to leave.” A small sliver of disappointment eased past the coldness of her voice. She would miss his companionship. He was easy to talk to and had taught her to laugh again. Something she wasn’t sure she would be capable of doing for a very long time.

Paul stared at her for long moments, his face a hard, unyielding mask of fury. She swallowed and unconsciously braced herself for … what, she wasn’t sure.

_________________________

Thanks for reading, everyone. I’ll post another excerpt Sunday.

I received an e-mail today that my blog is now featured on JacketFlap. I signed up for that months ago when I was doing a lot more with the "writing" part of Saipan Writer and less with the Saipan part. With election season and interesting local issues in the forefront here, I've all but forgotten the writer part of my blog duties!

But I just finished reading a mid-grade novel, RICKSHAW GIRL by Mitali Perkins and will be reviewing it in my monthly book review column.

And NEXT MONTH is NANOWRIMO! That's national novel writing month--a crazy time when you crank out a 50,000+ word novel in just 30 days.

This will be my third year participating in NaNoWriMo. Joe Race is planning on joining again this year. We both finished last year, as others fell by the wayside, left eating our dust! If anyone else in Saipan is interested, let me know. Last year, we held weekly write-ins and it worked well.

Well, I did it. I opened my NaNoWriMo project from 2005 for the first time and have no recollection ever having written it. lol And when I read some of it, I had no idea where it was going or what I was thinking. Perhaps I wasn’t thinking, I was simply on autopilot.

At any rate, here’s an excerpt from “All Talk, No Sleep.” (Wow, that title sucks).

Unedited and written at lightening speed.

_________________________________

Destiny gasped as a hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes widened in alarm and her body tensed. She jerked her head back and forth in an attempt to shake the hand free. She reached up with both hands and clawed the thick fingers away from her nose.

Eyes the color of melting chocolate darted to her friends, Zoe and Mia. The music thumped heavily and the floors vibrated with each thrum from the bass.

She tried to scream but the hand covering her mouth absorbed the sound and it came out as a squeak. She knew there was no way Zoe or Mia would hear her pathetic attempts to call for help over the loud music.

Desperate and feeling light headed, she shoved her head back toward the chest of the person holding her captive.

She made contact.

She couldn’t help but grunt with satisfaction. A loud voice sounded in her ear.

“Oh, nice one, Destiny. Why not collapse a lung while your at it?”

Destiny smiled against the palm of the hand and chuckled. The air escaping from her nose lightly fanned the man’s fingers and he loosened his hold. Ripping the hand away from her mouth, she whirled around and glared at her attacker.

“What the hell are you doing?” She narrowed her eyes in vexation.

“What?” The man shouted back to her, cupping an ear to further illustrate the fact that he couldn’t hear her over the ear-splitting volume of the rock band.

She stood on tiptoe lightly placing her lips against the shell of his ear. “What are you doing, Aaron? Trying to suffocate me?”

Aaron tipped his head to yell back. “If that will stop your insane yelling then yeah.” He shrugged, his mouth curved into a crooked grin.

Destiny rolled her eyes at her best male friend and gave him a playful push. Zoe pinched her forearm.

“Hey!”

Zoe, not being foolish enough to try and make herself heard above the deafening music simply pointed toward the band thrashing and jumping across the stage in beat to their song. Zoe licked her lips in appreciation and Destiny laughed. She turned back to Aaron and shook a finger at him in mock reproach before turning her full attention back to the band.

Rock Hard consisted of five guys – drummer, keyboards, two electric guitars and a bass. Destiny kept her eyes trained on the drummer. She chuckled in delight as he kept tossing his head in an attempt to remove the long black hair from his sweaty forehead.

Mia moved around Zoe and nudged Destiny in the arm to gain her attention.

“He’s freakin’ hot, eh?” She yelled into Destiny’s ear. Destiny nodded her approval and continued to stare at the drummer.

Colby Lennox. He and Stone were the founding members of Rock Hard. They had formed the band two years ago and developed quite a loyal following of the town’s teenagers before a music producer got wind of them. He had flown them to California to make a professional demo tape. Their demo had been sent to New York where they were picked up by a small, alternative rock label. Rock Hard was in town, taking a break before they were scheduled to fly to Mexico to shoot their first video. It was rumored that MTV was interested in taking a look at them when they finished.

Destiny glanced toward Zoe. Zoe Harris, manager of the popular Z104.2 radio station. Destiny didn’t know how, but she had talked Rock Hard into a radio interview which expanded into an impromptu concert. The place was packed considering they hadn’t had a lot of time to promote it.

Destiny laughed at Zoe’s dance moves. Zoe was 38 going on 18. She was fun, outrageous, energetic and totally nuts to be around and Destiny loved her friend dearly. Zoe had talked Destiny into working for the radio station where she currently manned the phone lines for their morning shock jocks. This wasn’t what she wanted to do for the rest of her life, it was only a stepping stone to something bigger and better. She really wanted to host a talk show, something about relationships, like Dr. Laura. She had just graduated from MSU with her psychology degree and wanted to help people who were having relationship problems. The percentage of people who got a divorce troubled her and it was her goal to try and help people patch things up, to work their differences out and not automatically assume that divorce was the answer.

Like her parents.

Zoe caught her staring and offered a goofy grin and an enthusiastic thumbs up of approval. Destiny nodded her agreement and eased past Mia’s swaying body to try and talk to her.

“Do you think the guys will have time to talk after this?”

Zoe motioned toward her ears to tell her she hadn’t heard her.

“Do you think the guys will talk?” She shouted at the top of her lungs and instantly blushed. The song had ended abruptly and the words, ‘guys will talk’ rippled across the rows in front of them. A few people glanced over their shoulders in curiosity but most ignored them. Destiny suspected their ears were ringing too loudly for them to have heard her anyway.

“They bloody better talk,” Zoe reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue. She proceeded to mop perspiration from her upper lip. “These guys owe me for the free publicity and quickie concert, they’ll talk to us.”

Destiny bit her lower lip, suddenly nervous. Zoe had told her to prepare some questions as this would be a good time to start working people over, as she said. She reached into her own jeans’ pocket and fingered the paper of questions inside.

Destiny, Aaron, Zoe and Mia fidgeted outside the stage door.

“This is a bunch of BS,” Zoe snapped. She turned toward the overly large man barring their way backstage. “Look luv, this gal and I have passes,” she lifted the green and gold badge around her neck for the man to notice. “That lets us back there in case you didn’t know that.”

The man heaved a patient sigh and shrugged. “They’re not ready for you yet.” He crossed his arms and gave Zoe a level look.

Sighing, she turned toward the others. “Oh yeah, being station manager has perks.” She rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“Look, why don’t Mia and I meet you guys at The Regency? I could use a cold one after all that screaming.” Aaron grinned at the girls. Destiny, Zoe and Mia laughed; Aaron hadn’t yelled once.

“Fine, fine. We’ll see you guys later.” Zoe shooed them on with distracted hand.

Destiny turned to say something but the door opened before she could utter a sound. A tall, skinny woman glared coldly at them. “I’m assuming you’re the ones from the radio station?”

Zoe, never one to back down for anyone and not about to be intimidated by this woman, nodded brusquely. “You assume right.”

The lady coldly assessed Zoe for long moments before turning on a heel and without another word, led them backstage.

Zoe made an obscene gesture behind the woman’s back and Destiny stifled a chuckle. Life was never dull when she hung out with Zoe.

nanowrimo

John Coyne has some stern advice for Peace Corps writers who hope to publish a book. Print-on-demand (P.O.D.) authors of all stripes should listen very carefully. "It is tough to get anyone to read anything," he explains. Read Tom Bissell to see how a Peace Corps writer can change foreign experiences into something sublime.

The elegant Brooklyn experimentalist Richard Grayson welcomes Ed Champion to his new digs in Brooklyn. Score one for the East Coast lit-blog team that includes everybody from Richard Grayson to Susan Henderson to me.

As long as we have the attention of all you New York writers, why not volunteer to write for charity? Galleycat has the scoop: "The NY Writers Coaliton is looking for volunteers for its 2nd annual Write-A-Thon June 9 ... So far, the organization has raised nearly $8,500 from writers at all levels of experience who've gotten friends to sponsor them in an all-day writing session that offers free workshops, motivational boosts, and a guest appearance by National Novel Writing Month founder, Chris Baty."

Publishing Spotted collects the best of what's around on writing blogs on any given day. Feel free to send tips and suggestions to your fearless editor: jason [at] thepublishingspot.com.