Giving Thanks for the Emotional

It’s week three. If you’ve been following along, you know I’m emulating an idea a friend of mine gave me, and instead of doing daily brief posts on Facebook, I’m doing weekly posts here on my blog, discussing things I’m thankful for. (A regular reader got me hooked on the daily #ThankfulNovember tweets, as well.) Of course, the little part in my brain that insists on organizing things demanded I create categories for my posts, so I decided to take the four Mondays that I’ve devoted to regular posting and divide them into the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual things in my life that I’m grateful for.

**DISCLAIMER** Things covered this month are in no particular order.

Week three covers emotional things. It’s silly to list emotions. We’re all grateful for emotions (I would think). Instead, I’m going to list the things the evoke emotions in me:

My family
Crisp, sunny fall days
A baby’s laugh
The first blooms of spring
Rainbows
The smell after a rain shower
My kids’ faces when they’ve succeeded at something
Going home
Decorating for the holidays
The smell of cookies in the oven

I know many of these seem like physical things, but they all stir up feelings of hope and pride and… and… and that quintessential something that means all is right with the world. I could just name a bunch of emotions (love, happiness, joy, elation), but I’d rather you know what inspires them. And there are so many more emotional things that I’m thankful for but they aren’t springing to mind because I’m trying to think of them. Why don’t you help add to the list? What things inspire these feelings in you?

360° in 365

One year ago, I had a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. While the devil asked questions and told tales of my future in a deep, sexy tenor, the angel stayed silent, apparently also enraptured by the velvet tones and melodious words.

The trouble was, I didn’t actually like the words I was hearing.

My future? Bleak.

There were no finished works, no hardworking agents, no meticulous editors, no signed contracts.

No published books.

I sat at my desk, fingers poised on keys I was too nervous to type on, hovering over a touchpad I was too timid to click.

I didn’t have writer’s block. I had writer’s paralysis.

Either I was going to listen to the devil on my shoulder or I was going to turn things around.

Finally the angel spoke up. Its voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear as church bells carried on a soft summer wind.

Tribe Writers.

I don’t know how I found the link in the sea of emails I hadn’t opened, but I did. I don’t know why I purchased the course (when I had never signed up for even free online courses, let alone ones that had fees—let alone ones that were brand new and had no testimonials), but I did. I don’t know how I mustered the courage to open the first of the modules, but I did.

And I’m glad.

The content was challenging—but manageable.

The work pushed me out of my comfort zone—which I needed.

The people I met are friendly, knowledgeable, inspiring—and I still go to them today when I have a question.

One year later, I’m not sure if the devil is still on my shoulder. The angel is still there, and singing up a storm.

I got my first novel published (Mystery, Ink.: Mystery Heir) in both eBook and print formats. I secured an agent who is representing a four book series of mine, one of which is complete, one of which is almost done, and all of which have full synopses completed. I also started a second, unrelated, series. I’ve taken a job as an editor and I’ve become a book reviewer as well. All that, and I’m helping four writer friends along on their own writing journeys in a group we formed, as well as a few more writers via email. Not too shabby for a girl who was staring—all but catatonic—at her laptop a year ago.

Tribe Writers is more than a course. It’s a journey. And it’s a community. And I hope you’re ready to join it. If you have any questions for me about Tribe Writers, leave them in the comments section and I’ll be happy to answer them. If you’re ready to sign up now, there’s a link in my sidebar that will take you to a registration page.

Happy Anniversary Tribe Writers! It’s been a great year. Looking forward to many more.

Giving Thanks for the Physical

One of my dearest friends from college does something that I’ve always admired (but never managed to emulate) in November. In honor of Thanksgiving, she does a post on Facebook every single day of the month and lists something she’s grateful for. She doesn’t go into detail, and it’s not always something earth-shattering, but for thirty days, she tells the world what she is thankful for that day.

I always enjoy those posts.

In that spirit, I thought I’d take the next four weeks and try to do something along the same lines. Being that she has thirty days and I only have four, I figured I’d better break mine down into categories. So I decided the best way to handle it was to do the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual things in my life that I’m grateful for.

**DISCLAIMER** Things covered this month are in no particular order. That said, I’ll begin week one with the physical things.

My life
My family
My dogs
My friends
My house and the things that make it a home
My cars that get me to the places I need and want to go
The food that feeds us
The plants that give us air to breathe
The military, police, and firefighters who protects us

I know there are so many more physical things that I’m thankful for but they aren’t springing to mind because I’m trying to think of them. Why don’t you help add to the list?

Guest Post on Mystery Ink

I’m delighted to have been invited over to the Mystery Ink site today. Please come visit me at the Mystery Ink Novels blog, where I’ll be discussing the roll of relationships in a mystery novel. Hope to see you there!

Do You Embrace the Hyphens?

This has been a busy month. My book came out in print. I had modest success at a writing competition at a writer’s conference. My son turned sixteen. Got his official driver’s licence and went out on his own. He was inducted into National Honor’s Society. My daughter, as a freshman, qualified for the conference match in tennis. And while my family has been celebrating our milestones, there have been two things dominating the news, or at least the news that I follow:

The government shutdown.
Columbus Day not being a legitimate national holiday.

The shutdown was of course more important to me. Thankfully the situation is, at least temporarily, resolved. I spent most of the shutdown time wondering why our elected officials think their opinions are worth more than ours and why it’s okay for them not to balance a budget when we have to. Mostly I wondered whether we’re going to reelect these same people to office again just because we recognize their names on the ballots. There’s nothing I can do about it now, though, so I’ll focus on the other issue.

The one dealing with my nationality.

So many people say we shouldn’t hyphenate. We should be Americans and leave it at that. I know I just gave my opinion on the subject, but as it’s still (for a few days) National Italian American Heritage Month, I want to talk about it again.

I recently read a fantastic news article in The Washington Times about Columbus Day and nationalities. While I can’t reprint it here for copyright reasons, I encourage you to read it (Dust-up over Redskins name a good time to examine Columbus Day). In it, I learned that Columbus Day wasn’t originally celebrated as a whites-triumphing-over-natives holiday, but rather, it celebrated people who weren’t considered white at all in a country that was, at the time, predominantly white.

You see, Italians were considered non-white, or dark-skinned, and in fact still are to some people. I have been called a dago, been treated differently than my fair-haired husband (who is of Italian descent) and children, and heard horror stories from when my family came to America. Of course I hyphenate. I’m proud of how far we’ve come. And I look forward to where we’re going.

There’s nothing wrong with hyphens and slashes. There’s a reason they exist. It’s to make communication easier. My kids are athletes and they are quite smart. They’re scholar-athletes. I write but I also take care of my home. I’m a writer/homemaker. (If I’m ever a NYTBSA, I’ll hire a housekeeper and happily drop that slash.) In my family, I’m a wife/mother. And I love that slash. Wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. And yes, I’m Italian-American. I live in America. I live by and honor this country’s values and freedoms (even when our elected officials are making a mess of things). But it’s my Italian heritage that makes me who I am. That hyphen makes me me.

So embrace the hyphens and slashes. They define us in ways nothing else can.

How do you define yourself? What are your hyphens and slashes?

On Your Mark, Get Set…

How many of you are familiar with Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi of WritersHelpingWriters.net (formerly The Bookshelf Muse)? Many of you, I’m sure. They’re the multi-talented authors of The Emotion Thesaurus, and they’ve just released two new books, The Positive Trait Thesaurus and the Negative Trait Thesaurus. I’ve already obtained a copy of both, and I can’t wait to dive in.

Angela and Becca, in their usual helpful fashion, are doing something truly wonderful this week. They are hosting an Amazing Race to help writers with 10 specific items. Many writers (myself included) have volunteered to help them with their project. And not just any writers, experts in the field. You don’t want to pass this opportunity by. Go to their website (writershelpingwriters.net) to sign up for one of the categories and someone will help you with one of the following:

a first page critique
a one paragraph hook critique
a query letter critique
a twenty-five word pitch critique
a tweet about you
a mini blog review
book exposure on someone’s blog
requesting a future guest post
having a question answered
social media handouts (Becca & Angela will handle these personally)

I hope you take advantage of this wonderful opportunity. There are also giveaways every day! Come on! You’ve got one week! Click on the link above or the badge in my sidebar to access their site, and I’ll see you there!

46th Annual Ozark Creative Writers Conference

It’s that time of year again. I spent Thursday, Friday, and Saturday in Eureka Springs, Arkansas at the Ozark Creative Writers Conference. For forty-six years, they’ve been bringing in experts in the industry, and this year was no exception.

Dusty Richards

Thursday evening began with prolific western writer Dusty Richards holding an informal meet-and-greet. Many attendants gathered for two hours, introducing themselves and talking about their writing journeys. Later was open-mic night, where writers snacked on hors d’oeuvers and had the opportunity to read a few pages of their work to a captive and encouraging audience: their peers.

Friday was a full day. After opening remarks by Beth Bartlett, this year’s OCW president, writers had the opportunity to attend one of two sessions. Writer and editor Margo Dill covered the children’s market while blogger and publisher Dan Case of AWOC Publishing discussed blogging.

I attended the blogging session, and plenty of great information was addressed. Mr. Case covered the five elements of good blog posts (headlines, hooks, word count, photos, and conclusions) and emphasized that above all else, content is key. He offered examples, answered questions, and proffered advice for the blogging writer, novice to expert. He also suggested some resources for blogging and obtaining stock photos.

After the break, author and teacher Pat Carr covered writing love scenes. (Not sex scenes. Love scenes.) She discussed the twelve steps of intimacy and the importance of them occurring in order, followed by the five scenes that must be present in a novel or short story. When these scenes (meeting, conflict, admiration, affection, and climatic resolution) are written with proper pace, flow, and order, the story will be a success. She also offered ten scene descriptors that will enrich the setting, and therefore the story itself. The session concluded with a writing exercise, and some writers were brave enough to share their efforts. Their results, using techniques learned in session, were amazing, and covered romantic love, love between family members, and even love of special pets.

After lunch, there were again two sessions to choose from. Travel and western writer Johnny D. Boggs hosted a talk while marketing specialist Dianna Graveman of 2 Rivers Communications talked about public speaking and social media. I attended Ms. Graveman’s session and learned so much. She stressed that writers are business people and need to approach their careers that way. Providing value and being sought after is far more effective than the hard sell. She offered several options where writers could seek out public speaking engagements, from historical societies to continuing education programs. She also addressed several social media opportunities to garner speaking engagements, and offered invaluable tips on how to promote speaking events (reminding us that promotion should occur before, during, and after the engagement for full exposure).

After a quick break, Susan Swartwout, publisher at Southeast Missouri State University Press, gave a presentation on queries and rejections. She discussed the twelve items agents and editors look for in a query letter (everything from the hook to the marketing plan) and then moved on to the reasons for rejections. She offered twenty-one reasons why writers might be turned down, some being the writer’s responsibility (bad writing or not following guidelines) and some boiling down to fate (publisher maxed out on that topic or the printing schedule is booked). Dr. Swartwout’s talk was peppered with examples and she offered great advice.

The day ended with a presentation by Peggy Vining. Ms. Vining has been attending the OCW Conference since it began, and in 2003 was appointed Arkansas Poet Laureate by then Governor Mike Huckabee. Ms. Vining shared her love of poetry with the writers in her session. She believes it’s important to spread the love of words and form throughout the community.

Later that evening, Dusty Richards assumed a role he’s well known for. He served as the auctioneer at the first ever OCW Auction, where a good time was had by all.

Jim Donovan

Saturday began with keynote speaker, literary agent Jim Donovan, discussing a writer’s path to publication. He said a crucial question writers should be asking (but almost never do) is: How do I become a better writer? And he proceeded to answer that question with some great advice. Mr. Donovan gave six important steps which will help writers improve their craft:

Read as a reader, to absorb what works in that genre.
Read as a writer, and focus on specific elements (character, dialogue, pace, action, plot, setting).
Read writing books to learn rules and technique.
Write regularly.
Join a good critique group.
Revise, revise, revise.

He then discussed query letters and what agents and editors want in a manuscript. He ended his talk with a Q&A session.

After a break, writers were again given the option of two sessions. Writer and self-publishing guru Velda Brotherton held a workshop on preparing a document for Kindle while Pat Carr covered short story writing. As I am lucky enough to regularly benefit from Ms. Brotherton’s expertise (I’m a member of Northwest Arkansas Writers, a critique group run by Ms. Brotherton and Mr. Richards), I made the difficult decision and attended the short story session. Again Ms. Carr offered great advice. She said it is paramount to make a reader care about the characters, and gave five ways to make sure that readers care. Writers must show that the character:

cares about others.
is capable of love.
is in jeopardy or danger.
is doomed (but cannot whine about his fate).
is vulnerable in some way.

She talked about the use of actions, emotions, dialogue, and scene descriptors, then ended with a writing exercise: write one scene resulting in an epiphany, portraying a strong emotion. It was a great exercise, and she seemed pleased with the results.

Kevin Brockmeier

After lunch, keynote speaker and noted author Kevin Brockmeier shared three excerpts of his acclaimed works (there’s nothing like hearing an author read his own work, when you know the inflections and emotions are as the writer intended), then he answered questions. He talked about his writing process, discussed his characters and the messages he explores in his work, and offered a list of books and authors he loves to read.

editors panel 2 — Margo Dill, Jim Donovan, Lonnie Whitaker, Susan Swartwout

There was a quick break, and then I had to make a difficult choice again. Ms. Graveman gave a talk on freelance editing, which I desperately wanted to attend, but opposite her was the editors’ panel. I couldn’t walk away from a chance to pick the brains of not one, but seven, experts in the field.

editors panel 1 — Lou Turner, Dan Case, Delois McGrew

The panel consisted of publishers Lou Turner, Susan Swartwout, and Dan Case; editors Delois McGrew, Margo Dill, and Lonnie Whitaker; and agent Jim Donovan. Questions covered several topics, from contract language to editing rates. All too soon the session was over. I’m sure we could have peppered them for information all day.

The conference “proper” ended with a toot-your-own-horn segment, where people could talk about their achievements. It seems every year people have more to celebrate, so we must all be improving. That’s just proof that the conference was again a success.

That evening was the concluding dinner and awards banquet. I’ll be posting my awards soon on my Awards link, or you can check out all the winners on the OCW site. So many talented writers were acknowledged that evening, and we had a lot of fun. This year, I met up with old friends, made new friends, and learned a lot. I can’t wait until next year when I can do it all again! Hope to see some of you there.

Do You Know What NIAHM Is? We’re Celebrating…

It has been (and is going to remain) a busy time for me. I had two different sets of visitors recently (my parents followed by my in-laws), I’m in the final stretch of my WIP, the print version of my first novel is about to be finished (the eBooks are already available), my daughter qualified for the district tournament in tennis (extra practices), my son’s birthday is right around the corner, and I’m leaving for a conference this week.

Craziness.

But life is boring without such events, whether you consider them treats (family visiting) or obstacles (carving out time to get work done). I wouldn’t change things for the world.

So when I sat down to compose this blog, I wondered what about my current life would interest you.

Our families wouldn’t interest you. You don’t know them.
My WIP is pretty cool, but I’m not sure what I can share about that yet.
I’ve already droned on and on about my published novel.
My kids and their events are likely more interesting to me than anyone else.
And I’ll be telling you about the conference in another week, so…

Yeah. My life is hectic, but there’s really not much going on that’s worth sharing.

So I figured I’d give you a glimpse into what makes me… well, me.

My father’s heritage is varied, but my mother is 100% Italian. That, coupled with the facts that I was closer with my mother’s family than my dad’s growing up and that I married into an Italian family, makes that part of my heritage resonate with me. Yes, I’m 1/8 Irish, German, Scottish, and Swedish, but when people ask me my heritage, I say I’m Italian. And proud of it.

Many of you probably don’t know this, but October is National Italian American Heritage Month. It’s not advertised like some other nationalities’ months, but it’s important to me and my family. It’s the time of year set aside to celebrate the accomplishments of my ancestors.

I’ve noticed several people on the Internet comment that we should drop the hyphens and no longer be Nationality-Americans, but instead just be Americans. I couldn’t disagree more.

Our heritage shapes us, defines who we are. (tweet this)

The United States is called “The Great Melting Pot” because many nationalities came together to form one great nation. But just like in any recipe, the end result may be magnificent, but it wouldn’t have turned out that way without each separate ingredient.

The US is wonderful because of all the nationalities that formed it; not in spite of them. (tweet this)

We should celebrate the hyphens.

Some facts regarding Italian-Americans:

Over 5.4 million Italians immigrated to the United States between 1820 and 1992.
Today there are over 26 million Americans of Italian descent in the United States.
Italians comprise the fifth largest ethnic group in our country.
The greatest concentration of Italians is in New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania (where I’m from).
After the bombing at Pearl Harbor, 600,000 Italian-Americans were branded “enemy aliens.”
Over 250 were interred for over two years.
More than 1500 were arrested.
It became dangerous—and in some places illegal—to speak Italian, or the “enemy’s language,” resulting in a rapid decline of the use of Italian by immigrant families.
The worst lynching in US history was of Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891.
Everyone knows of Italian’s contributions in the arts and sciences, but here are some lesser known facts:
- 2 signers of the Declaration of Independence were Italian.
- 4 Italians fought in and survived the Battle of Little Bighorn.
- The Planter’s Peanut Company and its logo, Mr. Peanut, were designed by an Italian.
- Popular songs, like “Chattanooga Choo-choo,” “Lullaby of Broadway,” and “An Affair to Remember,” were composed by an Italian.
- The ice cream cone, the Big Mac, and the first shopping mall were created by Italians.
- The only enlisted Marine in U.S. history to win the nation’s two highest military honors—the Navy Cross and the U.S. Congressional Medal of Honor—was Italian.
- Countless singers, actors, and athletes are Italian-American.

Yes, I believe that Italians are responsible for much of American history. They’ve been productive members of the military, the sciences, the arts, and sports. They’ve been persecuted for their heritage and have enriched the culture in this country. It’s no wonder I believe in hyphens.

I am an Italian-American. And I’m damn proud of it. (tweet this)

In honor of National Italian American Heritage Month, and because I mentioned melting pots and food earlier, I’m going to include a traditional Italian recipe here. I have so many, it was hard for me to pick. So I’m posting something rich, sweet, and smooth—kind of like an Italian trifecta. Try it this month, you’ll love it. After all, if you believe we’re all brothers and sisters, then you must believe there’s a little bit of Italian in all of us. And if not, allow me to share a little of my Italian heritage with you.

Tiramisu

Ingredients:

7 eggs, separated
7 Tbsp sugar
1/4 c Kahlua
2 1/2 c mascarpone cheese
3/4 c cold espresso or strong black coffee
24 lady fingers
3 Tbsp cocoa powder or 4 oz grated unsweetened chocolate (I use the cocoa powder)

Directions:

In a large bowl, beat the egg yolks and sugar with a standing mixer until pale and thick, about 5 or 6 minutes. Add liquor and mascarpone and beat until mixture is thick and smooth.
Clean the beaters and thoroughly dry them. In another bowl, beat the egg whites until stiff and form peaks. Fold egg whites into the mascarpone mixture.
Pour the espresso into a shallow dish. Dip a lady finger in, turning QUICKLY so that it gets wet but doesn’t disintegrate, and place it on the bottom of an 8x8x2 inch dish. Repeat until the entire bottom of pan is covered.
Spoon half of mixture over ladyfingers.
Repeat with another of soaked ladyfingers and cover with remaining mixture.
Level surface with spatula then top with cocoa or chocolate shavings.
Cover and chill for several hours before serving.

If you’re interested in more Italian-American information, visit The Committee to Observe October as Italian-American Heritage Month site. There you will find a lot of information, including the 31 Days of Italian-Americans list (one name for each day of the month).

So, are you part Italian? Do you have a story or recipe to share? You know the drill…

First Friday Fiction Feature – Memories

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.)

This short story is the result of my experimenting with all the senses, not just sight (as most of us default to). Hope you enjoy it.

Memories

I know three things when I wake up. One, I’m not in my own bed. Two, I’m not in my own clothes. And three, I have been drugged. I can only come up with two explanations for my current situation. I am sick or injured and am in the hospital. Tragic, but acceptable. And given that I feel like crap, it is entirely possible. The second reason would be that I have been dosed and abused. That’s far less palatable an option, and isn’t going to go well for somebody, hopefully somebody other than me, once I get on my feet. Question is, who will it go badly for? No way am I opening my eyes and giving away my position until I have more information. If I have to get the drop on somebody, I want the upper hand. My dad taught me the basics of defense before he died. Stealth was lesson one.

I lie still in the strange bed, trying to take in my surroundings without anyone knowing I’m awake. Blankets cover me up to my shoulders, so I can safely move my fingers if I don’t make large movements. Sliding my fingers along the sheets, I try to analyze the quality of the linens. They aren’t the four hundred thread-count I like, but they are soft. Definitely aren’t the hard industrial thread-count I expect of an institution needing to bleach its sheets daily. My fingers touch something wet, and I instantly recoil my hand. Wetness doesn’t bode well.

Angling my head just to the left, I breathe long and slow through my nose… I don’t smell any antiseptic, disinfectant, or air freshener. Probably not a medical facility. I smell the subtle scent of a man’s cologne in the bed and realize these are definitely not hospital sheets. Uh-oh… cologne in the sheets? It’s a nice smell, musky… reminds me of something or someone, but I can’t place what or who. Fear creeps up my spine, an icefloe spreading through my body. Trying to get my wits about me, I take a second, deeper sniff and I get whiffs of whiskey, rum and gin. It kind of warms me. Weird. Unfortunately, at this point I can definitely rule out hospitals and medical facilities. I’m screwed.

No conversation going on around me. Hmm. That doesn’t mean I’m alone. Straining, I hear soft music coming from what must be another room, but I can’t quite make out what’s playing. Perhaps there are people in there. Or a single person. My best bet for escape is a single person. But how to tell?

At some point I’m going to have to open my eyes, at least a crack, and take a peek. But I’d rather not do that unless I’m alone. Of course, I won’t know for certain that I’m alone unless I look. I listen again for sounds in the room…

“How long are you going to lie there pretending you’re still out cold?”

Busted. When I open my eyes, my gaze is locked with the man’s who is sitting next to the bed. The large, burly man. A yard away.

I yank up the sheet as far as I can and scramble to sit. Ugh. My stomach lurches and my head reels at even that small movement, but I’m more concerned with the beast at my bedside than I am with my hangover. “Who are you? Where am I?”

He ignores me, but his face clouds. I don’t know why, but I feel sorry for yelling at him. Then I immediately shrug it off. Why should he feel bad, and why should I care if he does?

He asks me, “Can I get you anything? A drink? Toast?”

Even my hair hurts. I think I might be sick. Why isn’t he climbing all over me? Oh, right. He probably already did that. Saliva wells in my mouth and I try to swallow it past the lump in my throat. “What are you going to do to me?” I whisper.

He sighs and stands up. “Probably should start with juice and dry toast. I’ll be right back.” He leaves through the only door toward what I assume is the main part of his apartment. I’d have to go through him to get out, and I’m not doing that in a t-shirt and nothing else. At least, not yet. Not while I’m queasy and confused. I need my strength, then I’m so out of there, or I’ll die trying. I try to rub my temples, but just touching my head hurts it. My fingers probe my forehead gingerly. Man, he must have done quite a number on me. There’s a huge lump there. No wonder I’m addle-brained and nauseated. I’m probably concussed.

I look around the room. Of course there’s no phone. Why did people stop getting land lines? God, am I really in a t-shirt and nothing else? Dropping the covers, I look at myself. The soft cotton of a too large Pillsbury Doughboy tee is the only thing covering me. Despite the seriousness of my predicament, I laugh a little. I love Poppin’ Fresh. I vaguely remember laughing over a shirt just like that on a rack at the Galleria. Who was I there with? I can’t remember. I definitely have a concussion. When I see him approach, I pull the covers back up.

He comes back with toast and juice and puts the tray down on the bed. Sitting back on his chair, he says, “Eat. You must feel dreadful.”

“Like you care.”

He merely raises an eyebrow at me.

“What’d you put on the toast?”

“Nothing. Dry first. Maybe you can have something else, if you hold this down.”

“No, I mean… never mind.” If he drugged me last night, surely he isn’t beyond doing it again. I don’t touch the food.

He watches me for a minute, then he picks up the toast and bites it, and takes a sip of the juice. “See. Perfectly safe. You need to eat. Flush your system. You’ll feel better.”

I would likely feel better if I eat, but why the sudden change of heart? The toast looks really appealing, as only dry toast can to someone with a churning stomach. It was nice of him to cut it into small triangles. My mother used to do that. One small bite and my throat is rubbed raw. I wash the crumbs down with a sip of juice. The flavor explodes on my tongue. Liquid sunshine, yet cool and tart. Quenched, I nibble on more toast and study my captor, and he offers me a soft smile while I chew. He looks really familiar to me, but concentrating hurts my head. The familiarity is probably because he stalked and drugged me and dragged me to his place to have his way with me. But that smile… those eyes…

Am I already slipping into Stockholm Syndrome over a wedge of toast? Get a grip.

I point a toast triangle at him. “You still haven’t said what you’re going to do with me.”

“What makes you think I’m going to do anything with you?”

“Isn’t that how these things usually work? You abduct someone and then you either ransom them or kill them? Just so you know, I don’t have any family, so you picked the wrong girl if you’re looking for a large pay out. And I don’t plan on dying without putting up one hell of a fight.” Laying my cards on the table is either brave or stupid. It’s probably stupid, but I’m tired, sick and scared, and I just want to know where I stand.

“What is it, exactly, you think happened?” He leans forward and rests his arms on his knees. I should probably be concerned about him crowding in on my space, but it really doesn’t faze me at this point. What more can he do to me that he hasn’t already done, other than the obvious?

I put the toast down. Just that little bit of food has me raring to go. It’s high noon, and my trigger finger is itchy. “You drugged me, took me wherever we are, raped me who knows how many times and now I want to know what’s next.”

He runs his hand through his hair and then stands up and paces. A pillow falls off the chair and onto the floor with a soft thud. “God, Anna.”

“So you know my name.”

“Of course I do. Look, I’m trying to be patient here, but I can’t listen to much more of this. I can’t watch you look at me this way.”

“Then call the cops. I’ll look at them this way. I’ll talk to them like this.”

“Damn it, Anna.” He kicks the pillow across the room. “I’m going out to the living room. Finish your food, get dressed. Come out when you’re ready.”

“Dressed in what? You took my clothes.”

He yanks open the door of an armoire on his way out to the living room.

What am I supposed to do with that? Root through his things until I find sweats and a tee that fit? Or, God forbid, he’s a serial rapist and there are tons of women’s outfits in there.

The toast and the juice aren’t going to happen at this point. I creep over to the armoire and peer inside. It’s impossible, but I recognize two shelves of the clothes. I know them because they are mine. Did he steal everything I own? Is he planning on keeping me forever? Confused, I grab the first things I see and dress, then I step into the living room. It’s silent now, but for the clatter of him bustling around the kitchen.

This is my chance. I tiptoe toward the door when my gaze lands on a framed photo on a table. It’s the man, and he has his arms around a woman. He is smiling and looking down at her with an unmistakable look of love and adoration on his face.

That’s not so surprising. Even psychopaths can love. What shocks me is the woman smiling back at him with the same look of happiness and wonder.

She’s me.

I drop to the floor with the frame still in my hands.

The injury.

The clothes.

The familiarity.

The photo.

He didn’t abduct me. He cares for me. Apparently I care for him.

Something happened to me and I have all my memories but of him.

He came to the living room when he heard me hit the floor. “Anna? Are you okay?”

“I know you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

His voice is hoarse, but he answers. “Yes.”

I shake my head. “I lost you. Just you.”

“It’s called selective amnesia. The doctor says that can happen, sometimes just as a fluke, sometimes as your brain’s way of protecting itself from bad memories. This is the most lucid you’ve been in two days. I just called Doc again. He’s on his way over.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

I struggle for his name to plead with him, but nothing comes to mind. I take his hand. “I can’t even remember your name.” He squeezes my hand back. His fingers are warm, strong in my hand. I don’t know him, but I like the feel of my hand in his. Need it right now. Crave it on a cellular level. Tears well in my eyes and I look up at him.

He sighs. “Tom. My name’s Tom.”

Nothing. Not a glimmer of recognition. Not even a promise of one.“Tom, please. It’s my life. I need to know.”

“Doc said to let you come to it on your own. I shouldn’t have even given you my name.”

“Is that what you’d want if you were me? To have no memories of…” I waved the photo at him.

He kisses my forehead, careful not to hurt me. “Let’s go downstairs. Maybe that’ll jog your memory.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where it happened.”

He pulls me to my feet and leads me down to a bar, not a new techno nightclub kind of place, but the comfortable kind of pub where you expect people to call your name when you enter. The smell of liquor grows stronger down here, but it smells sweet, not stale, and inviting. I walk up to a black leather stool and perch on it.

Tom smiles. “That’s your stool. You always sit there.”

“I do? How often do I come here?”

“Pretty much every night. I own the place. You usually come and keep me company.”

“So what happened on the night in question?”

“You tell me.”

I think, hard, but my mind just hums with the smell of whiskey and the memory of music long since gone. “All that’s coming to mind is jukebox music.”

“Well, we do play music every night.”

“Tell me.”

“Only when Doc says it’s okay.”

I pout, but that doesn’t work. Either I don’t pout well or he’s too worried about my recovery to risk it. “Can I have a drink?”

“Juice?”

“No. Club soda. With lime.”

He pours it with a flourish, but doesn’t utter a peep. His brows are drawn.

I sip my drink. The bubbles tickle my nose, sting my throat. The lime is a burst of sour that awakens something in me. I’m getting flashes. A leather jacket. A glass of club soda. I can almost hear the music. “Is it really a jukebox, or a band, or do you just have a track you play?”

“Just a track.”

“Can I see the playlist?”

Tom hands me the list. There are about two hundred songs on it. “Are you kidding me?”

“We don’t want folks getting bored. Besides, you picked it out.”

I look through the list and finally say, “Can you play number one-thirty-two? Please Tommy?”

He raises an eyebrow. Under his breath I hear him say, “Tommy.” He doesn’t acknowledge the name, but I assume it means something to him. To me he says, “Sure.”

I see him fiddling with something, then the music starts. “Freebird” blasts through the speakers. Tom turns the volume down, but I don’t see him. I’m back in the bar with the man in the leather jacket.

He’s flirting with me, and Tom is pissed. I tell him not to worry, but he’s watching. Closely. I’m drinking my usual club soda, and leather jacket guy is making all his moves. I’m deflecting politely, then I start to feel fuzzy. Drunk. I lean on leather jacket guy and laugh. He puts his arm around me and starts to take me out of the bar. I don’t really want to go, but I’m going. I’m wasted. On club soda. Huh? Tom grabs me and then there’s chaos. A full-fledged bar fight ensues. I go down with a chair to the temple. I’m not sure who wielded it, but it doesn’t matter. I just want to sleep.

When I look up, the memory recedes and the present comes crashing back. The bar is silent and Doc, Tom’s buddy, has smelling salts under my nose. Tom has me cradled in his lap. I bat the salts away from my face. They’re taking the wonderful bar smell away from me. “Tommy,” I say and reach for his cheek.

“Anna.” He shifts me in his lap and bends down to kiss me. His lips meet mine in a hesitant whisper, but I pull him to me. He’s my Tommy. His musky cologne envelopes us as he wraps me in his embrace. His breath is warm and he tastes of coffee and something I recognize only as him. I hold him tighter and drown the doctor out.

There. There’s home. There’s the Poppin’ Fresh jersey we found on a discount rack, Tom’s apartment, our first date, the picture our friends took of us at the lake, dinners, movies, evenings spent on my bar stool. There are the EMTs and police, Doc at my bedside, and just this morning, Tom holding ice on my head and spilling some in the bed.

“Tommy.” It feels good to say it and know what I’m saying.

Doc says, “She needs a thorough exam. And the police are outside.”

They can do what they want. I’m fine. I’m Anna, and I’m with Tommy. The rest doesn’t matter.

The End

Lessons from a Photo Album

Today is a special day for me. It’s my 18^th wedding anniversary. I looked through my wedding album, trying to find a photo to share, and I noticed how many things have changed.

Definitely my appearance. And my husband’s. Everyone’s, really.

And I have to say fashion has improved. As have hair styles.

I remember when I was planning my wedding. Nothing ended up being the way I expected. I didn’t like my gown. I let my bridesmaids choose their gowns, as I wouldn’t have to wear them. I didn’t like their choice, either. I did like the flowers I chose, but the florist got the order wrong, so I didn’t have what I wanted. The hotel was good, but way overpriced. Thankfully my parents covered the reception, because we invited far more people than I wanted. Between my husband’s family and mine, I think the whole town was there. (Italian weddings are known for being big, but 500 people on the invitation list? Crazy.) The DJ played some music that I hated. Forget about giving a play list… I should have given him a don’t play list. The videographer was terrible, but the photographer was good, though, and you can’t tell things weren’t what I wanted.

Why do I remember all this?

Actually, usually I don’t.

What I typically remember is being surrounded by family and friends who loved us, who celebrated with us. Joyously.

Looking back, it doesn’t matter that plans fell apart. (tweet this)

It isn’t important that the material things were wrong. (tweet this)

What matters is that I married a man I loved with all my heart and soul. A man I love today even more.

Looking through the album is bittersweet. Some of the pictures are poignant because of who wasn’t in them—the beloved family members who had passed on before our wedding. Some pictures remind me of the people who were there that we since have lost. Then there are the nieces and nephews who were tiny children then… the same ones who are now adults.

Time marches on. Someday some family member will be looking through his or her album and remembering when my hair was long (and brown), or when my husband had hair (I sure hope he keeps his), or when my kids were still in school. I hope they can look at their albums then the way I look at mine now—not disappointed over the breakdown of plans, but with fondness. Happy because they married their soul mate, because their loved ones were there to celebrate with them, because life is good even when plans go awry.

Eighteen years ago I married a man who I thought I couldn’t love any more than I did at that very moment.

And eighteen years later I laugh at how naïve I was. My love for him has grown exponentially with each passing day. And I imagine will continue to do so.

So today, I’m not going to offer writing advice. I’m not going to recommend any books to purchase. I’m not going to talk about the importance of social media.

I’m certainly not going to obsess over the things that went wrong.

I’m simply going to enjoy my family, and suggest you try and do the same.