First Friday Fiction Feature – Christmas Eve Perspective

It’s the first Friday of the month. You know what that means… it’s time for another installment of short fiction. (You can, at any time, find this work or any of the First Friday Fiction Features, by going to the My Work tab, clicking on Freebies, and selecting the story you wish to read.)

In the spirit of Christmas, I’m taking some liberties with a famous work of Mr. Clement Clark Moore. I’m sure you’ll recognize it. Happy Holidays, everyone.

Christmas Eve Perspective

Twas the night before Christmas, I was the only one up.

The only thing keeping me going was the caffeine in my cup.

The last month had been spent in a blur of congestion.

And I sat wrapping gifts pondering one crucial question.

My kids had full bellies and had gone to bed sated.

And it was the time of night that I most hated.

My husband had had his fill of fine family dining.

And had done a little too much of “fine family wining.”

He’d just “rested his eyes” and was now snoring.

A trait I didn’t find very adoring.

So I was wrapping all the presents and guzzling my joe,

When I saw something moving outside in the snow.

I stepped onto the porch for a better view.

The starry sky was clear, but a blustery wind blew.

I turned from the chill, then I looked back.

I swear it was Santa, complete with sleigh and sack.

I counted eight reindeer hitched to his sleigh.

And wondered who would believe my story when I told it the next day.

Without my phone, I’d have no photographic proof,

I thought maybe I could show someone the prints of a hoof.

I stood there and watched them, I’m not sure how long.

Santa was singing his deer a beautiful song.

I thought it must be how he gets them to fly in the air;

It’s not quite a carol, not quite a prayer.

But he sang his song, and he shook the reins,

And off they went by the tune of his baritone strains.

The stars twinkled, the snowflakes swirled;

Santa was gone, bringing joy to the world.

I turned to go back inside, resigned to do my work;

I had been acting like a complete and total jerk.

So what if I was the only one doing the wrapping?

Who cares if I would rather be in my warm bed napping?

These moments are fleeting. They come and go fast.

There’s no way in the world we can make them last.

The kids won’t know, nor will they care,

Who baked or shopped or wrapped, I swear!

I needed to stop asking why I was always stuck.

I needed to stop asking why I had such rotten luck.

I opened the door and dropped my jaw, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

What I saw inside the room was a Christmas Eve surprise!

Every gift was wrapped and tagged and placed under the tree.

And all the paper, bows, and tags were put away for me.

My husband slept soundly again; I woke him with a kiss.

“Thanks,” I said, and gestured, “for handling all this.”

He said, “I wish I could take credit, but it wasn’t me.”

And we heard sleigh bells ringing outside beyond the holly tree.

“You don’t think…” I whispered, stunned. “I mean—”

“Why not?” he said. “It wouldn’t be the first magical thing we’ve seen.”

He wrapped me in his arms, I snuggled against him tight.

“Merry Christmas.” He pulled me toward the stairs. “It’s going to be a good night.”

First Friday Fiction Feature – A Walk on the Wild Side

It’s the first Friday of the month. Time for another fiction installment. (Links for this and all Fiction Features can be found on the Freebies page.)

Because yesterday was Halloween, I thought I’d include something here that’s just a little creepy. Hope you enjoy it.

A Walk on the Wild Side

Savannah sat behind the wheel of her car in the parking lot of Cheery Charities, the local store offering discounted and sometimes free items to the less fortunate. In years past, she’d donated many of her things to the store.

Now she was a patron.

Being the number one real estate agent in the tri-state area used to require all of her time. But it was worth it. She had an expertly furnished beautiful five bedroom provincial, a luxury car, money for all her desires, and a sizeable savings portfolio.

When the real estate bubble burst, her whole world disintegrated. She’d burned through her savings, then resorted to selling off her estate. She traded her car for an old jalopy and a few thousand dollars. When she had nothing left to sell, she sold the house and moved into a walk-up efficiency. With little money for rent, utilities, and food, and most of her clothes in a consignment shop, she had no choice but to shop at Cheery Charities. She had no other option; she refused to reach out to her father for help. Their parting had been less than amicable. She wasn’t crawling home looking for a handout after their final conversation.

Taking a deep breath, she inhaled the scent of stale tobacco and what she hoped was wet dog. Pursing her lips, she exhaled slowly and tried not to think about the filth she was sitting in. Or wallow in her current plight. Winter was approaching, and she needed something to block the chill.

Cheery Charities it was, then.

No point in locking up. There was nothing in her car worth stealing, and no one would want to take her car. She merely shoved the door until it finally swung on its ungreased hinges and slammed it closed.

A tiny bell on the door tinkled to announce her presence. She looked around, but no workers came out of the back. She approached a rack holding coats and picked through the offerings until she found a black wool pea coat and tried it on. It was a size too big for her, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

She stifled a mirthless chuckle. She was basically a beggar now. She needed to stop being so choosy and take what was available.

Take what was available?

Could she really steal from a charity? If someone was actually working, she wouldn’t be in the position to consider it. As it was, she was one of the misfortunate needy, and she was entitled to the coat. Probably.

She left the coat on and headed toward the door. If she ever was flush again, she’d make a donation.

Fighting the guilt, she turned her head away from the cash register. A rack of shoes caught her eye. Stepping toward it, her hand reached out to touch a pair of Jimmy Choo’s. Those had been hers, and she had loved them. But they were impractical for people in her condition. She needed something more utilitarian.

Her gaze drifted to a pair of work boots. She didn’t know if they were a man’s or a woman’s. She slipped them on. They were small for a man’s foot, but they definitely looked like a man’s style. She didn’t care. They were steel-toed, fleece-lined, and would keep her warm.

“God, I wish this wasn’t my life.”

A cold chill blew past her, then the room was still.

She glanced at the Jimmy Choo’s one last time, snatched them and bolted out the door with her contraband. She could still hear the bell tinkling when she started her car and drove away.

The plan was to head to the library and use the computer to search for job openings, but she found herself driving to the river. She stopped at the bridge and scrambled down the hill. Metal barrels, rusted from exposure and scorched from years of holding fires, dotted the ground. She thanked the Lord that no one was currently there. She was confused and out of control, and it didn’t seem she had a choice about when to stay and when to flee.

Her feet kept moving, taking her straight to one of the barrels. She held her hands over it as though warming them over a fire. She felt ridiculous, as there wasn’t currently a fire burning, but she couldn’t stop herself. Suddenly she whipped around as though her body was reacting to a threat. She reached into her pocket and whipped out her empty hand, clenching her fist the way a person would grip a knife handle. She began shadow-stabbing a non-existent foe.

Slash right.

Stab.

Swipe left.

Duck.

Spin away.

Plunge.

Her hand stopped attacking and just twisted into the air. She was horrified to feel her cheeks lift up and her mouth split open in a satisfied grin. Then she stumbled backward as though absorbing an enormous weight. Flinging her arms to the side like she was throwing that weight down, she returned her imaginary knife to her pocket.

She walked over to a grouping of stones and hefted one of the larger ones. Then she walked back to where she had done battle and arranged the stone near where she had dumped her imaginary attacker. She repeated that process several times, stopping only to wipe the sweat from her brow. When the stones were in place, she walked to a different area and rooted through a non-existent bin. Returning to the stones, her hands moved like she was tying them to something. Then she started rolling the stones to the river. At the edge of the land above the water, she stopped and shoved.

The current was swift, but not even the rushing water could keep the stones from sinking to the river’s bottom.

Every fiber of her body fought to scream, but all she could manage was a self-satisfied smile. She clambered back up the hill and got in her car.

She drove straight to a homeless shelter on the other side of the train tracks. She’d never been to that part of the city, and felt panic sluicing icy-cold through her veins. A woman stepped out and shook her apron. Seeing Savannah sitting there, she smiled at her and beckoned her inside.

Savannah had no interest in going in, but she couldn’t help herself. She climbed out of the jalopy and sauntered toward the door. The woman held the door open for her, and Savannah looked her over, head to toe and back. Her stomach roiled, sickened by her actions, but she continued on. “Hey, sweetheart,” she said to the woman from the shelter.

The woman cleared her throat and tried to smile. “Hi,” she managed. “Are you looking for a cot tonight? Or a hot meal? We’re here to help.”

Savannah pushed a stray lock of hair away from the woman’s face and smiled when she recoiled from her touch. “After you.”

She followed the woman inside, keeping her eyes on her swaying hips. She wanted to look away, but her eyes were glued to the woman’s backside. When the woman turned and caught her staring, she untucked her shirt and walked more quickly toward the food line. “Here,” she said and handed Savannah a tray. “Go through the line. I’ll send the director over to discuss a bed.”

“Thanks, hon.”

The woman glanced back over her shoulder and scurried away.

The food looked like school cafeteria food—high in carbs, high in fat, completely processed, and way overcooked. She’d been living off ramen noodles and peanut butter sandwiches for months, and even that menu didn’t make the shelter’s food look any more appealing. As it turned out, she didn’t have a choice. Her feet pulled her through the line and she accepted one of everything.

Sitting alone in a dark corner, her thoughts had drifted to what she had done under the bridge. Even though she didn’t actually attack anyone, her actions were those of a murderer, and it freaked her out. And the lack of control? More than a little disturbing.

The woman who invited her in was walking toward her with a man who Savannah presumed was the director. Their heads were tipped toward each other’s in quiet conversation, but Savannah could hear snatches of it.

“…creepy guy last month…mean, exactly…”

“…could be a coincidence that…” the director said.

“…don’t understand…identical conversation to…”

“…the guy…little…”

The woman put her hand on the man’s arm to stop his progress. She whispered something directly in his ear then retreated from the room.

“Hello,” the man said. “I’m Derek, the director here. Callie said you’re interested in a bed?”

The last place Savannah wanted to be was at the shelter at night. Instead of declining, however, she said, “I’d be much obliged.”

Derek raised an eyebrow and studied her for a bit. Then he said, “Follow me.”

He led her into a room with twelve cots. Five of them were occupied. “Make yourself at home. Bathroom’s through that door,” he said, pointing to a door on the right. “Only rule is keep your hands to yourself. Lights out soon.”

“No worries, Derek,” Savannah said, sounding far more comfortable than she felt.

Derek stared at her for a moment, then left, calling for Callie.

Savannah looked at the other people spending the night. None seemed to want to socialize, which was fine by her. She sat on the edge of the cot and bent down to take off her boots.

She slipped them off her feet and was suddenly freed from their compulsive powers. A comforting warmth spread through her, then dissipated. The boots! Why hadn’t she realized sooner that her will was overpowered the moment the boots touched her feet? She quickly tucked her feet under her on the cot and stared at them. They looked innocent enough, but they were deadly. Literally.

The door opened again and a man sauntered in, calling over his shoulder, “You’re welcome to join me, sugar. I don’t bite. Much.”

Savannah didn’t hear Callie’s answer, but the man grinned and said, “Suit yourself.”

He strutted toward Savannah and took the cot next to her. He lay on his side, propping his head on his hand and staring in her direction. “New here, sweetheart?”

Savannah’s mouth instantly dried, preventing her from speaking. She couldn’t take her eyes off his feet. They were small—unusually small. Roughly her size.

Noticing where she was looking, he tried to look at her feet, but they were still tucked under her. Then he glanced down at the floor and saw her boots. She saw the recognition flit across his face right before Derek came to the door and said, “Lights out.” The room plunged into darkness.

Savannah’s heart slammed off her ribcage. A gravelly voice right in her ear said, “I think you have something of mine.”

She jumped off the bed and bolted for the door. She didn’t stop until she’d run out of the room, through the dining hall, and into the street. Her jalopy was where she left it, and she jumped in, fumbled for her keys, and jammed them with trembling hands in the ignition. Then she took off for home, not looking back. Part way home, she grabbed the Jimmy Choo’s off her seat and tossed them out the window.

She entered her apartment and locked the door. Looking around, she took in the sparse furnishings, dreary walls, and stained carpet. Safety trumped luxury any day, and she was safe. For the moment, anyway.

Why had she ever wished for another life?

A noise at the door startled her. She crept to the door and looked out the peephole. Seeing nothing, she gripped the handle and flung the door open.

A cat screeched and darted down the hall.

Pride be damned. She didn’t want the boot-man’s life, but she didn’t want hers any longer, either.

Striding across the room, she grabbed the phone off the receiver and dialed.

“Dad? It’s me.”

Happy Father’s Day, Robert A. Smith

As my regular readers know, my usual post day is Monday. But today is Father’s Day, and I couldn’t let the day pass without acknowledging my father, Robert Smith.

or all the times when I was a little girl and you came home from work tired, but not too tired to carry me upstairs. I’d wait outside your room for you to change just for you to carry me back down again. I know that was the last thing in the world you felt like doing, but you always made time for me when you got home. You always made time for me, period. It made me feel special.

nd then I’d sit with you while you ate dinner. Except when Eric Sevareid came on the television. (I don’t know why I liked him, but I’d run to the TV to watch him, and when he was over, I’d run back to you.) I always went back to you. And why wouldn’t I? You were my hero. You still are.

hen as I got older, you tried to teach me to swim and to ride a bike. (I know I wasn’t the easiest of students, but I remember your efforts. And I did finally learn!) I also remember easier days, playing cards or you pulling me on the sled in the snow. We always had such fun. I still enjoy spending time with you. I just wish we could do it more often.

ow we made it through the teen years, I don’t know. I would go to you with questions or for permission because Mom was stricter and you were wrapped around my finger, or so I thought. But we did fight. And then I’d cry. I hated having my daddy mad at me. I still do. I’m just glad it doesn’t really happen anymore.

ven though some of those times were ugly, we got through them easily with just a quick joke. Even a bad joke, or a “Bob joke” as they’ve come to be called, would do it. Once, to get out of trouble, I called you “Bob” and I said I said your name backward. Goofy, but you laughed. You never could stay mad at me. I hope that never changes.

emember when I was in college and you were helping me move out of my apartment? We had that tiny Plymouth Horizon and that other family had a huge van, but we packed my whole apartment in one car and that other family was full-up after just a few trips? We laughed about that half way home. Of course, we weren’t laughing when we moved the furniture and the couch flipped onto the Parkway. You really didn’t laugh when someone at work mentioned seeing the incident. It was a good thing they didn’t recognize us! You were always there, helping me. You made things seem easy that I know weren’t.

Dad, growing up with you as my father was the best thing that could have happened to me. You made work fun (remember spraying each other with the hose when we were washing cars?), you made play even more fun (nobody makes Clue as enjoyable as you do), and you were always there for me.

When I got married, I was so excited to walk down the aisle and start my new life with my husband. I smiled and laughed that whole morning. Everyone, even you, commented at how relaxed I was. And why wouldn’t I be? I was marrying the man of my dreams. But before I took that first step, I felt your arm tighten around mine. I remembered I had said I was worried about wobbling in my heels and you had said you wouldn’t let me fall. When I felt your arm, I knew you had me. And I knew it was the last time I’d be relying solely on you. I looked at you… and then cried the whole way down the aisle. But you didn’t really give me away. You just expanded our family and took my husband in. It’s much nicer looking at it that way.

They say girls marry men like their dads. That’s probably true to some extent. I had the best grandfather anyone could ever want. And when my mom chose a husband, she chose a man as wonderful as her father. I have the best dad ever, and when I got married, I chose a man as special as my father. I hope my daughter continues the tradition. Although, I’m not sure they still make men like this.

So thanks Dad, for all you’ve done and for all you do. I love you.

Happy Father’s Day to my father, and to all fathers today. Dads come in all shapes and sizes, and with all kinds of titles (dad, uncle, godfather, stepfather, grandfather, brother, friend), but any supportive male presence in our lives deserves this recognition.

Four Words of Wisdom for the Graduate, or the Writer

My daughter graduated middle school this past week. Just putting my age in perspective, when I was in school, you didn’t graduate middle school, you just moved on to the next grade. Kids today celebrate every milestone. In some ways, I kind of think that’s the problem with the younger generation. They get participation trophies instead of earning their awards, no child is left behind (even if the child should be), and then when they become adults, they wonder why no one is handing them things anymore. They’re completely unprepared for the realities of life.

On the other hand, I say why not celebrate every accomplishment you can? Before too long, people will be looking for reasons to knock you down and climb over you on their way up the ladder of success. Might as well enjoy the successes while you have them and people are willing to celebrate with you.

As a parent, I know I’ll always be a cheerleader for my kids, no matter how old they are, no matter what they accomplish. My kids are quite successful, but don’t worry—I’m not going to use this as a forum to brag. Instead, I’m going to take some words of wisdom I picked up from the guidance counselor at the awards assembly. He said some things that I think apply to everyday living, and to the writer’s career as well.

1) Some people get older; some people grow up.

In life, that’s easy enough to explain. Some of the kids are getting older, but no more mature. His point is that it’s time to stop acting like a child and start being responsible. We all know that fifty year old who thinks it’s funny to burn rubber in the parking lot and is always causing trouble at work. That person didn’t grow up. Don’t be that person.
In a writer’s career, that’s also appropriate. Some writers never mature in their writing because they don’t put the time and effort in. You can say you’re a writer for years, working on that one manuscript that no one ever sees (and that honestly, you only dabble in once a month), but to become an expert, you must write often, and you must study the craft. Read books, attend conferences, work with critique partners, submit your work for publication. Only then can you, as a writer, mature.

2) The better we handle the word “no,” the more often we hear the word “yes.”

That, too, is self-explanatory as a life-lesson. People who have temper tantrums and negative responses to a refused request will not be looked upon favorably, and that will result in another “no” when a second request is made. A responsible reaction to a rejection leaves a positive image, and therefore requests are more likely to be answered with a “yes” in the future.
In writing, rejection can come in the form of negative reviews, bad critiques, or actual rejections from agents, editors, or publishers. Written or verbal replies to these rejections that are negative (or even worse, sarcastic or scathing) show the writer to be difficult to work with and unprofessional. Why burn bridges? Sometimes the rejections come with nothing but good intentions, offering ways to make your writing better. Other times, a no is a no. But in any case, you always want to leave people with a positive impression. That “yes” could be one submission away. And don’t forget—people in the industry talk. You don’t want your name being circulated for the wrong reasons.

3) When we forget life is short, we treat it like it’s not.

Don’t leave things for another time, only to find out that time was taken from you. People move on, sometimes permanently, and you may not have a chance to say or do something you mean to.
In writing, sometimes we get career-obsessed. I have to make word count today. I need to send more tweets. I’m seventeen likes away from one-thousand followers on Facebook. Yes, writing and platforming are crucial steps in becoming successful. But life is short. Take the time to actually live,too, or all of your hard work will have been for nothing.

4) There’s never a right time to do the wrong thing, and never a wrong time to do the right thing.

If you live your life by a set of high moral standards, you’ll feel better about yourself. You won’t ever get into trouble. And, in the grand scheme of things, you’ll come out ahead, even if you don’t get every small reward you think you deserve along the way.
In writing, the thing that keeps the plot moving is conflict. If a character isn’t faced with a choice or a dilemma, then there isn’t anything happening. The rule is for the heroes to always do right and the villains to always do wrong. Here’s the caveat: there are no rules in fiction that can’t be broken. Have your hero make a bad choice. Have your villain do something nice. It’s the choices that people make—and the reasons they make them—that make them rich, interesting characters to read about. It’s okay, even interesting, to get your hero in trouble, as long as you make things right in the end.

So, those were just some of the words of wisdom we heard at the awards ceremony. I batted back a few tears, shared some smiles and laughter, and applauded with the rest of the crowd when the kids got their awards. I can’t believe both of my kids are now officially in high school. Where did the time go? I think I need to work on number three. Life is short, and I want to embrace every second of it.

What words of wisdom do you have to share, for both life and writing?

Truth is Stranger Than Fiction

My husband is responsible for hundreds of people at the plant where he works. I won’t tell you his title. For one reason, it’s long and convoluted. For another, most of the words won’t mean anything to laypeople. And most importantly, I need to look it up to get it exactly right. It’s easier to say he’s the assistant plant manager, but really, it’s more complicated than that. On a good day, he has to make sure everything is on schedule, running efficiently, and up to code so there are no health violations. On a bad day, well, we don’t like to think about the bad days.

When the phone rings in the middle of the night, you know it’s a family emergency or a work emergency. You know it’s never a good thing. The phone rang a few nights ago, and it was a work emergency. All he told me before rushing out was that there was an accident on the docks. I knew it wasn’t family. And I knew it wasn’t good.

How do you comfort someone you love when you don’t even know what you’re comforting them for?

Hours later, he tried to sneak into bed, but I was awake, worrying for him and the unnamed victim of the accident. I asked him what happened.

A maintenance worker, whose uniform is dark blue, was working alone on the docks. The docks are dark despite the lights, and very noisy. It’s against the rules to be there alone, but he was there by himself. He had his back turned and was standing against the wall, working against the building. When the truck backed in, the driver couldn’t see him, and the maintenance worker didn’t see or hear the truck. He was pinned against the wall.

When my husband got the call, he was certain the worker had been killed.

But a series of unrelated circumstances resulted in a different outcome.

A different driver was supposed to be there, but this driver was waved into the property first.
The truck had a damaged bumper, and it was bent in right where the worker was pinned.
The worker’s arms were above him when he was pinned, and he was able to reach his radio and call for help.

The worker sustained only bruising. No internal bleeding, no broken bones. By all rights, he should have been killed, but fate, divine intervention, luck… whatever you want to call it spared him.

The driver of the truck was sick over the whole thing. My husband didn’t look too good after he got the call, and honestly, he looked shell-shocked when he got home. I was torn between laughing and crying, but just settled on thanking God for his intercession.

The thing is, from the writer’s perspective, they say write what you know, but sometimes you just can’t. Sometimes life just isn’t believable.

No one would ever believe that you could be pinned by a semi and live to tell about it. There are too many coincidences that worked in the maintenance man’s favor to help him survive, especially after he was alone, in the dark, in dark clothes on a noisy dock.

Writing what you know sometimes isn’t believable.

When my husband’s grandfather died (his father’s father), his mother’s two sisters missed the funeral, and we wondered where they were. They showed up at the wake to tell us that they were with their uncle who had just died. We had no sooner buried one family member, we were going to have to bury another. After his wake, we were decompressing at my brother-in-law’s house when we got a call that my father-in-law’s uncle had passed. That made three. Now, I grant you, that was two on one side of the family and one on the other, but that made three for us, back to back. We weren’t even able to grieve any longer. We were completely empty, void of tears, unable to even process the emotions.

If I wrote a scenario like that into a book, no one would believe it.

Truth is stranger than fiction.

So, draw on your experiences. Use your emotions. But choose expeditiously. A little reality goes a long, long way.

Do you have any “truth is stranger than fiction” moments that inspired a story? Care to share them, or how you changed them, in the comments below?

Happy Mother’s Day, Carmella N. Smith

This isn’t my usual type of post, and it’s not on my usual day, but I couldn’t let Mother’s Day pass without taking the opportunity to honor my mother, Carmella Smith.

any times I came to you, upset or angry, and you always knew just what to say to buoy my spirits and shed light on the problem. You were there with sage advice and wisdom beyond your years, helping guide me.

ther times I came to you to share funny stories about things that happened during the course of my day. You were always there to listen, and to laugh with me, even if it didn’t amuse you, just to humor me.

hen there were the times that I wasn’t sure of myself and my abilities. You were there, cheering me on, letting me know I was more than good enough, more than ready to face any challenge that comes my way.

appy childhood memories are of me and you together. You taught me to read while I sat on your lap. You taught me to spell while I followed you around with a tiny pink dust cloth. I’m a writer today because of you.

ven though we joke about the rules we grew up with, it’s because of your ethics that I have the strength and character I have today. You taught me your faith, your fortitude, and your convictions, and I thank you.

ight about the time your work should have been done, I had my own children. You were there with me, calming my fears, wiping my tears, sharing my joys, and offering me council. For that, I’m truly grateful.

Mother, I don’t tell you often enough or show you clearly enough how much I appreciate all the things you’ve done for me. There really are no words to express gratitude for life, for nurturing, for care, concern, and compassion for over forty years. So, on this Mother’s Day, just like I do every day, I’ll just say I love you.

Happy Mother’s Day to my mom, and to all mothers today. Moms come in all shapes and sizes, and with all kinds of titles (mom, aunt, godmother, stepmother, grandmother, sister, friend), but any nurturing female presence in our lives deserves this recognition.

Four Ways to Turn Weekend Negatives into Writing Positives

Wow, what a weekend. It started with snow. In May. In Arkansas. I ask you, what’s a die hard northerner to look forward to in the south if not nice weather? We’ve already opened our pool, for Pete’s sake. And now we have snow! It couldn’t have come at a worse time—it was the first tennis tournament of the season. So here I was, missing a writing conference that I’d love to attend because of my kids’ sporting events, and the weather was not cooperating. I had planned for sun and heat and instead I was worrying about precipitation and wind chill factors. Not the weekend we had planned.

It was not a good weekend for us. On Friday, as I said, we woke up to snow. I was too cold to even get out of the car to take a proper photo of it. The tennis matches were all backed up and rescheduled, as well as operating under amended scoring protocols. By the time my son was used to the tournament and thoroughly warmed up, his match was over. Sadly, he lost, which isn’t unexpected for the first match ever, but he took it hard. By the time we ate and went home, the Penguin game had started. Luckily, we recorded it. Sadly, they lost too. It was a bad day for us all around.

Saturday started out as wet and cold as Friday. Tennis was still on amended schedules. My daughter’s match was delayed several hours, and they didn’t even bother telling us, so we just hung around for, oh, I don’t know, ever, until our turn. She made it into the semifinals, so we thought things we looking up. We were wrong.

Sunday dawned warmer and partly sunny. After Mass, we headed over to the courts and I checked in my daughter while my husband left with my son to go get some practice time in before his match. Everything was looking up, right? Wrong. They took my daughter ahead of schedule, so my husband missed the beginning of her match. He didn’t miss much. She lost. My son played a couple of hours later. He had a great match, but he also lost. We decided to grab something to eat and call it a day.

We headed out to a Mexican restaurant. I usually cook a special Mexican meal for Cinco de Mayo, but we weren’t home for me to make it, so we were at the mercy of the restaurant. The first piece of bad news: we walk in and the television above the bar has the hockey score on. No point in watching the game now. At least we won. Then the waitress who took our drink order never came back, so we were abandoned for a while. The good news was that we ended up with a really good waiter when he figured out that we weren’t being served. The meal wasn’t that good because they were super busy and using a modified menu, but we were together, so that’s all that really matters. I’ll just make our “real” meal later in the week.

So what’s the take away from this weekend?

They don’t cancel tennis tournaments for snow.
The kids are resilient when they lose in tennis matches.
It doesn’t matter whether my kids (and my pro sports teams) win.
Only four more years until I can make it to the writing conference in May.

And how these things impact fiction writing?

Sometimes weather is inappropriate for the season.
We’ve all seen storms thrown into stories, or cowboys riding into sunsets, but consider the weather as part of the setting when it’s not traditional—like snow in the summer, or a heat wave at Christmas. How can that impact your characters and your story?
How characters handle adversity defines them.
My kids didn’t make it into the finals this weekend, but they left the tournament as champions because of how they handled themselves. There were no McEnroe-sized temper tantrums, there were no tears. There were no blaming bad calls. There were no varsity limps. My kids shook hands with their competitors and held their heads high as they walked off the courts. How your characters handle losses helps readers know who they are.
Heroes can’t always win and villains can’t always lose.
There’s something to be said for the successful villain or the down-on-his-luck hero. If the hero is always on top, he’s going to be boring. He needs to face adversity and not always win. If the villain doesn’t score a success or two, he may succumb to new lows of depravity and evil, but he’ll be one dimensional. No one loses all the time. Mixing it up makes it more real.
Writing conferences will help you improve your writing.
There are times that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. This weekend, the first weekend in May, is always our first tennis tournament. It’s also the OWFI Conference. I can’t do both, and my family needs my support more than I need to go to the conference. There are other conferences, and in a few more years, I’ll be free to attend this conference, too. That doesn’t mean that I don’t find conferences important. I do, and I suggest writers find a conference and attend it. In fact, I found my agent at a conference, so I can’t say enough good things about them. Do your research, prepare, and attend. It’s a great way to network in addition to learn about your craft.

So no, this wasn’t the best weekend the Troilo family has spent in recent history. But we took our lemons and made limoncello out of them. (We’re Italian, what else would we make?) I hope you had a better weekend than we did, but if you didn’t, hopefully you found a way to get the positives out of the negatives. Good weekend or bad, why not share it with us below? Especially if you have a tip for a fellow writer.

Intriguing Series for YA Paranormal Romance Fans

You know me, I love to help out my fellow writers. And today, I’m giving a shout-out to fellow writer Stacy Claflin, who has written two books in a series called The Transformed. Today I’m posting a review of Betrayal, the second in the series, but I highly recommend you check out Deception, the first of the series as well. And when Forgotten, book three in the series, comes out, I recommend you grab that one, too. I know I’ll be getting a copy. Now, without further ado, my review of Betrayal.

Betrayal by Stacy Claflin is a Contemporary Young Adult Paranormal Romance. While I both read and write paranormal romances, I don’t typically choose YA novels for my own reading pleasure. I have been known to read them on occasion because I still screen my daughter’s reading choices. I read Claflin’s first book, Deception, because I thought it was something my daughter would enjoy. Betrayal is book two in The Transformed series, and I read it of my own volition because the storyline is captivating and the characters are compelling. If you like teen romances and paranormal thrillers, you’ll love Betrayal.

Betrayal begins where Deception left off. The novel is a self-contained story, but it really would be beneficial if you read part one first. Alexis has been reunited with her family, she has come fully into her powers, and she has learned more about the world she was born into. She goes back to school knowing it won’t be long until she is reunited with her birth parents and can resume the life she was destined to lead as the Sonnast. But she learns that enemies of her parents (who happen to be her parents’ advisors and not coincidentally the parents of her fiancé) are conspiring to wage war against them, and a new teacher at school with an unnatural interest in her seems to be involved in the plot. Complicating matters, vying for her affections is an old boyfriend who is also eligible to marry her and rule at her side.

Before matters grow unmanageable, her parents call her away to be with them. They introduce a third party into the mix, turning her complicated love triangle into a convoluted square. She is both attracted to him and repulsed by his vile nature. Her emotions are a tangled mess, and her mind is trying to make a decision that will avoid a war. She ultimately takes action, thinking she will seal her fate, and that of her people. All these actions lead to a surprise ending, setting up an exciting beginning for book three.

Here is a truncated excerpt from Betrayal:

Cliff looked at me as though I had betrayed him. If he thought that was bad, I dreaded his reaction to the news that was yet to come…

I was afraid to look at Cliff, but knew that I had to. He looked furious. I’d never seen him so angry. Not even after I told him that I’d kissed Tanner. I thought he might hurt someone. He glared at me.

Did you know about the true meaning of the Sonnast? I gulped. I found out when I was in Europe. Like I said, I only want you…

In The Transformed Series, Claflin created a world in Deception that has expanded in Betrayal. The characters are growing and maturing, and in addition to that, we are being introduced to not only new characters but new species of characters. We are being taken out of the main character’s hometown and exploring other areas of the world, all of which are in this realm, but some of which are magical and extraordinary. The whole lexicon is expanding and shifting, creating a rich and diverse mythology that is setting up an epic battle in the third book. The plot of this book, like the first one, is self-contained, but there is a cliff-hanger ending leading into the next installment. I can’t wait to see what happens, and this isn’t even my preferred genre.

There were a few typos, but those are easily overlooked, because you’ll be absorbed in the action. Fans of YA Paranormal Romance will want to read this series.

There’s No “I” in “Team,” But a Team Does Have a Lot of Eyes

I’m wondering how many of you out there are writers. And of you, how many have some form of filter before you submit your work to an agent or traditional publisher, or before you self-publish. When I first started writing, I read the advice in books that said “join a critique group” or “get beta readers” or “hire an editor” but I resisted. I thought that was just a way for beginners to get their feet wet. I was trained in college. I had written professionally. I taught at the college level. Surely they weren’t talking to me.

Wrong.

I don’t care how much experience you have going into the first story or novel you’re writing. Or your fourth. Or your tenth. It’s not enough. You don’t know enough. There’s always more you could know, more out there you could learn. And even once you have the rules and techniques figured out, you’re still at a disadvantage when you read your own work—you’re too close to it. You know what happens and what the back stories are. There are no surprises and no cliffhangers. That makes for sloppy reading, which makes for sloppy editing. You’ll miss the plot holes, because you’ll fill them in from the unwritten back story. Repetitive words? You won’t notice them; you’ll skim right over them. Awkward sentence structure will escape your notice because you were the one who wrote the sentence to begin with.

You’d catch the mistakes if someone else made them. You just can’t see them on your own pages.

It’s no fault of your own; it’s just the nature of writing. Maybe some of it is ego. Just like no one thinks her child is ugly, no one wants to think her writing is awful. But most of the writers I know are too hard on themselves. The mistakes they make are ones they just can’t see.

Enter the critiquers.

Critique groups are hailed far and wide, in conferences and in how-to writing books, as a writer’s best friend. And I have to agree. There are both in-person and online versions of critique groups, as well as beta readers or editors who can be of assistance. There are merits to each.

In-person groups are great because they allow you to network with local writers and get immediate feedback. I happen to belong to two such groups. One of them has us bring no more than five double-spaced pages with us (plus copies for the group to mark up) and we read our work aloud. This group believes that the audible reading of the work allows the author to hear things that she otherwise wouldn’t hear. After she’s done reading, there is time for discussion before the marked up pages are returned to her. The other group I’m in has us submit work in advance, which allows for a much longer body of work. There is no recitation of the work when we meet, but there is still discussion, and written comments are still exchanged.

Online groups are another option because they allow you to find groups focusing on your specific genre or niche. This can be especially beneficial, for example, if you write romance and are looking for assistance with intimate scenes, or if you write murder mysteries and are looking for help with the forensics and procedures. Any genre will have conventions that vary slightly from the general fiction rules, and working with a group familiar with those specific norms can be helpful.

Another option is to find beta readers and critique partners. I have five people who I trust to read my WIPs at any time and give me constructive feedback. I’m lucky enough to have two family members who have a background in writing and are voracious readers, so I get fast turnaround from them. Two others I met at local writing activities, and we’ve since been working together to our mutual benefit. And one is a local woman who found me not long ago through my blog. These critique partners are invaluable because I can send them large chunks of text and get almost immediate information from them.

I can’t tell you that you have to have people review your work before you ship it, but it’s a definite plus. If there are local critique groups near you, check them out and see if they’re for you. If not, try an online group on for size, or find just one writing partner to try out as a beta reader. If none of these options appeal to you, consider hiring an editor. Consider hiring one anyway. Polishing your work before you send it out is always a good idea. And no matter what option you choose, remember: a second opinion can’t be a bad thing, right?

I took a vote. The “eyes” have it.

Why Small Gestures Mean So Much

Those of you who read my blog regularly might remember my Thanksgiving entry: “Why I’m Thankful for the White Tornado.” It was a post about my grandmother. Well, yesterday was her 95^th birthday, and instead of posting something about it here, I chose to post on Facebook. Not on my author page, but on my profile page where family and friends who also know her would see it. It got a lot of comments. Of course it did; it’s my gramma, and she’s awesome! But back to the point of the story. Because I live seventeen hours away, I jokingly said that, since I couldn’t be there, I’d like it if someone could give her a hug in my place.

I never expected anyone to actually do it.

Someone actually did.

Hope Shick and I have known each other for more years than I’m going to write here. We grew up in the same town, went to the same school, know the same people. She knows what my family means to me. Maybe she just gets the importance of family because she has a large one herself—she’s the mother to seven children. Also, like most people in my hometown, she knows my grandmother personally, so she knows what a special person she is. Stopping by to give her a hug probably wasn’t that big a hardship.

Except she had to rearrange her whole day to do it.

And she stayed to visit with her for about an hour.

See, that’s the thing about small towns that I miss the most. You can count on people to come through for you. It kills me that I wasn’t there to celebrate my grandmother’s 95^th birthday with her. I didn’t get to bake her a cake or see her face when she opened my gift. I didn’t get to kiss her cheek or sit and laugh with her. We didn’t share a cup of coffee, and even our phone call was short because she had company and couldn’t talk. But because of an old friend, I got to share a hug with her—by proxy. And after talking with her this morning, I know that simple gesture made her day yesterday. It was a simple gesture that touched my heart more than words can ever express.

When I sit down at the keyboard and work on building my story worlds, these are the traits I draw on. The love, the camaraderie, the selfless gestures I find in the people in the small Western Pennsylvania town I grew up in. I hope you see these things in my work, and I hope you can draw on your histories to find inspiration for your art. What things motivate you?