Ella Curry, of EDC Promotions, has begun the 2nd annual Black History Literary Affair, a free virtual literary festival. "Give the Gift of Knowledge" runs Jan 25th - Mar 7th, and features radio shows, blogs, giveaways, and more.
Interested in participating in a worldwide, interactive book writing project? Or, maybe want some financial advice? Author Robert Kiyosaki of Rich Dad, Poor Dad, has begun a new project. His website says this: Conspiracy of the Rich: The 8 New Rules of Money, will be an interactive project in which Kiyosaki will not only offer his written ‘draft’ chapters online, but invite feedback, commentary and questions from readers across the globe via website forums and blogs. Reader feedback will then be incorporated into the book as it is written and released, chapter by chapter, on the Internet. This bold and unique approach will enable the millions of people around the world who have put the Rich Dad principles to work in their lives — as well as those who are challenged by today’s harrowing economic times — to engage directly with Kiyosaki and literally help him shape his new book as it is being written. Find out more or join in here.
And, the Christian Library Journal is looking for book reviewers. (No, I'm not signing up. Too much writing to do!) You can get more info here.
Last, I try to remain focused on my current writing goals but every now and then I come across a welcome departure. This week it was a mini writing contest on Kaye Dacus's blog. One of those pick-several-words-from-this-random-unrelated-list-and-do-your-best type contests.
I won! You can read my entry in the comments here.
God is ever faithful. I'm blessed to know so many good people--readers, writers, editors, and agents--through this blog. I appreciate every one of you.
Enjoy the weekend!
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
I mentioned this in one of Reader/Writer tidbits before but it's worth repeating:
If you head over to Harlequin Celebrates, you can download 16 complete, free books from Harlequin, in honor of the company's 60th anniversary.
There are some cute features on that site also, like Create Your Own Story. Fill in a few details and you might get something like this:
Patricia’s story:
She didn't know which was more dangerous....
....the case that had brought feisty Patricia to New York City, or the six-foot-three wealthy tycoon, who was far too sexy for anyone's good. Everything about Bernard screamed Warning! Danger! So why was Patricia—the world's greatest mom—letting her guard down with the handsome heartbreaker?
Bernard didn't think he'd ever know the truth about his father's death—until the modest mother of three showed up. Patricia was willing to risk her life to uncover the truth.
Bernard had to show her he, too, could take some risks. Because he'd found the one woman who could touch his heart...and he wasn't about to let her go....
Isn't that fun? Hubby certainly never imagined starring in a romance novel!
Harlequin will be celebrating all year long, highlighting various lines with new series and even a chance to have your special proposal included in a book. (I'm disappointed that neither of my favorite lines, Steeple Hill Love Inspired and Kimani Romance, will be featured during the celebration.)
Check it out.
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
It's amazing how much of ourselves is tied up in our public identity and our ability to verify who we are.
Not something you think about until you lose that ability.
Which happened to me yesterday when my purse was lost/stolen. I say "lost/stolen" because I'm 99% sure I left it behind at the library but when I called, no one had turned it in. When I went back, it wasn't there, not even in the bathrooms or garbage cans. And just to make sure I wasn't crazy, I called yet again this morning.
Nothing.
Nada.
The morning has been filled with making phone calls and finding out what one must do under these circumstances.
#1 -- File a police report. That immediately takes me to...
#2 -- Get a new driver's license, which is free with the police report.
#3 -- Put temp block on bank accounts. Actually, I did this last night via telephone, along with stopping payment on the one check I had in my purse. The temp block becomes permanent after 24 hours. But I'll need to go into a branch to close down and start new accounts.
#4 -- Contact Credit Bureaus and issue fraud alerts. All three -- Experian, Equifax, and TransUnion. They tell you that if you contact one, they'll contact the other two for you but hey, what's two more phone calls? At this point, better safe than sorry.
#5 -- Contact credit card company. Done but I'll need to cycle back after I get new bank accounts to modify my monthly online bill payment.
#6 -- Contact health insurance companies and request duplicate id cards.
#7 -- Contact board of elections and get duplicate voter registration card.
#8 -- Last but not least, go to Social Security office and request duplicate card. (I usually don't carry my SSN card but I needed it recently and it was still in my purse.) Can't get a new number as preventive measure. Have to have been victim of massive fraud and prove that you've made massive effort to address fraud and that you are still severely disadvantaged by the fraud before they'll change your number. Which makes sense because it is THE identifying piece of data for most every organization and computer system in America.
No identity theft as yet. It's only been about 24 hours and, frankly, there wasn't much for anyone to steal but creative criminal minds could still do a lot of damage.
This is all just a great nuisance and reminds me how vulnerable we truly are. Beyond that, it's the least of what I have to worry about right now.
Oh, well. Having no purse, no bank cards, and no cash, I was brought to tears this morning when my 13 yo reached into his wallet, pulled out a $20, and handed it to me. Then, as I drove off and he walked to his first class, he texted me, "Stay strong, old lady."
Love that child to pieces.
I didn't write a single word last night.
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
In my tidbits post yesterday, I mentioned not writing for 10 days.
I'm not sure how that happened.
Well...
I know one thing that happened. My handy-dandy, yellow lined pad of paper was missing in action.
I'd taken it with me to a car repair appointment so I'd have something to do while I waited.
When I returned home, I didn't take it out of the bag.
And there it sat for the next week.
After a few days, it dawned on me that I hadn't written much but not that I hadn't written at all. Probably because I was scribbling notes to myself about my characters and my plot.
Of course, that counts as writing. I was thinking about my story and tweaking things but my goal this year is to put pen to paper and get the story out, no matter what. Just thinking about the story and making little notes ain't gonna cut it!
But true realization set in on Sunday afternoon when, in a rare moment of access, I tried to get on the laptop and use MS Word. Except it wasn't working. Kept shutting down.
Which forced me back to pen and paper, only to discover that my pen and paper were not within my grasp. Where were they?
In the tote bag. Gathering dust.
So, back to being a bit more deliberate. I wrote on Sunday and again, yesterday evening. The pad of paper, which sits atop a clipboard, is now resting on my kitchen countertop, where I'm certain to see it as soon as I get home.
If that's what it takes!
I'll write while I'll cook and then I'll focus and write some more after dinner.
How are you doing on your early 2009 writing projects?
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
I didn't realize I'd left this post in draft format so it didn't go up over the weekend. Here're my most recent reader/writer tips:
Harlequin is celebrating it's 60th birthday this year! And it's giving away books! Harlequin will be giving away 16 full book downloads this year for free to read and to share. They have a teaser site up where you can register for a reminder when the first book is made available on the 29th. Go here to register. No indication as to which lines will be represented in the book giveaway but I hope that Love Inspired and Kimani Romance are both represented.
Like to listen while you work or maybe just listen? Avon Harper Collins brings us RomanceRadio, a new Internet radio program featuring the latest authors
Check out Storycasting.com, "for the movie in your mind", on which you get to play casting agent for your favorite books. Looks like a fun thing to do when the muse has abandoned you.
Some time ago, I told you about a new service, DailyLit, that will provide you with books in installments via daily or weekly emails. I read one book, a free Harlequin that was offered, but given my usual reading speed, I actually finished it in a couple of days. (One of the nice features is that you can read at your pace. When you complete a chapter but want more, you can simply request the next one to be sent now.)
I figured out a great use for this service. Reading the Classics. Don't you always wish you'd read more of the Classics, or desire to re-read some of the your favorites? Most of the Classics are free offerings. You can read them slowly in daily or weekly installments. Guess what I'm reading? The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, a Classic in 11 daily installments.
Another great offering from this service is language lessons. DailyLit has teamed up with Berlitz, experts in foreign language training, to offer foreign language lessons, again in daily or weekly portions. (They're not free but they're definitely cost effective.) Nice, huh?
Hope everyone had a great weekend. I realized I hadn't written anything substantive in 10 days. 10 days? How did that happen? I thought maybe 3 or 4, which means I need to be more cognizant and deliberate. I'd made notes to myself about my characters or the plot but not much more. So yesterday evening, I picked up my pen and pad, after MS Word continued to crap out on me, and I wrote.
Overall, combining that with Oldest One's Honor Roll announcement and his still undefeated (10-0) JV basketball team, an unexpected visit from my brother-in-law and his family from NC, and my 2 lb weight loss, it was a good week!
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
1) The bandage was wound around the wound. 2) The farm was used to produce produce. 3) The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse. 4) We must polish the Polish furniture. 5) He could lead if he would get the lead out. 6) The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert. 7) Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present. 8) A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum. 9) When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes. 10) I did not object to the object. 11) The insurance was invalid for the invalid. 12) There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row. 13) They were too close to the door to close it. 14) The buck does funny things when the does are present. 15) A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line. 16) To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow. 17) The wind was too strong to wind the sail. 18) Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear. 19) I had to subject the subject to a series of tests. 20) How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?
-- Author Unknown
I got this from a longer email that was sent to me and thought it would be fun to share. Did you hesitate on a few? I did. But this stuff doesn't frustrate me. It's exactly what I've always found fascinating about the English language. I enjoy vocabulary.
Enjoy the weekend!
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
Today's featured book is The Someday List by Stacy Hawkins Adams. This book feature is a little different than many of the others as this blog tour, coordinated by Tyora Moody of TyWebbin Creations (and my roomie from last year's Faith & Fiction Retreat), includes audio excerpts. Each day this week on the tour, you'll hear another chapter. Today, we give you chapter two from The Someday List.
ABOUT THE BOOK
The Someday List Jubilant Soul Series Book One by Stacy Hawkins Adams
Rachelle Covington has it all. A fabulous home, a handsome and prestigious husband, two beautiful children, and a place in the upper crust that's quite comfortable. But her life is not all it's cracked up to be. When her husband goes away on business trip and the kids are sent off to the grandparents for a month, Rachelle takes up the challenge of a dying friend to start a list of things to do before she dies. She heads back to Jubilant, Texas, to reconnect with her past, her purpose, and herself. But when her ex shows up in town looking very fine and very single, Rachelle must confront feelings she thought she'd long buried. Will she give up everything to recover the past? Or will she find a reason to plan for the future? The Someday List is an honest look at what makes us who we are and what can throw us off track. Author Stacy Hawkins Adams writes with a voice that is fresh, sincere, and completely real. Her characters jump off the page and into her readers' hearts.
~ ~ ~
The Someday List was the first fiction title I completed this year, and it was a wonderful way to kick off 2009 in books! Thrown for a loop by her friend's death and needing to deal with a marriage that stopped working for her a long time ago, yes, Rachelle runs away. But she showed incredible strength because she went back to her roots, something I think takes a wealth of courage. Who better to get you on track than the people who knew you when? If she simply wanted to run away, she could have flown to Tahiti.
No, it was Rachelle's intention to deal with her demons. And deal with them she did, even though she didn't anticipate her journey being complicated by her ex showing up.
I've read Ms. Adams books in the past and although I enjoyed them, her storytelling ability and her expression of emotion through her characters has grown. By the time you finish reading The Someday List, you'll start thinking about things you didn't finish or may have missed, and people you've lost touch with, from you past. You'll like about what might have happened if things had been different or if you had a chance to go back and revisit those situations.
As Ms. Adams teaches us through Rachelle, there's a place for memories but it's probably best to leave the past in the past, casting aside the hurts from days gone by and moving forward with one's present and future life. We of faith have to believe that although we may have regrets, God truly does work everything together for our good.
~ ~ ~
For more information about Stacy and her books, visit her at stacyhawkinsadams.com. Hear chapter two from The Someday List by clicking on the player below, or read the excerpt via the link that follows:
Stacy Hawkins Adams is the author of four Women's Fiction books and has contributed to two anthologies. Read the question below to see if you can answer it and provide the name of the book in which it was featured.
What was the connection between Jessica and Diana? In which book was this explored?
Leave your answer in the comment section. Entries with the correct answer will be entered into a drawing for the The Someday List Blog Giveaway. View the prize package below:
$50 American Express Gift Card
Autographed Copies of all of Stacy's books: Speak to My Heart, Nothing But the Right Thing, and Watercolored Pearls, and the anthologies The Midnight Clear and This Far By Faith.
20% Discount Coupon from Tywebbin Creations. (May apply to one service)
Join us for an Hour Long Chat with Stacy on January 30, 2009. We will announce the GRAND PRIZE WINNER of the THE SOMEDAY LIST BLOG TOUR GIVEAWAY during the call. For details, visit Stacy's blog.
~ ~ ~
THANK YOU FOR STOPPING BY TODAY!
Continue to visit other stops on The Someday List Blog Tour at: http://www.stacyhawkinsadams.com/blog
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
One of the things that drives editors crazy is "be" verbs. In any variation. Like the "is" in that first sentence.
I should have said this instead: "Be" verbs drive editors crazy.
It is hard to write without "be" verbs. They're so friendly. Is, am, are, was, will...
Oops!
Another one slipped in. Make that two, since contractions count.
I read a cute post about "be" verbs on Jeff Wofford's blog that I thought was worth sharing. Here it is: Glahn's Law.
When working on my wip, I consciously avoid "be" verbs. Omitting them stretches the vocabulary quite a bit.
I admit, however, that every now and then, using one makes more sense than not so I do. And when I'm reading, if there are too many in a paragraph or on the page, I may find myself frowning, depending on the context and flow. I hate feeling as thought the author pulled out the nearest thesaurus just to avoid "be" verbs.
What do you do with your "be" verbs?
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
You can get the full details on the above link but here's the challenge in a nutshell: Commit to read a book a week (or 13 books) by March 31st and post about them on your blog (or on the APOOO weekly update posts featured on Sundays).
That's it.
Yes, I committed to read a whole lot less in 2009 so I could write more. And I am.
But I've already read six books. (Had I not spent a week away from work at the beginning of the year, it would probably be more like three or four.)
Anyway, here's the 13 books I planned to read for the first quarter:
1) Havah by Tosca Lee 2) The Someday List by Stacy Hawkins Adams 3) Love Begins with Elle by Rachel Hauck 4) The Bishop’s Daughter by Tiffany Warren 5) Scrapping Plans by Rebeca Seitz 6) Midnight by Sister Souljah 7) Gotta Keep On Tryin’ by Virginia DeBerry and Donna Grant 8) The Stand-In Groom by Kaye Dacus 9) Body Chemistry by Dara Girard 10) As I Have Loved You by Nikki Arana 11) In Love With A Younger Man by Cheryl Robinson 12) Be Strong and Curvaceous by Shelley Adina 13) Never Say Diet by Chantal Hobbs
I've already finished the ones in bold, and also, The 4-Day Diet by Dr. Ian K. Smith.
My pace has definitely slowed, with me reading sometimes only a chapter a day. But my writing is waaaay up!
What are you reading or planning to read? Hop over to APOOO and join the challenge.
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
My very favorite book features are those for debut authors. These are the writer folks among we aspirants who finished the book, submitted it, hung through the sands of many rejections and finally made that first strike against bedrock!
This month's debut author is Kaye Dacus. I'm not sure how Kaye and I "met" online but she's a regular reader of my blog and I of hers. I've quoted Kaye over here several times. She does really intense writing series on her blog, having completed an MA at Seton Hall University. I always learn something.
Kaye is a member and former vice-president of American Christian Fiction Writers, and one of the main reasons that I began looking to and eventually became a member of that organization. Kaye is currently working on the third book in the Brides of Bonneterre and she just signed a three-book deal with Harvest House for a historical romance series.
To top it off, Kaye is a proud LSU Tiger alum, like my hubby! She's been a big encouragement to me in my writing and I hope her debut novel, Stand-In Groom, does well. You can read the first chapter here.
My Review
Wedding planner Anne Hawthorne is well-known throughout the Southeast for her skill at helping engaged couples plan and execute the weddngs of their dreams. After having her own heart broken when her ex-fiance jilted her for the bright lights of Hollywood, she's resigned herself to enjoying the happiness of others and to not allowing her own dreams to take flight.
But her resignation falters when she meets George Laurence, a British manservant contracted to keep his employer's identity secret. Something about him makes Anne's heart flutter but, he's just hired her to plan his wedding!
Saying that much about Stand-In Groom was difficult because the story has more plot twists than the newest rollarcoaster at Six Flags. Almost everything is a spoiler (and I hate spoilers)!
What I can say is that I really liked the statuesque Anne and the culturally buttoned-up George. No diminuitive heroines or alpha heroes here yet both are enchanting. A quiet faith guides both of them, eventually leading them to overcome every obstacle thrown their way, including George's "fiancee". (It's a romance so that's not a spoiler. Of course, there's a "happily ever after" for a woman whose business is called Happy Endings, Inc.!)
What I enjoyed most, even more than the characters's shared love of Dean Martin classics, was discovering the town of Bonneterre, Louisiana, a fictional landscape somewhere in the vicinity of New Orleans and Baton Rouge. It felt like a warm and inviting place--not just from the high temps in the Gulf region--and, with the attention to detail Kaye gave to crafting this world, it seemed like a real place I'd enjoy visiting.
Kaye Dacus has penned a beautiful debut novel that is both smart and heartwarming. What's even better is that it's the first of a three-book series. I eagerly await the release of Menu for Romance, scheduled for release in the fall of 2009.
Congratulations, Kaye!
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
My first reader/writer tidbits of the year. Quite a few.
To start, I've got some housekeeping to take care of.
With my unexpected "exile" from the Internet, I missed announcing the winners of the year-end Pamela Samuels-Young giveaway. Four copies of Murder On The Down Low will go to:
'Cilla Donnica Beverly Ladysilver
Please send me your mailing addresses, ladies, and I'll get your copies out within the next week.
The NEA announces that reading in America is up! Don't know if it's short-lived, solely because of the tanking economy, making other forms of entertainment less cost-effective, or whether folks are making a U-turn to get on track. Either way, I'm thinking it's good news.
Poets & Writers' interviewed four up-and-coming literary agents. Usually advice comes from the weathered, long-time veterans in the industry but this time, we're given insight into what the next generation of literary agents is thinking. They're a bit quirky and quite interesting. And just maybe you shouldn't assume the slush pile is the worst place to be...
"Book Marketing Maven", Dana Lynn Smith, is offering a free e-book of top book marketing tips from 2008. Get it here.
African-American Children's Books Writers & Illustrators is hosting its first conference in April. The founder and woman behind the vision is Sabra Robinson, one of the first people I "met" online when I began to get serious about writing some years ago. For more information, check out this announcement.
SORMAG has posted it's workshop lineup for the 2009 Online Writer's Conference, August 23 - 29, 2009. Mark the dates on your calendar.
Oh, one more thing. My writing. I bought a 3-pack of yellow legal pads at the start of the year. I've already filled one and am into the second. I'm going to spend the weekend typing up what I've written so far.
Enjoy the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday weekend. Find an opportunity for service in or around your community and give of yourself!
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
I'm a couple of days late getting this announcement out but it's not too late to get in on the fun.
This week kicked off the blog tour for The Someday List. I'm participating and will feature the book next week. But check out the full schedule below:
The Someday List Book Blog Tour with Stacy Hawkins Adams
Starting January 12, 2009, Stacy Hawkins Adams will be visiting some of her favorite bloggers and fellow writers to share the themes in her latest book release, The Someday List. Visitors can expect to delve into the story and explore how the issues faced by these fictional characters are relevant to real life.
Also, during the blog tour, Stacy's readers will have an opportunity to listen to her on several online radio shows too. Check out the dates below and plan to call-in with your questions.
We want to invite you to visit the sites below from January 12 - 30, 2009 for Stacy's virtual visit. We can't wait to hear your thoughts about the book.
1 Hour Chat with Stacy (1-518-825-1400 Access Code: 15642)
We will announce the winner of the Blog Tour Giveaway -- see details below.
The Someday List Blog Tour Giveaway
Stacy Hawkins Adams is the author of four Women's Fiction books and has contributed to two anthologies. There will be trivia questions posted each day. When you post your answers on the blog for that day, you will be entered into the Blog Tour Giveaway.
$50 American Express Gift Card
Autographed Copies of all of Stacy's books: Speak to My Heart, Nothing But the Right Thing, and Watercolored Pearls, and the anthologies The Midnight Clear and This Far By Faith.
Join Us for an Hour Long Chat with Stacy on January 30, 2009. We will announce the GRAND PRIZE WINNER of the THE SOMEDAY LIST BLOG TOUR GIVEAWAY during the call.
Stop by Stacy's Website to find out more about The Someday List.
Enjoy the tour and come back on the 22nd.
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
The second book feature I missed, by another favorite author, is The Perfect Match by Susan May Warren. Susan's books are always gentle romance like spring rain. You finish them feeling refreshed with a smile on your face.
My apologies to Shelley and Susan for the late postings. Hereafter, I'll be featuring one book per week.
Susan grew up in Wayzata, a suburb of Minneapolis, and became an avid camper from an early age. Her favorite fir-lined spot is the north shore of Minnesota is where she met her husband, honeymooned and dreamed of living.
The north woods easily became the foundation for her first series, The Deep Haven series, based on a little tourist town along the shores of Lake Superior. Her first full-length book, Happily Ever After, became a Christy Award Finalist published in 2004 with Tyndale/Heartquest.
As an award winning author, Susan returned home in 2004, to her native Minnesota after serving for eight years with her husband and four children as missionaries with SEND International in Far East Russia. She now writes full time from Minnesota's north woods and the beautiful town that she always dreamed of living in.
You can sample a chapter of each and every one of Susan's novels, on her website, HERE.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Ellie Karlson is new to Deep Haven. As the town’s interim fire chief, she is determined to lead the local macho fire crew in spite of their misconceptions about her. But when someone begins setting deadly fires, Ellie faces the biggest challenge of her life. Especially when sparks fly with one of the volunteers on her crew: Pastor Dan Matthews. As Ellie battles to do her job and win the respect of her crew, she finds that there is one fire she can’t fight—the one Dan has set in her heart. (This book is the repackaged edition published in 2004)
2004 American Christian Fiction Writer's Book of the Year
A Romantic Times Magazine TOP PICK – 4½ stars
Review:
Romantic Times Magazine: Vibrant characters and vivid language zoom this action-packed romance to the top of the charts. This is a one-sitting read –once you pick it up, you won't want to put it down.
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
In being away from the Internet for nearly two weeks, I missed a few book features I'd committed to blog for. I'll be catching up with these over the next couple of days. First up is Be Strong and Curvaceous by Shelley Adina. This is a great series for teens so I'm pleased to feature the third book in the All About Us series...and a chance to win a bracelet!
It is time to play a Wild Card!Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Plus a Tiffany's Bracelet Giveaway! Go to Camy Tang's Blog and leave a comment on her FIRST Wild Card Tour for Be Strong and Curvaceous, and you will be placed into a drawing for a bracelet that looks similar to the picture below.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Shelley Adina is a world traveler and pop culture junkie with an incurable addiction to designer handbags. She knows the value of a relationship with a gracious God and loving Christian friends, and she's inviting today's teenage girls to join her in these refreshingly honest books about real life as a Christian teen--with a little extra glitz thrown in for fun! In between books, Adina loves traveling, listening to and making music, and watching all kinds of movies.
List Price: $ 9.99 Reading level: Young Adult Paperback: 256 pages Publisher: FaithWords (January 2, 2009) Language: English ISBN-10: 0446177997 ISBN-13: 978-0446177993
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
BE CAREFUL WHAT you wish for.
I used to think that was the dumbest saying ever. I mean, when you wish for something, by definition it’s wonderful, right? Like a new dress for a party. Or a roommate as cool as Gillian Chang or Lissa Mansfield. Or a guy noticing you after six months of being invisible. Before last term, of course I wanted those wishes to come true.
I should have been more careful.
Let me back up a little. My name is Carolina Isabella Aragon Velasquez . . . but that doesn’t fit on school admission forms, so when I started first grade, it got shortened up to Carolina Aragon—Carly to my friends. Up until I was a sophomore, I lived with my mother and father, my older sister Alana and little brother Antony in a huge house in Monte Sereno, just south of Silicon Valley. Papa’s company invented some kind of security software for stock exchanges, and he and everyone who worked for him got rich.
Then came Black Thursday and the stock market crash, and suddenly my mom was leaving him and going to live with her parents in Veracruz, Mexico, to be an artist and find herself. Alana finished college and moved to Austin, Texas, where we have lots of relatives. Antony, Papa, and I moved to a condo about the size of our old living room, and since Papa spends so much time on the road, where I’ve found myself since September is boarding school.
The spring term started in April, and as I got out of the limo Papa sends me back to Spencer Academy in every Sunday night—even though I’m perfectly capable of taking the train—I couldn’t help but feel a little bubble of optimism deep inside. Call me corny, but the news that Vanessa Talbot and Brett Loyola had broken up just before spring break had made the last ten days the happiest I’d had since my parents split up. Even flying to Veracruz, courtesy of Papa’s frequent flyer miles, and being introduced to my mother’s boyfriend hadn’t put a dent in it.
Ugh. Okay, I lied. So not going there.
Thinking about Brett now. Dark, romantic eyes. Curly dark hair, cut short because he’s the captain of the rowing team. Broad shoulders. Fabulous clothes he wears as if he doesn’t care where he got them.
Oh, yeah. Much better.
Lost in happy plans for how I’d finally get his attention (I was signing up to be a chem tutor first thing because, let’s face it, he needs me), I pushed open the door to my room and staggered in with my duffel bags.
My hands loosened and I dropped everything with a thud.
There were Vuitton suitcases all over the room. Enough for an entire family. In fact, the trunk was so big you could put a family in it—the kids, at least.
“Close the door, why don’t you?” said a bored British voice, with a barely noticeable roll on the r. A girl stepped out from behind the wardrobe door.
Red hair in an explosion of curls.
Fishnet stockings to here and glossy Louboutin ankle boots.
Blue eyes that grabbed you and made you wonder why she was so . . . not interested in whether you took another breath.
Ever.
How come no one had told me I was getting a roommate? And who could have prepared me for this, anyway?
“Who are you?”
“Mac,” she said, returning to the depths of the wardrobe. Most people would have said, “What’s your name?” back. She didn’t.
“I’m Carly.” Did I feel lame or what?
She looked around the door. “Pleasure. Looks like we’re to be roommates.” Then she went back to hanging things up.
There was no point in restating the obvious. I gathered my scattered brains and tried to remember what Mama had taught me that a good hostess was supposed to do. “Did someone show you where the dining room is? Supper is between five and six-thirty, and I usually—”
“Carrie. I expected my own room,” she said, as if I hadn’t been talking. “Whom do I speak to?”
“It’s Carly. And Ms. Tobin’s the dorm mistress for this floor.”
“Fine. What were you saying about tea?”
I took a breath and remembered that one of us was what my brother calls couth. As opposed to un. “You’re welcome to come with me and my friends if you want.”
Pop! went the latches on the trunk. She threw up the lid and looked at me over the top of it, her reddish eyebrows lifting in amusement.
“Thanks so much. But I’ll pass.”
Okay, even I have my limits. I picked up my duffel, dropped it on the end of my bed, and left her to it. Maybe by the time I got back from tea—er, supper—she’d have convinced Ms. Tobin to give her a room in another dorm.
The way things looked, this chica would probably demand the headmistress’s suite.
* * *
“What a mo guai nuer,” Gillian said over her tortellini and asparagus. “I can’t believe she snubbed you like that.”
“You of all people,” Lissa agreed, “who wouldn’t hurt someone’s feelings for anything.”
“I wanted to—if I could have come up with something scathing.” Lissa looked surprised, as if I’d shocked her. Well, I may not put my feelings out there for everyone to see, like Gillian does, but I’m still entitled to have them. “But you know how you freeze when you realize you’ve just been cut off at the knees?”
“What happened to your knees?” Jeremy Clay put his plate of linguine down and slid in next to Gillian. They traded a smile that made me feel sort of hollow inside—not the way I’d felt after Mac’s little setdown, but . . . like I was missing out on something. Like they had a secret and weren’t telling.
You know what? Feeling sorry for yourself is not the way to start off a term. I smiled at Jeremy. “Nothing. How was your break? Did you get up to New York the way you guys had planned?”
He glanced at Gillian. “Yeah, I did.”
Argh. Men. Never ask them a yes/no question. “And? Did you have fun? Shani said she had a blast after the initial shock.”
Gillian grinned at me. “That’s a nice way of saying that my grandmother scared the stilettos off her. At first. But then Nai-Nai realized Shani could eat anyone under the table, even my brothers, no matter what she put in front of her, so after that they were best friends.”
“My grandmother’s like that, too,” I said, nodding in sympathy. “She thinks I’m too thin, so she’s always making pots of mole and stuff. Little does she know.”
It’s a fact that I have way too much junk in my trunk. Part of the reason my focus is in history, with as many fashion design electives as I can get away with, is that when I make my own clothes, I can drape and cut to accentuate the positive and make people forget that big old negative following me around.
“You aren’t too thin or too fat.” Lissa is a perfect four. She’s also the most loyal friend in the world. “You’re just right. If I had your curves, I’d be a happy woman.”
Time to change the subject. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about my body in front of a guy, even if he belonged to someone else. “So, did you guys get to see Pride and Prejudice—The Musical? Shani said you were bribing someone to get tickets.”
“Close,” Gillian said. “My mom is on the orchestra’s board, so we got seats in the first circle. You’d have loved it. Costume heaven.”
“I would have.” I sighed. “Why did I have to go to Veracruz for spring break? How come I couldn’t have gone to New York, too?”
I hoped I sounded rhetorical. The truth was, there wasn’t any money for trips to New York to see the hottest musical on Broadway with my friends. Or for the clothes to wear once I got there—unless I made them myself.
“That’s it, then.” Gillian waved a grape tomato on the end of her fork. “Next break, you and Lissa are coming to see me. Not in the summer—no one in their right mind stays in the city in July. But at Christmas.”
“Maybe we’ll go to Veracruz,” Lissa suggested. “Or you guys can come to Santa Barbara and I’ll teach you to surf.”
“That sounds perfect,” I said. Either of Lissa’s options wouldn’t cost very much. New York, on the other hand, would. “I like warm places for my winter holidays.”
“Good point,” Gillian conceded. “So do I.”
“Notice how getting through the last term of junior year isn’t even on your radar?” Jeremy asked no one in particular. “It’s all about vacations with you guys.”
“Vacations are our reward,” Gillian informed him. “You have to have something to get you through finals.”
“Right, like you have to worry,” he scoffed, bumping shoulders with her in a chummy way.
“She does,” Lissa said. “She has to get me through finals.”
I had to snap out of it. Thinking about all the things I didn’t have and all the things I couldn’t do would get me precisely nowhere. I had to focus on the good things.
My friends.
How lucky I was to have won the scholarship that got me into Spencer.
And how much luckier I was that in two terms, no one had figured out I was a scholarship kid. Okay, so Gillian is a scholarship kid, too, but her dad is the president of a multinational bank. She thinks it’s funny that he made her practice the piano so hard all those years, and that’s what finally got her away from him. Who is my father? No one. Just a hardworking guy. He was so proud of me when that acceptance letter came that I didn’t have the heart to tell him there was more to succeeding here than filling a minority quota and getting good grades.
Stop it. Just because you can’t flit off to New York to catch a show or order up the latest designs from Fashion Week doesn’t mean your life is trash. Get ahold of your sense of proportion.
I took a berry parfait—blueberries have lots of antioxidants—and turned back to the table just as the dining room doors opened. They seemed to pause in their arc, giving my new roommate plenty of time to stroll through before they practically genuflected closed behind her. She’d changed out of the fishnets into heels and a black sweater tossed over a simple leaf-green dress that absolutely screamed Paris—Rue Cambon, to be exact. Number 31, to be even more exact. Chanel Couture.
My knees nearly buckled with envy.
“Is that Carly’s roommate?” I heard Lissa ask.
Mac seemed completely unaware that everyone in the dining room was watching her as she floated across the floor like a runway model, collected a plate of Portobello mushroom ravioli and salad, and sat at the empty table next to the big window that faced out onto the quad.
Lissa was still gazing at her, puzzled. “I know I’ve seen her before.”
I hardly heard her.
Because not only had the redhead cut into line ahead of Vanessa Talbot, Dani Lavigne, and Emily Overton, she’d also invaded their prime real estate. No one sat at that table unless they’d sacrificed a freshman at midnight, or whatever it was that people had to do to be friends with them.
When Vanessa turned with her plate, I swear I could hear the collective intake of breath as her gaze locked on the stunning interloper sitting with her back to the window, calmly cutting her ravioli with the edge of her fork.
Yes, I know it's the 12th but due to circumstances beyond my control, I was pretty much away from the Internet for the better part of the last two weeks.
It feels like forever! Seems like so much happened--and nearly 1200 emails showed up--in that short amount of time.
If you emailed me and it requires a response, I'll get back to you over the next couple of days. If no response required, I'm trudging through them and just know that I'll have read it. Too many to reply to all of them.
What have I been doing in my mini-exile?
Writing. I reworked my hero, again, and started over from the beginning. Some things have changed that make the story premise feel better. I took another look at my heroine too. Then, I began writing the first chapter. A little every day--or nearly every day--but writing none the less. Deliberately writing. Less than I would normally plan to do if I thought about it but the actual words add up to more this way.
With Internet access being shaky, I missed out on getting my Alphasmart on eBay, outbid by $1. A dollar! The next couple of units went for more than I was willing to pay. So I'm keeping my eye on them and will jump back into the bidding later in the month.
I'm applying the same "less is more" approach to a few other things in life, like reading. I've forced myself to put the book down a few times already this year in order to write or simply to give my brain a rest. Feels strange but nice. I can get used to it.
Even so, believe it or not, I've made my way through five books already. Four fiction titles and one weight loss book. But that's because I had time on my hands for the past week. This will slow down quite a bit, probably to a book a week or less.
Beyond that, I've been exercising. Lots of walking and resistance training. I'm determined to make a serious dent in my weight loss goal this year. Hubby and I am both trying to eat better and exercise more so now that he's on board, I think I've got a good shot at real progress.
I've also been organizing stuff around the house and decluttering the place. I love the feel of and mental clarity that comes from a decluttered space. I hate the effort required to get it that way so maintainance will be key.
Most of all, I've been hanging out with The Boys. It's a joy to spend focused time with my sons. At the park. At basketball games. Playing board games. Watching movies. Whatever. I used to long for the opportunity to do that full-time. I don't anymore. Now I accept where I am in life--working full-time while raising children--and I try to make the best of the moments given to me. They're as sweet as the strawberries I ate yesterday. (Florida is gearing up for its annual Strawberry Festival.)
But back to the regular routine. Back to school for the boys, back to work for me.
And writing. Lots of writing.
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Tiffany L. Warren is a technology manager who lives in suburban Cleveland, Ohio with her husband and four children. She is also the author of the critically acclaimed novel, Farther Than I Meant to Go, Longer Than I Meant to Stay.
List Price: $13.99 Paperback: 304 pages Publisher: Grand Central Publishing (January 9, 2009) Language: English ISBN-10: 0446195146 ISBN-13: 978-0446195140
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Darrin
I'm snatched from my sleep by voices.
They're coming from the living room. The first voice is Shayna, my lover, although she likes to be called my girlfriend. She is not my girlfriend. Haven't had one of those since high school.
The other voice is coming from the television. It's way too loud, but not unfamiliar. I concentrate for a moment until familiarity becomes recognition. The voice belongs to that preacher Shayna likes to watch every Sunday morning.
Is it Sunday already?
I start a mental rewind in an attempt to recapture my weekend. Friday was standard. Edited a short story for a girl in my writer's group. She's entering a romance writer's contest, and wanted my opinion.
I didn't give it to her, because I'm possibly interested in sleeping with her. I told her that the uninspired farce was poetic prose. She won't win the contest, but she won't blame it on me. She'll accuse the judges of being amateurs and then come cry on my shoulder. I'll have tissues on hand – right along with the strawberries and champagne.
Also had lunch with Priscilla. My mother. The obligatory "good son" lunch that keeps me on the family payroll. I call her Priscilla behind her back, but never to her face. She's petite, cultured and polished but not above going upside a brotha's head.
We had the same conversation we have every week.
"Darrin, when are you coming to work for your father?"
"The day after never."
"You always say that."
"And I always mean it."
I love my mother, but I hate this conversation.
My father, Mathis Bainbridge, wants me to work in an office at Bainbridge Transports, shuffling papers, giving orders, and hiring overqualified people at ridiculously insulting rates of pay. He calls his company the 'family business' but only one person in our three person familia is interested in shuttling elderly people to doctor's appointments and on shopping trips.
It's not Priscilla and it's not me.
"You coming to church with me on Sunday?" Mother had also asked.
I'd let out a frustrated sigh. "I'll see."
My sporadic church attendance is Priscilla's other favorite topic.
"Don't you love Jesus?"
"Yes, Mother. I love Jesus."
That wasn't a lie. I do love Jesus. I just cannot say no to a woman who wants me to take her to bed and I have yet to hear a preacher tell me how.
Priscilla was extra irritated at our lunch date. She got borderline vulgar. "But you're willing to go to hell over some girl's dirty panties?"
I'd laughed then, and I'm still laughing. In Priscilla speak 'dirty panties' was tantamount to cursing me out.
I'd replied, "Mother, please watch your language."
Saturday was worse. I'd spent the entire muggy and rainy afternoon at a 10K marathon to benefit cancer research. Put on a fake smile and interviewed the sweaty first-place winner, asking him questions that no one wanted answers to, all the while thinking to myself, 'Why am I doing this?'
There was a time when I was excited to have comma writer after my name. You know, Darrin Bainbridge, writer. But the glamour that I'd envisioned has not yet materialized, and the less money I make with freelance journalism, the more my father threatens to chain me to a desk.
Then, when I should have been winding down for the weekend I blogged. Blogging is what narcissistic writers do when they don't have a book deal. Yeah, I'm just a bit narcissistic. Besides, people like to read what I think about social injustice, celebrities and whatever else. Ten thousand hits a day on my blogsite can't be wrong.
The thing I love about blogging is that I'm anonymous. Like, last week I wrote a piece on Jesse Jackson and how he's more of a threat to African American progress than the KKK. Then, I chilled with him at a networking function the same night. No harm, no foul.
Since I can no longer drown out the television or Shayna's 'Hallelujahs', I open my eyes and concede to starting the day. I stretch, take a deep breath, and grin at the memory of last night. Shayna's perfume lingers in the air. A fruity Victoria's Secret fragrance purchased by me for my benefit, but disguised as a spur-of-the-moment romantic and thoughtful gift. Yeah…I don't do those. But Shayna was pleased. So pleased that she stayed the night in my den of iniquity and is now watching church on television instead of getting her shout on in a pew.
I jump out of the bed in one motion, landing on the ice cold ceramic tiles. My pedicured toes curl from the drastic temperature change. Yes, a brotha likes his feet smooth. Hands too. What?
My apartment is slamming, and the furniture baller style – especially for someone with such a low income. If it wasn't for the deep pockets of my parents, blogging and freelance writing would pretty much have me living in semi-poverty. But my mother makes sure that I have the best of the best, and a monthly allowance. I keep thinking that at twenty-eight, I might be too old for a $6000 a month allowance. I'd be satisfied with less, but I'm not turning anything down. Priscilla's generosity (behind my father's back, of course) allows me to pursue my dreams, whatever they might be.
I pull on a pair of silk boxer shorts and walk up the hallway to the living room. Silently, I observe Shayna. She is rocking back and forth on the couch, her hands wrapped around her own torso. Embracing herself.
"You better preach, preacher!" she shouts at the face on the screen.
I mimic her movements and hug myself too, but not because I feel the love. It's freezing in here. Shayna likes to turn the thermostat on sixty no matter what the temperature is outside. Freon laced air rushes out of every vent.
"If you got breath in your lungs and strength in your body, you need to shout Hallelujah!" shouts the preacher.
"Hallelujah!Hallelujah!Hallelujah!Hallelujah!" Shayna's four-alarm Hallelujah sounds like one word.
I am amazed. How can Shayna feel so worshipful this morning when she just rolled out of my bed a few hours ago?
I'm curious. "Do you send this guy money? He's in Atlanta, right?"
Shayna looks up from the program and smiles seductively. Can she be any more blasphemous?
"Yes, Freedom of Life is in Atlanta and yes I do send in my tithe and offering on the regular. I'm a partner." She motions for me to come join her on the couch. I don't.
"About how many members do you think he has?" I ask as the television camera pans to what looks like the crowd at a Destiny's Child concert.
"The sanctuary holds ten thousand," she declares proudly as if it was her own accomplishment, "but there are about twenty thousand members and partners worldwide."
I'm in writer mode now. I can feel the wheels in my mind spinning. Probably something scandalous going on in a church that size. Pastor either skimming money off the top or sleeping with half the choir. Maybe blogging about a dirty Pastor will attract some sponsors. Exposing rich Black men pays well, and if he's truly grimy I won't have a problem spending the money.
Shayna asks suspiciously, "Since when did you get interested in church?"
"Since just now. I could feel the spirit oozing into the bedroom and I had to come investigate."
"I know you better than that. What's the real?"
Shayna doesn't know me at all, but she thinks she does. She assumes that we have a deep bond just because we've shared bodily fluids. There is more to me than my sex drive, but she'll never know that. She's not the wife type.
I humor her and reply, "Well, I just think that there has got to be a story here."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, this guy can't be more than forty five," I'm half-explaining, half-forming the story in my mind. "And he's got twenty thousand offering paying members? I bet he's living large."
Shayna frowns. "What's your point?"
"You don't think there's anything wrong with that?"
"Uh, no. Your daddy lives large."
I chuckle with disbelief. Didn't know she was one of those people. The ones who try to compare pastoring a church to running a business.
Just for the fun of it, I quip, "Jesus preached for free."
"He didn't have a car note," she shoots right back.
"Okay, I see this might be hitting a little close to home, but I bet if I go down there to Atlanta I can dig up a juicy story."
The thought became even more appealing as I put words to it. Atlanta is uncharted territory for me. Fresh stories, different scenery and untapped women. The more I wrap my arms around the notion, the more it turns into a need.
I need to get my butt down to Atlanta and break this story wide open. Blogging on location. Most definitely liking the sound of that.
Shayna leans over the back of the couch pointing her polished fingernail at me for emphasis. "Whatever. Bishop Kumal Prentiss is a man of God and he preaches the Word."
"Kumal Prentiss? That sounds like a hustler's name. And what do you know about the Word?"
"I grew up in church sweetie. I'm not a heathen like you."
"You're not the only one who was raised in church."
I'd had so much church growing up, that if church was food I could feed every one of those starving Ethiopian children who convince me every week to be their sponsor. If church was talent, I'd be singing like R. Kelly and dancing like Usher. If church was candy…let's just say I went to a lot of church.
Every Sunday Priscilla dragged me, unwillingly, into the huge stone building. Me always screaming, "But Daddy doesn't have to go!" Her always replying, "Daddy's going to hell." She'd give me money for my Sunday school offering and send me on my way.
I went through a phase where I enjoyed the services. I was thirteen and my first crush, Alexandra, was fifteen and fully developed. I joined the junior ushers, youth choir and youth department trying to get at that girl.
Then one Sunday morning, old Pastor Davis preached on lust and hell fire. He'd said that if we didn't repent of our lusts and get baptized, then we'd spend an eternity fighting fire. Since I had been drooling over Alexandra and her tight sweater for the entire service, I was terrified. Walked down that center aisle out of fear while Priscilla shouted, stomped and danced. Went down a dry devil, came up a wet devil.
At age sixteen, I just got tired of pretending that I could walk the narrow road. I prayed about it. Told God that I would come to church when I knew I could live right.
Priscilla wasn't having it. I think she literally had a nervous breakdown when I told her I wasn't going back to church. She cried for days; walked around praying out loud, lifting God up and putting the devil under her feet.
I didn't budge. And for the first time ever, my father defended me. He'd stopped Priscilla dead in her tracks.
He'd said, "Priscilla, you will not make my son go to church if he doesn't want to. Church is for women anyway, it's about time he found a more productive way of spending his time."
The memory brings a smile to my face, makes me want to taunt Shayna about her hypocrisy. "And since you know so much about the Word, what does it say about fornication?"
She must be done talking to me, because she turns back to Bishop Prentiss who has worked his congregation into a frenzy. Had to give it to him. The man had skills.
"You want something to eat?" I ask Shayna, ignoring her attitude.
Her face softens. "You know I do."
In minutes I've prepared a small breakfast feast. French toast on fresh French bread and garnished with powdered sugar, strawberries and carmelized bananas and a three cheese omelet, browned to perfection.
Shayna's smile returns as she approaches the table. She tosses her red curls out of her honey colored face as she sashays barefoot over to the table. She looks as delicious as the breakfast wearing her baby t-shirt and boy shorts. I feel a hunger starting inside me that has nothing to do with breakfast food.
Shayna's a cute girl, not stunning, but standing there at my kitchen table, with her disheveled sexiness, she's irresistible. But then again, I have the same motto about women that I have about food. Presentation is everything.
"Why can't you be like the average guy and put everything on paper plates? This looks better than at the restaurant."
"For one, I'm not the average guy and two you wouldn't be so sprung if I was."
Shayna sits down and takes a bite before responding. Closes her eyes and chews slowly. I love the way she savors my culinary creations. She sounds just like a baby relishing the first sips of a warm bottle.
"Is that good?" It's real hard to hide the cockiness in my tone.
"You already know it is!" she exclaims, smacking her lips thoughtfully. "What is it that I taste? There's a different flavor in this."
Her observation fills me with pleasure. "Oh, you've been around me much too long if you are noticing flavor nuances. I'm proud."
She licks her fingers, one at a time. "Mmm-hmm. Maybe I have been around you too long, but baby I am not sprung."
This woman is hilarious. Shayna is not only sprung; she's 'in love'. I'm flattered, even if I don't feel the same way. She's been hinting that she wants to move in with me, but that is not going to happen. Rule number one of my cardinal rules is: never turn a bed mate into a roommate.
"Okay, you're not sprung. I believe you. That's actually a good thing, because then you won't miss me when I go to Atlanta."
"So you're serious about this?"
I fold my arms across my chest and nod my head emphatically. "It is my duty as a journalist to expose the charlatans and inform the people."
"You better be careful. The bible says 'touch not my anointed and do my prophets no harm'."
"Look at you quoting scriptures. I'm impressed. And don't worry about me. If your precious pastor is everything that he says he is then he has nothing to worry about."
The New York Times had an interesting article recently on what's happening to small, local booksellers and even publishers. And it has nothing to do with the current economy or even Amazon.
I never thought about this but book reselling is definitely a factor in declining book sales and I'd say that it may only become a bigger factor, with the flagging economy and the ease of global merchandising via the Internet.
Of course, on Amazon, the reseller prices are always lower than new editions. Until you add in the shipping and handling costs. Then, it seems that 99% of the time, a brand new book is the best way to go because most qualify for Super Saver shipping anyway.
But what about resellers through other channels, like eBay, personal websites/blogs, etc? A book can change hands a multitude of times with the publisher and author only getting paid once. There have always been used bookstores but now they're being crowded out of the marketplace.
Seems like the publishing industry may need a new business model. Thoughts?
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
I think that's from a song because I've got a tune for it in my head but I can't remember more than those four words. Patti Labelle, maybe?
Any-hoo...
How am I going to approach my writing in 2009?
A lot more deliberately.
Note, I didn't say more seriously. I've been serious about it but that just says it means a lot to me. It doesn't get anything done. Serious is an emotion, which may or may not be motivating. Deliberate is more action-oriented.
Although I didn't do so well on my last year goal's, I'm going to have goals again. Just a few, specific goals. Here they are:
I will finish the first draft of the story I'm currently working on by the end of the end of April. To do so, I will attempt to write at least 5 out of 7 days a week (and track my efforts).
I will submit it to two early contests, the RSJ and the ACFW Genesis. Although I'd love to win, my objective is to get feedback. Both entries are due March 1st.
I will write another complete first draft by December 31st.
That's it. Those are my goals.
Beyond that, I will try to hold the line on not reading too much. (I groaned when I saw my FreshFiction review package just after Christmas. But I'll do what I can at a reasonable pace for me.) Maybe if I write Mon - Fri, I can read on Sat and Sun. I'll see.
I'll continue to invest in myself. Until I get a laptop I don't have to share, I'll find other ways to keep my writing going. I've been bidding on Alphasmarts on eBay so that I'll have a way to write no matter where I am. For backup, I'll commit to always having a small notebook and pen. And I hope to attend this year's Faith & Fiction retreat in Orlando.
I'll renew my ACFW membership. Necessary for the Genesis contest but really for so much more. For one thing, I'm looking to be paired with a critique partner/group through their critique matching service. Also, a new chapter is heating up in the local area, giving me an opportunity to network face-to-face with some writers. RWA's TARA chapter is still a possibility but funds and time are limited so I won't push it right now.
But all of that sums up to "would be nice". I have only three goals, which are all about writing. They break down to write, submit, and write some more.
Personally, I'll be working hard to lose weight, an experience I talk about, among other things, at my other blog, It Starts With Me, and in the Faithfully Fit group over on the 50 Million Lbs challenge site. You're welcome to join me in either place.
What are your writing goals for 2009? Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
I can't think of a better way to begin the year than to begin with a book about the beginning.
This feature is a heavily-anticipated book that I expect to be my best read of the year. I'm basing this projection on how affected I was by reading Ms. Lee's previous book, Demon: A Memoir, which made me dig deep spiritually and think in a whole new way. The beauty of the language and imagery in the first 36 pages has not disappointed me.
With no further ado, Havah: The Story of Eve.
It is time to play a Wild Card!Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Tosca Lee is the author of the critically acclaimed Demon: A Memoir (2007), a ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Silver Award winner, American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year nominee, and Christy award finalist. Her eagerly-awaited second novel, Havah: The Story of Eve, released October 2008 to high praise, including a starred review from Publishers Weekly.
A sought-after speaker and first runner-up to Mrs. United States 1998, Tosca works as a Senior Consultant for the Gallup Organization. She received her B.A. in English and International Relations from Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. She also studied at Oxford University.
In her spare time, Tosca enjoys travel, cooking, history and theology. She currently resides in Nebraska.
Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (October 10, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1600061249
ISBN-13: 978-1600061240
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Prologue
I have seen paradise and ruin. I have known bliss and terror.
I have walked with God.
And I know that God made the heart the most fragile and resilient of organs, that a lifetime of joy and pain might be encased in one mortal chamber.
I still recall my first moment of consciousness—an awareness I’ve never seen in the eyes of any of my own children at birth: the sheer ignorance and genius of consciousness, when we know nothing and accept everything.
Of course, the memory of that waking moment is fainter now, like the smell of the soil of that garden, like the leaves of the fig tree in Eden after dawn—dew and leaf green. It fades with that sense of something once tasted on the tip of the tongue, savored now in memory, replaced by the taste of something similar but never quite the same.
His breath a lost sough, the scent of earth and leaf mold that was his sweaty skin has faded too quickly. So like an Eden dawn—dew on fig leaves.
His eyes were blue, my Adam’s.
How I celebrated that color, shrouded now in shriveled eyelids—he who was never intended to have even a wrinkle! But even as I bend to smooth his cheek, my hair has become a white waterfall upon his Eden—flesh and loins that gave life to so many.
I think for a moment that I hear the One and that he is weeping. It is the first time I have heard him in so long, and my heart cries out: He is dead! My father, my brother, my love!
I envy the earth that envelopes him. I envy the dust that comes of him and my children who sow and eat of it.
This language of Adam’s—the word that meant merely “man” before it was his name—given him by God himself, is now mine. And this is my love song. I will craft these words into the likeness of the man before I, too, return to the earth of Adam’s bosom.
My story has been told in only the barest of terms. It is time you heard it all. It is my testament to the strength of the heart, which has such capacity for joy, such space for sorrow, like a vessel that fills and fills without bursting.
My seasons are nearly as many as a thousand. So now listen, sons, and hear me, daughters. I, Havah, fashioned by God of Adam say this:
In the beginning, there was God . . .
But for me, there was Adam.
The Garden
Chapter 1
A whisper in my ear: Wake!
Blue. A sea awash with nothing but a drifting bit of down, flotsam on an invisible current. I closed my eyes. Light illuminated the thin tissues of my eyelids.
A bird trilled. Near my ear: the percussive buzz of an insect. Overhead, tree boughs stirred in the warming air.
I lay on a soft bed of herbs and grass that tickled my cheek, my shoulders, and the arch of my foot, whispering sibilant secrets up to the trees.
From here, I felt the thrum of the sap in the stem; the pulsing veins of the vine; the beat of my heart in euphony with hundreds more around me; the movement of the earth a thousand miles beneath.
I sighed as one returning to sleep, to retreat to the place I had been before, the realm of silence and bliss—wherever that is.
Wake!
I opened my eyes again upon the milling blue, saw it spliced by the flight of a bird, chevron in the sky.
This time, the voice came not to my ear, but directly to my stirring mind: Wake!
There was amusement in it.
I knew nothing of where or what I was, did not understand the polyphony around me or the wide expanse like a blue eternity before me.
But I woke and knew I was alive.
A rustle, a groan practically in my ear. I twitched at a stirring against my hip. A moment later, a touch drifted across a belly I did not yet know I owned, soft as a leaf skittering along the ground.
A face obscured my vision. I screamed. Not with fear—I was no acquaintance of fear—nor with startlement, because I had been aware of the presence already, but because it was the only statement that came to lips as artless as mine.
The face disappeared and returned, blinking into my own, the blue above captured in twin pools . Then, like a gush of water from a rock, gladness thrilled my heart. But its source was not me.
At last! It came, unspoken—a different source than the voice before—the words thrust jubilantly to the sky: “At last!”
He was up on legs like the trunks of sturdy saplings, beating at the earth with his feet. He thumped his chest and shouted to the sun and clapped his hands. “At last!” he cried, his laughter like warm clay between the toes. He shook his shoulders and stomped the grass, slapping his chest as he shouted again and again. Though I did not understand the utterance, I knew its meaning at once: joy and exultation at something longed for suddenly found.
I tried to mimic his sound; it came out as a squawk and then a panting laugh. Overhead, a lark chattered an extravagant address. I squeaked a shrill reply. The face lowered to mine, and the man’s arms wrapped, womb-tight, around me.
“Flesh of my flesh,” he whispered, hot against my ear. His fingers drifted from my hair to my body, roaming like the goat on the hills of the Sacred Mount. I sighed, expelling the last remnants of that first air from my lungs—the last of the breath in them not drawn by me alone.
He was high-cheeked, this adam, his lower lip dipping down like a folded leaf that drips sweet water to thirsty mouths. His brow was a hawk, soaring above the high cliffs, his eyes blue lusters beneath the fan of his lashes. But it was his mouth that I always came back to, where my eyes liked best to fasten after taking in the shock of those eyes. Shadow ran along his jaw, obsidian dust clinging to the curve of it, drawing my eye to the plush flesh of his lips, again, again, again.
He touched my face and traced my mouth. I bit his finger. He gathered my hands and studied them, turning them over and back. He smelled my hair and lingered at my breasts and gazed curiously at the rest of me. When he was finished, he began all over again, tasting my cheek and the salt of my neck, tracing the instep of my foot with a fingertip.
Finally, he gathered me up, and my vision tilted to involve an altogether new realm: the earth and my brown legs upon it. I clutched at him. I seemed a giant, towering above the earth—a giant as tall as he. My first steps stuttered across the ground as the deer in the hour of its birth, but then I pushed his hands away. My legs, coltish and lean, found their vigor as he urged me, walking far too fast, to keep up. He made for the orchard, and I bolted after him with a surge of strength and another of my squawking sounds. Then we were running—through grasses and over fledgling sloes, the dark wool of my hair flying behind me.
We raced across the valley floor, and my new world blurred around me: hyssop and poppy, anemone, narcissus, and lily. Roses grew on the foothills amidst the caper and myrtle.
A blur beside me: the long-bodied great cat. I slowed, distracted by her fluidity, the smooth curve of her head as she tilted it to my outstretched hand. I fell to the ground, twining my arms around her, fingers sliding along her pelt. Her tongue was rough—unlike the adam’s—and she rumbled as she rolled against me.
Far ahead, the adam called. Overhead, a hawk circled for a closer look. The fallow deer at a nearby stream lifted her head.
The adam called again, wordlessly: longing and exuberance. I got up and began to run, the lioness at my heels. I was fast—nearly as fast as she. Exhilaration rose from my lungs in quick pants—in laughter. Then, with a burst, she was beyond me.
She was gone by the time the adam caught me up in his arms. His hands stroked my back, his lips, my shoulder. I marveled at his skin—how smooth, how very warm it was.
“You are magnificent,” he said, burying his face against me. “Ah, Isha—woman, taken from man!”
I said nothing; although I understood his meaning, I did not know his words. I knew with certainty and no notion of conceit, though, that he was right.
At the river he showed me how he cupped his hands to drink, and then cupped them again for me. I lowered my head and drank as a carp peered baldy from the shallows up at me.
We entered the water. I gasped as it tickled the backs of my knees and hot hairs under my arms, swirling about my waist as though around a staunch rock as our toes skimmed a multitude of pebbles. I wrapped my arm around his shoulders.
“All of this: water,” he said, grunting a little bit as he swam toward the middle of the river where it widened into a broad swath across the valley floor. “Here—the current.”
“Water,” I said, understanding in the moment I spoke it the element in all its forms—from the lake fed by the river to the high springs that flow from the abyss of the Mount. I felt the pull of it as though it had a gravity all its own—as though it could sweep me out to the cold depths of the lake and lull me by the tides of the moon.
From the river I could see the high walls of our cradle: the great southern Mount rising to heaven, and to the north, the foothills that became the long spine of a range that arched toward the great lake to the west.
I knew even then that this was a place set apart from the unseen lands to the north, the alluvial plain to the south, the great waters to the east and far to the west.
It was set apart solely because we dwelt in it.
But we were not alone. I could see them, after a time, even as we left the river and lay upon its banks. I saw them in sidelong glances when I looked at something else: a sunspot caught in the eye, a ripple in the air, a shock of light where there should be only shadow. And so I knew there were other beings, too.
The adam, who studied me, said nothing. We did not know their names.
The first voice I heard urging me to wake had not been the man’s. Now I felt the presence of it near me, closer than the air, than even the adam’s arms around me.
I returned the man’s strange amazement, taken by his smooth, dark skin, the narrowness of his hips, his strange sex. He was warmer than I, as though he had absorbed the heat of the sun, and I laid my cheek against his flat breasts and listened to the changeling beat of his heart. My limbs, so fresh to me, grew heavy. As languor overtook me, I retreated from the sight of my lovely, alien world.
Perhaps in closing my eyes, I would return to the place I had been before.
For the first time since waking, I hoped not.
I slept to the familiar thrum of his heart as insects made sounds like sleepy twitches through the waning day.
When I woke, his cheek was resting against the top of my head. Emotion streamed from his heart, though his lips were silent.
Gratitude.
I am the treasure mined from the rock, the gem prized from the mount.
He stirred only when I did and released me with great reluctance. By then the sun had moved along the length of our valley. My stomach murmured.
He led me to the orchard and fed me the firm flesh of plums, biting carefully around the pits and feeding the pieces to me until juice ran down our chins and bees came to sample it. He kissed my fingers and hands and laid his cheek against my palms.
That evening we lay in a bower of hyssop and rushes—a bower, I realized, that he must have made it on a day before this one.
A day before I existed.
We observed together the changing sky as it cooled gold and russet and purple, finally anointing the clay earth red.
Taken from me. Flesh of my flesh. At last. I heard the timbre of his voice in my head in my last waking moment. Marvel and wonder were upon his lips as he kissed my closing eyes.
I knew then he would do anything for me.
That night I dreamed of blackness. Black, greater than the depths of the river or the great abyss beneath the lake.
From within that nothingness there came a voice that was not a voice, that was neither sound nor word but volition and command and genesis. And from the voice, a word that was no word but the language of power and genesis and fruition.
There! A mote spark—a light first so small as the tip of a pine needle. It exploded past the periphery of my dreaming vision, obliterating the dark. The heavens were vast in an instant, stretching without cease to the edges of eternity.
I careened past new bodies that tugged me in every direction; even the tiniest particles possessed their own gravity. From each of them came the same concert, that symphony of energy and light.
I came to stand upon the earth. It was a great welter of water, the surface of it ablaze with the refracted light of heavens upon heavens. It shook my every fiber, like a string that is plucked and allowed to resonate forever.
I was galvanized, made anew, thrumming that inaugural sound: the yawning of eternity.
Amidst it all came the unmistakable command:
Wake!
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Peace & Blessings, Patricia Stay focused. Be deliberate. Believe.
