Do You Focus on the Negative?

We broke down and bought new furniture for our family room. We’ve needed it for a while, but with two dogs that jump on it and two kids who eat in there, we didn’t see the point.

Until the dogs ate the stuffing out of the cushions.

We went to several stores and were never really satisfied with anything. So we settled on a sofa and loveseat that would match our existing chair. However, it doesn’t match our walls, so now we have to paint.

My living room hasn’t been painted since we moved in. But now we have another room on the list.

We intended to keep this set pristine. But the dogs are already using it as a bed, and my kids are eating on it again. It’s probably only a matter of time before I’m picking up stuffing off the floor.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m not complaining. I’m actually grateful.

See, this month was difficult for many of my family and friends. My uncle is sick and deteriorating rapidly. My mother had two surgeries. A high school friend is marking the one year anniversary of her mother’s death. An online friend’s father is in the hospital. And the list goes on…

How can I complain about furniture when so many people have much bigger worries to contend with?

This month we celebrate Thanksgiving. It’s less than a week away, actually. Are you going to be grateful for the blessings you have or complaining about your have-nots?

There are many disappointments and tragedies I could focus on this year, but I’m choosing to be thankful. I hope you manage to do the same.

For Writers:
An easy personality trait to give a character is negativity. What about gratitude? Do you have a character that needs to be fleshed out, better developed? Try making him or her altruistic, especially if he or she has little to be grateful for. This is a great way to add dimension to a flat character.

For Everyone:
Thanksgiving is nearly upon us. I wish you all nothing but health and happiness this year. Hopefully you find contentment and peace.

Veterans Day Every Day

This week, we celebrated Veterans Day. That one day a year we set aside for the people who have served our country—in wartime and peacetime.

Why just one day?

These are people who took an oath, promising to defend us, regardless to the personal sacrifice they might face. They’ve protected us, secured our rights and freedoms, and fought to make the world a better place.

Medals or not, all veterans are heroes. We owe them far more than a “thanks” and one day in November. (click to tweet)

This year, on Veterans Day, my parents celebrated their 53^rd wedding anniversary. My dad is a veteran, and I can’t imagine how my mother felt, waiting for him to come home. Wondering if he would. Thank God, he did, and fifty-three years later, they have three children and six grandchildren to show for it. That is their world. The world my father signed up to protect.

Also this year, on Veterans Day, my niece—a veteran—got married. Her husband is still actively serving our country. They’re beginning their lives together in a world they both promised to defend.

My family is able to celebrate these wonderful occasions because our military has assured us we are safe to. They’ve guaranteed our lifestyles and ensured our liberties.

I don’t wait for Veterans Day to thank our military. When I see someone in a military uniform, I say thank you. When I talk to veterans, I give them my gratitude.

Shouldn’t we all do the same, every day?

For Writers:
We all need a hero in our stories. We create strong men and women to advance our plots, maybe even save our worlds. How many of us have considered making our heroes veterans? Even if our stories aren’t about waging wars in third world countries or protecting our borders, a veteran is a special-sort-of-someone whose background will shape his or her actions and yield a unique perspective to any situation. Don’t forget our military when writing a character bio.

For Everyone:
It was Veterans Day this week. Did you thank a vet? Will you tomorrow? Next week? In a few months? Let’s always remember to show our support of the people who protect us. You don’t have to agree with the politics behind our military operations to be appreciative of those who serve our nation. (click to tweet)

Veterans, I humbly thank you.

Laci and Del: Giving Thanks Was Never So Difficult

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

Remember that 2014 is the year I’m trying serial work. This is part 11 of 12.

Laci and Del: Giving Thanks Was Never So Difficult

Laci loved autumn—crisp air, cozy clothes, football and hockey season, hearty and spicy foods—and Thanksgiving was one of her favorite holidays. She pulled her sweet potato casserole out of the oven and breathed in deeply. Ah, nothing could smell better. Except her mother’s turkey and stuffing. She pulled on her favorite sweater, loaded her casserole and pumpkin cheesecake into the car, and left for her parents’ house.

Yes, this was one of her favorite times of the year. But this year she couldn’t enjoy it.

Try as she might, she couldn’t get past her breakup with Del. The past few weeks had been torturous. She vacillated between knowing it was for the best, to staring at her phone praying he’d call, to almost dialing his number.

In the end, though, none of those were true. She didn’t think it was in either of their best interests to separate, but she couldn’t follow him, he shouldn’t stay, and he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to try to repair their relationship. He hadn’t contacted her once. Not one call. Not a text. Not a single email.

She sighed and bore left, her car automatically heading toward his apartment instead of her parents’ house. If she could maybe just get a glimpse of him before being inundated with family for the day, she might feel a bit better.

Or it might just make things worse.

She stopped at the corner of his street and stared, dumbfounded, at the sight in front of his building. A cab sat near the curb, trunk open, and the driver had exited and was helping Del load luggage into the back.

Definitely made things worse. She suffered the worst case of déjà vu ever. She struggled to breathe while the tears streamed silently down her cheeks. Of course he hadn’t tried to contact her. She’d told him to move on, and he was. Literally.

It was too awful to watch the cab driver pull away, taking her love and her future with him. Instead, she made an illegal U-turn and drove back the way she came. She didn’t get two blocks before the flashing lights in her rearview mirror indicated a problem. No one else was on the street. It had to be her. When the siren blared, she signaled and pulled to the curb. The police officer followed and, after parking behind her, approached her window.

“Miss, do you know why I pulled you over?”

Tears continued to fall, but now accompanied by wracking sobs. She nodded her head.

The officer sighed. “License, registration, and insurance, please.”

She fumbled in the glove compartment and produced the papers he needed. Then she got her license from her purse. Her sobs came like hiccups as she handed the information out the window.

“Miss, are you all right?”

She just shook her head. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her. “I’ll be right back.” He went back to his patrol car and did whatever took cops so long to do back there.

Laci tried to settle herself before he came back, mopping at her face and taking deep breaths. All she managed to do was smear her makeup.

He came back to her car and handed her information back to her. “You have a clean record, and I wouldn’t want to mess that up on Thanksgiving. Let’s consider this a warning. But be careful. And no driving until you’ve calmed down. Okay?”

“Okay.” It sounded more like “ah… ka,” but it was all she could manage to utter.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

She nodded and offered a watery smile.

“Drive safely, Miss Marks.”

She offered him his hanky back, but he smiled and waved her off, then returned to his vehicle.

To Laci’s dismay, he didn’t pull out. She figured he was waiting for her, so she composed herself as best she could and left for her mother’s. He followed her to the bridge, then turned away.

The rest of her ride was uneventful. Because of her side trip and the subsequent stop, she arrived at her parents’ home late—right when the food was being placed on the table. No picking at turkey and stuffing right out of the oven this year. No matter, she wasn’t hungry anyway.

The house bustled with activity. The littlest children colored hand-outline turkeys while the older ones sang “Over the River” and danced around. The men walked sideways into the dining room, trying not to miss the last football play they’d get to see before dinner was over. Her mother and aunt hovered over the table, fussing over details while her cousin Clara snoodled up to her boyfriend Kyle on the couch. Everyone else must be in the kitchen, but she couldn’t see past the commotion in the dining room. Soon people filed to their seats from all corners of the house.

Far too many people, far too little room. Packed elbow-to-elbow and hip-to-hip, everyone—almost everyone—she loved clustered around the table. It was the kind of family event she adored.

And she didn’t know how she’d get through it.

Her dad looked at her and frowned, but he didn’t say anything. He just enveloped her in a hug and took the casserole dish out of her hand. Her mother reached for the cheesecake but stopped in her tracks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Lying was just easier. “I got stopped by a cop on my way here, and I had to cry to get out of the ticket. Thank God it’s Thanksgiving. He was in a holiday mood and took pity on me. I got off with a warning.”

Her mother frowned and took the dessert from her, weaving her way between the kid table and the adult table to put it in the refrigerator. Her Aunt Rose smiled and kissed her cheek. “Well, we’re just glad you’re here now. And what about your young fella? Where’s he?”

Her mother, reentering the dining room, cleared her throat and glared at her sister. “Help me pour, Rose.” She thrust a bottle into Rose’s hand, saving Laci from answering.

Laci swallowed her tears past the lump in her throat and wondered if she’d be able to eat anything. She knew it all smelled wonderful, but she was sick to her stomach and the aroma of the food just made it worse. Taking her seat, she grabbed her goblet of water and downed it in two gulps.

Her aunt got the children ginger ale while her mother walked around pouring Taittinger for everyone. Her father, at the head of the table, stood and tapped his fork against his champagne flute. Everyone grew quiet while he said the blessing, then he raised his glass.

“Another year, another wonderful spread. Another houseful of loved ones.” He turned toward Laci, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. She reached for her champagne flute and stared at the table. “I’m so grateful for all our blessings, and for each one of you. If you’d all raise your glasses…” When everyone had complied, he said, “For the bounty of Thanksgivings past, the blessings of Thanksgiving present, and the promises of Thanksgiving futures. Sláinte!”

Laci mouthed the words as he spoke them. He ended every Thanksgiving toast the same way. This year, though, when everyone else drank, she put her glass down. She didn’t feel like celebrating. She didn’t feel blessed this year. And she certainly didn’t think her future was very promising.

Clara and her boyfriend managed to get to their feet without knocking over any chairs or crushing any toes. Clara clinked her fork against her glass, the crystal sounding shrill to Laci’s ears. When everyone looked at the couple, Clara said, “We have an announcement.”

Laci sighed. Clara always had something to share. Why it needed to be an announcement, she had no idea, but she refrained from rolling her eyes and waited.

Clara and Kyle wrapped their arms around each other, then Clara thrust her left hand into the air. “We’re getting married!”

The reaction was thunderous and immediate. Everyone did their best to extricate themselves from their seats and rush over to the young couple to offer congratulations. Everyone, that is, but Laci and her parents. Laci headed for the door, and they followed.

“Laci,” her mother said.

“I can’t, Mom. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.” She rooted through the pile of coats strewn on the stairs and found hers, second from the top. “Make my apologies, say whatever you have to. But I have to get out of here.”

“But it’s Thanksgiving,” her dad said.

She pecked him on the cheek and hugged her mom. “I know.” And she walked out the door.

Laci was really starting to get the hang of driving through a flood of tears. It had become the norm. She’d also grown accustomed to letting the car decide where to go, as she didn’t have the will or desire to direct it. For some reason, she was driving through the city again instead of heading home. The parade was long over, but in her mind she heard the echo of the marching bands, saw the horses and the floats, listened to the delighted squeals of the children as Santa made his way down the street. She liked to attend the parade every year, but this year she hadn’t been up to it. Now, the streets still littered with candy wrappers, soda cans, and confetti, it seemed so profound to her. Life was just like that parade. It was beautiful and exciting. And fleeting. And once the magic was over, all that was left was the tattered remnants. Until someone cleaned them up and disposed of them.

When she got to the bridge, she saw a street cleaning crew heading the way she had come. Too bad she couldn’t hire them to clean up her mess.

She drove across the bridge, not bothering to look at the fountain at The Point, the paddle boats on the river, the incline on the hill. Those were things she never missed; the city was gorgeous and the sights always lifted her spirits. But that day, she didn’t care. She just went where her car took her.

And cried when she ended up on the Coal Mountain overlook. The place Del had taken her on Valentine’s Day.

She put the car in drive and headed home, her heart broken and her mind reeling. Would she ever be thankful for anything again?

Cutting Room Floor

If you’ve been following me on social media (And if you aren’t, why aren’t you? The links are right there in the sidebar!), then you know this week I’ve been focused on Halloween. So of course you’re expecting a post today—on Halloween— about the holiday. Right?

Wrong.

Today, I expect you’ll celebrate the holiday however you like (or maybe not at all), so you don’t need me to tell you what to do. Instead, I’m bringing in friend and fellow writer P.C. Zick to talk about her novel, Native Lands, and to share with us a scene that didn’t make the cut. (Lucky for us, she gave us a sample of what did make the cut, too.)

So, without further ado, I give you P.C.

Native Lands – The Cutting Room Floor

My new release Native Lands made it through many twists and turns from its inception in 2006 to its publication this month. Eight years, three titles, and 40,000 cut words later, the novel finally made it to the publication stage this week. While the cutting room floor is littered with debris, not all is lost—the litter may very well become my next novel.

The concept for Native Lands began when I was assigned a series of freelance articles that led me to research destroyed mangroves, endangered wildlife, and extinct tribes of native Floridians. As I read and traveled the peninsula of Florida in pursuit of the stories, I kept coming back to the connection all living things have with one another. I began writing a novel with the working title of Connecting the Dots. A member of my writers’ group at the time suggested the title was too clichéd. I knew he was right, but I kept it until a better choice presented itself.

When I needed to interview wildlife officers for more information about the Everglades for the novel, serendipity occurred. I accepted a job with the Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission as a public relations director. For four years, I interviewed and interpreted wildlife managers and officers. I didn’t work on Connecting the Dots, but I knew my day job was providing me with plenty of substance for my fiction.

When I pulled the novel out in 2012, I changed the name to Safe Harbors, which is the name of the development in the novel that threatens to destroy many parts of the state, including the Everglades.

I began finishing the first draft early in 2014. The Native American tribe, the Timucuans, thought to have become extinct in north Florida 200 years after the Spanish invasion, nagged at me. When I visited my daughter in St. Augustine where the Timucuan village of Seloy existed until around 1780, I felt ghosts moving the pen across my journal. I wrote scenes from Seloy in 1760 when the warrior Locka decides it’s time for them to move south before they do become extinct from disease and bullets.

Then the title Native Lands sprang to life as the final choice. With Locka’s story paralleling the story of 2012 Floridians fighting developers, I added nearly 40,000 words to the manuscript bringing it in at around 130,000 words—far too many for the majority of the reading public.

Between my beta readers and my editor, I knew I had to make some important changes. I fine-tuned the point of view so the reader clearly understood who the main characters and the antagonist were. I eliminated and combined characters. And I threw out anything that didn’t contribute to the movement of the plot toward the climax of the story. It was a grueling and painful process, and for days, I wondered if the book was worth saving.

Then I went to work. Once I had a clear vision in my mind of what I needed to do, the incisions into the plot became easier.

Recently I found an old blog post about Native Lands that I wrote soon after I started the drafting stage. I must have liked it enough to post it, but it’s a scene that’s now on the cutting room floor.

Barbara walked closer to the nest to inspect its size. She glanced back at the three young people now sitting on a blanket nearby. Sam turned toward her with his swimming trunks hiked up high on his thighs. She noticed the tattoo immediately. Her eyes drifted to Lori who sat facing the ocean, her bare back to Barbara exposing a similar tattoo.

“Are your tattoos identical?” Barbara asked.

“Lori’s has a female protector over the heart. That’s the only difference,” Sam said.

“Our mom has one identical to mine,” Lori said. “She said it was a tradition in her family.”

“What about your father? Does he have one?” Barbara asked.

“He died when we were young,” Sam said. “We don’t remember him.”

Barbara asked no more questions, but as the rest continued talking about protecting the sea turtle nest, Barbara wondered how old Mike’s lost children might be.

Mangrove Mike did not speak of years and dates. He was the age of the seasons that ruled the moments of his life.

He often said life had no beginning; life had no end. It only existed now.

Why did I cut a scene I liked? The plot needed to move in a different direction. A friend of mine who was a successful author once told me if I loved a piece of prose too much, it probably meant it needed to go. He was trying to tell me to remove myself from my writing and view it with an objective eye. Just because I wrote it, doesn’t mean it’s chiseled into a rock. It’s been invaluable advice.

Native Lands reads much differently than the original novel I started in 2006. And there’s a file on my computer with 40,000 words of something that might just make its way into my next novel.

Here’s an excerpt from Native Lands that didn’t make its way to the cutting room floor. Locka prepares to lead members of his tribe to the Everglades from St. Augustine, Florida, in 1760:

The entire party would consist of six couples, four warriors, and four young children. Four of the women bulged with new life. The night before departure, they gathered near the fire with the rest of the tribe. Chief Calumba and the shaman began the ceremony with prayers for the safe passage of the small tribe of Seloy. After the prayer, the Chief signaled for the four children to come forward to the fire with their parents.

“We come here this evening to tattoo our young with the new symbol of the Seloys. They will carry this throughout their life, and with the help of their parents and the other members of this group about to leave our village, they will pass on their heritage to their own children.” He turned and bowed to the village shaman.

“This symbol represents the most sacred of animals,” the shaman said as he placed a long pole in the fire. At its tip, the pole held a sharpened shark’s tooth. “The marks for both female and male will be the head of the panther. Above the female’s symbol, a sun will shine down representing the sustaining force of the female. The male mark will show the crescent moon above the panther’s head to mark the passage of time and nature’s role in the life of our people.”

P.C. Zick began her writing career in 1998 as a journalist. She’s won various awards for her essays, columns, editorials, articles, and fiction. She describes herself as a “storyteller” no matter the genre.

She was born in Michigan and moved to Florida in 1980. Even though she now resides in western Pennsylvania with her husband Robert, she finds the stories of Florida and its people and environment a rich base for her storytelling platform. Florida’s quirky and abundant wildlife—both human and animal—supply her fiction with tales almost too weird to be believable.

She writes two blogs, P.C. Zick and Living Lightly. She has published three nonfiction books and six novels.

Her writing contains the elements most dear to her heart, ranging from love to the environment. In her novels, she advances the cause for wildlife conservation and energy conservation. She believes in living lightly upon this earth with love, laughter, and passion.

Contact and Purchase Links:

Amazon Page: http://www.amazon.com/P.C.-Zick/e/B0083DPN4E/

Amazon UK Page: http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B0083DPN4E

Barnes & Noble (Nook): http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/p.c.-zick

Apple iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id916306797

Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/search?query=P.C.%20Zick&fcsearchfield=Author

Website: http://www.pczick.com

Kiss My Lips!

No, that’s not an offer. Sorry.

I’m hosting a cover reveal for fellow author Stella Eromonsere-Ajanaku. Many of you know my next novel is about a dysfunctional family. Wait until you read Stella’s teaser… she’s no stranger to drama, either.

Title: Kiss My Lips

(Holiday Series #2) Will one kiss seal their love?

Author: Stella Eromonsere-Ajanaku

Series: Holiday Series

Genre: Romance/Contemporary/Multicultural/Interracial

ISBN: 978-1502776549 (Paperback)

Release Date: Wednesday 29th October 2014

Cover Artist: Love Bites And Silk

Add to Goodreads

You Can Pre-order Kiss My Lips

Amazon.com – Pre-Order Link

Amazon.co.uk – Pre-Order Link

Blurb

Accepting Logan’s marriage proposal was the most exciting event of Lorna’s life. But deciding in what country to marry her fiancé proved to be more than a tearful ordeal. When Lorna’s dad announced unexpected news, the wedding wheels spun in a different direction.

With other family members stirring conflict, would there be a wedding? Or would their shared kiss deepen their desire?

Teaser

An hour after the doctor assured them Lorna would be fine, Logan and aunt Nneka remained by her bedside.

“My brother is the biggest fool I have ever known,” Lorna’s aunt complained, regret etched in her eyes, as her arms rubbed her temple. “I can’t believe he had no tact or kindness in his bone. How can he break such news, one after another without warning?” she lamented on a huge sigh.

She paused but Logan kept mute. If he was as reckless as his future father-in-law, he would have knocked off the man’s two front teeth.

“He wasn’t always this clueless, Logan,” auntie was saying, shaking her gently graying head. “Oh no, I think Marie has changed him. I hope to God, he knows what he’s getting himself into.”

Logan bit back the retort on the tip of his tongue.

“You haven’t said anything, Logan,” the older woman noted, watching his shoulder muscle flex and tighten.

“I’m beyond enraged, aunt Nneka. It is best I keep sealed lips before I regret my words. The only request I want to make is to plead with you to tell her dad to stay out of Lorna’s way for now.” His tone was soft but his eyes narrowed and his jaw compressed.

He saw the older woman’s mouth tighten at the sides but she nodded.

“I know he’s her father and nothing can change that,” he said stiffly, as if accepting the truth Kanu was a permanent feature in his fiancé’s life was painful. “But causing her so much pain to the point she collapses is reprehensible. I have tried to restrain my tongue, but right now, I want to punch his head.”

Lorna’s aunt approached him and touched his arm. He stiffened and she looked up at him. “Look at me, Logan,” she said in a placating tone.

Turning round, he looked at her. His rage wasn’t directed at her but he was in no mood for mind games.

Connect with Stella

Giveaway – How to enter

Leave a comment. Every reader who leaves a comment on the blog gets one free eBook of Stolen Valentine Kiss (Holiday Series # 1).

You get any other eBook from Flirty & Feisty Romance Novels.

Flirty & Feisty Romance

Our promise…is to deliver an intensely emotional experience you’ll never forget.

Is Time Passing You By?

Seth birthday — My son on his 16th birthday. Hard to believe a whole year has passed already.

Today is my son’s birthday. His seventeenth birthday.

How the heck did that happen?

I remember waiting for my due date. Waiting after my due date. Waiting three extra weeks for him to arrive. I had bonded with him long before he was ready to appear, and when he finally did, he was rushed to the NICU and I didn’t get to hold him anyway. Not for two days.

But when they wheeled me out of surgery, they took me to him. And when I said hello to him, he lifted his head and looked right at me. The nurses were stunned; they said babies don’t do that. But I knew from the moment I conceived him that he was special.

Just yesterday he was cradled in my arms. Except yesterday is apparently seventeen years ago. My yesterday is seventeen years of bottles and diapers, then toys and books, and then sporting events and academic awards.

Yes, my son is special.

So even though I won’t get to see him much today (he goes straight from school to his varsity game and won’t get home until late), I’m making his favorite foods to commemorate the day. Homemade stuffed pizza and cheesecake. You only turn seventeen once, even if you aren’t home for it. Might as well mark the occasion. (And trust me, even at midnight, he’ll eat pizza and cake!)

See, next year is the last year he’ll be home for his birthday. When he’s nineteen, he’ll be away at college, and I’m pretty sure his aspirations are going to take him far away from here. I don’t have much time.

Yesterday flew by, and tomorrow will be here before I know it.

It’s so easy to get lost in the mundane minutia of everyday life. Take the time to make each day special. (click to tweet that)

So happiest seventeenth birthday to my beloved son. May each future year be even more wonderful than the last.

For Writers:
Do your characters get lost in their day-to-day activities? It wouldn’t make for a compelling read if they did. But it’s not too realistic if they are constantly in flux, either. Try to strike a reasonable balance. Their character arc will be much more believable if we meet them when their lives are routine, but then watch them grow into people who break out of the mold.

For Everyone:
Are you stuck in work-rut? Do you do the same things, day after day? It’s time to stop and smell the cake. (Trust me, it smells AMAZING.) Appreciate life. Actually live, rather than exist. Life is all the better when it’s lived with purpose.

What the Subject Experts Say:

Is Your Writing Like Angel Food Cake?

Honestly, you can’t make these things up. Today is National Angel Food Cake Day.

If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you know that I love to bake. Italians show love through their food, and the old saying, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” was probably said by someone’s nonna after winning her man with homemade cannoli.

I’ve made countless desserts in my life. More cakes than you can fathom. I’ve even decorated dozens of them for birthday parties.

But I’ve never made an angel food cake. Never.

Don’t get me wrong, I love angel food cake. I’m especially fond of it soaked in raspberry Jell‑O and topped with whipped cream (maybe cut into cubes and mixed with fruit, too). But I’ve never baked one. I don’t have a pan, and every grocery store sells them ready made. Not quite as good as homemade angel food cake, but it’s hard to pass up the convenience.

Angel food cake originated in the United States and became popular in the late nineteenth century. It gets its name from its texture. It’s an incredibly airy cake (not at all like a dense pound cake) that is made by whipping egg whites and folding them into the rest of the ingredients. It’s then baked in an ungreased tube pan (the lack of greasing helps the cake cling to the sides of the pan and rise tall). Because of its white color and light texture, angel food cake was called the “food of the angels.”

I don’t know if angels eat, but if they do, I could see why they’d like this cake.

And why am I telling you all this?

Because it’s interesting, in a not-so-fascinating kind of way.

How did a cake get a whole day devoted to it? Why October 10? Who decided to make the first cake in an ungreased pan (madness!)? Why don’t people frost this cake?

No one seems to know.

But two things struck me about this day. One, angel food cake is a lot like writing. And two, angel food cake day is actually a life-lesson we can all benefit from. Don’t believe me? Read on.

For Writers:
Indulge me for a bit.

Angel food cake is difficult to make and is only successful if a specific formula is followed.

Egg whites have to be whipped into meringue.
Stabilizer has to be added for structure.
The proper pan must be used for lift.
The cake has to be cooled upside down so it doesn’t fall.

And isn’t a novel the same?

Plots have to be whipped into shape.
The three-act structure gives it stability.
Fully-developed characters carry the story.
It will all fall apart if the ending isn’t crafted properly.

Writers, take the time to make your novels a masterpiece instead of a hastily slapped-together work that might not rise to your readers’ expectations.

For Everyone:
The story of angel food cake and its achieving a national holiday is a lesson we can all learn from. Most of us won’t leave our history behind. We won’t be written about on Wikipedia and our biographies will be lost to the masses.

But like the cake, even though our histories are lost, our legacies will live on.

Through our family, our friends, our work.

Are we going to stand out from the crowd, elite and exceptional?

Or are we going to blend in to all the others, uninspiring and easily ignored?

I want my legacy to be the stuff angels crave. And that will only happen if I rise to the occasion and be the best I can be.

What about you? Are you an angel cake or a dry scone? Let’s discuss (but grab a cup of coffee and a piece of angel food cake first!).

Laci and Del: Hallow-Why-Me?

Remember that 2014 is the year I’m trying serial work. This is part 10 of 12.

Laci and Del: Hallow-Why-Me?

The first thing Laci did when the cast came off was recoil in horror that anyone would see her with that much hair on her leg. Calling it stubble was like calling the Grand Canyon a small valley. That was full blown hair. Braid-able hair.

Almost, anyway.

Then she didn’t care. She could finally scratch all the itches she’d suffered through for eight weeks. It was pure heaven. Until the itching was gone and she was back to sasquatch-city. She yanked her pant leg down, checked out of the office, and went straight home to shave.

That was pure heaven.

With newly silken legs and unencumbered foot, she was finally able to try on her Halloween costume. One of Del’s coworkers was throwing a movie-themed party, and they decided to go as Sandy and Danny from Grease. She felt kind of foolish in the blonde wig. Some brunettes could pull off blonde, but she definitely wasn’t one of them. And the curls! But it suited the costume. And boy was she delighted to see that the pants fit.

Well, if you want to call skin-tight fitting.

She had been looking forward to this party for weeks. Tensions between her and Del had been getting worse; their relationship had grown quite strained. They’d spent less and less time together, and when they were alone, they never discussed the job-shaped elephant in the room. Every time one of them brought up the subject, the other changed the topic or found a reason to leave. It seemed neither was really ready to have that discussion.

On Halloween, she didn’t have to be Laci. She got to be Sandy, and stepping into someone else’s shoes for the night sounded wonderful.

Even if those shoes were red, high-heeled, open-toe pumps on a wooden platform.

She briefly wondered if her broken bone was ready for that kind of torture, then proceeded to practice walking in them. They kind of hurt her feet, but she was used to street shoes. One night wouldn’t kill her.

Laci took her time getting ready, and was just smearing on lip gloss when the doorbell rang. She rushed through her apartment, only rolling her ankle once, and flung open the door.

Del was a knockout, dressed all in black, right down to his shoes. Except for the signature white socks. He even had something rolled in his sleeve to look like a pack of cigarettes, and he held a leather jacket over his shoulder. His hair was greased back into a ducktail and a few locks flopped forward onto his forehead in a similar curled fashion to how Travolta wore his. Laci harbored a not-so-secret love affair with the movie and a slightly more secret crush on Danny Zuko, so it was no wonder her heart fluttered when she opened her door.

Del was even sexier than Danny.

He looked her over and smiled.

She said, “Tell me about it, stud.” And they left for the party.

Joe’s apartment was in the South Side, and the subway ride there garnered them some strange looks. But Laci didn’t think anything could dim her spirits. Her cast was off, she was with her gorgeous boyfriend, and she was going to a party. A few strange looks were nothing. Most people just smiled or ignored them, anyway.

When they finally arrived, she headed straight for the bar, stopping only briefly to say hello to a few acquaintances. She didn’t know many of the people Del worked with, but she’d know them all better once she had a drink and started chatting with them. She was through with her first beer when she noticed the karaoke machine in the living room. She had finished the second when people starting singing duets. Most were cringe-worthy, but that was the fun of it. Snacking on pretzels and making small talk with Abby, Del’s secretary, she was startled to see someone dragging Del to the microphone.

Abby said, “Don’t make me drag you, too. Just go.” And she nodded toward the living room.

“What?”

“Someone signed you and Del up to sing, and looking at the screen, I can see why.”

Laci glanced at the TV screen, where the lyrics were displayed for everyone to see. They were expected to sing “Summer Nights.” She laughed, slid off her stool, and tottered toward the living room.

Del was still trying to get out of it, but someone started the music and he shrugged and started singing.

Laci joined in and had a blast. She loved every song in Grease, and seeing Del singing to her dressed like that made her whole month.

Until she started paying attention to the words.

By the end of the song, she was trying so hard not to burst into tears that she barely made a sound. Luckily Danny’s voice was stronger than Sandy’s, and Del overpowering her just seemed like part of the performance.

Everyone broke into applause and called for a second song, but Laci was a wreck. While Del got stuck singing “Greased Lightning,” she maneuvered as carefully as she could through the throng of people and stepped onto the patio for some fresh—if not freezing—air.

Del’s boss was just stubbing out a cigarette butt and nodded his greeting to her. “That was some performance.”

“Oh.” What did one say to a comment like that, anyway? “You could hear us from out here?”

“Can’t you hear Del?”

She stood and listened to the noises around her. In addition to the cars and some occasional raucous laughter from the pub-crawlers down the street, she could hear Del singing. “Yes, I suppose so.”

He lit another cigarette and took a long drag, the end glowing bright orange in the darkness of the patio. “You know, I thought Del would be in California by now.”

Laci didn’t answer. She kind of thought, on some level, that Del would have left already, too.

“He could do great things out there. It’s the next logical step in his career. He’s already a year behind.”

She could feel her cheeks burn. “No one’s stopping him.”

He tipped his head up and blew a stream of smoke into the dark sky. It hovered for a second like a specter, then dissipated into the night. “Oh, someone’s stopping him. Just like that same someone did the last time.”

She looked at her feet and suppressed a shiver. “I never told him not to go.”

“You never told him to go, either. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but this is a man’s career at stake.”

“You aren’t worried about Del. You’re worried about your company.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, Laci.” He stubbed out his cigarette and headed for the door. He nodded at Del who was just stepping outside, and made his way back to the party.

Del walked over to Laci and put his leather jacket around her. “I wondered where you ran off to. There was a request for “Hopelessly Devoted to You,” but you were already gone.”

“I couldn’t have sung that right now if I tried.”

He scoffed. “You probably know that song better than Olivia Newton John. Of course you could.”

She shook her head and swallowed past the lump in her throat. “No. Not tonight.”

“Too drunk?”

She knew he knew what was wrong, but this time she wasn’t going to let him change the topic. “Del, we have to talk.”

“Not here. Let’s just go inside and get something to eat.”

Her fairytale was over. Clock struck midnight, carriage a pumpkin, clothes back to rags. There was no escaping her life. Costume or not, she was still Laci and he was still Del. And no matter how much she wanted it all, she wasn’t being asked to try on that glass slipper.

“Del, listen.”

“No.”

“Del…”

“I’m not doing this here, Laci. And I’m not doing it now.”

“Then I will. I can’t keep seeing you. Not when there’s so much involved, and so much unresolved.”

“So we’ll resolve it. Later.”

“I’m resolving it now. Your company needs you. And California is something you want. I can’t stand in the way of that. Certainly not twice.”

“If that’s really how you feel, then come with me.”

“I can’t. I tried before. I can’t. I love it here. This is my home. This is where my family is.”

“And you can’t leave all that to be with me?”

She shook her head, and the tears ran down her face. “It’s just too much.”

“Then I’ll stay. For you.”

“And resent me for it five years from now, when we’re married and have kids?”

“You think about that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Marrying me. Having kids.”

“Of course I do. I love you. I’ve loved you for years.”

“Then I’m staying. I want that, too.”

“I love you too much to ruin your life like that,” she said, then gave him his jacket. “Please, don’t follow me. I can’t keep arguing with you.”

“Laci—”

She heard him calling her as she wove through the crowd and out the door. On her way to the subway, she thought she heard him behind her, but it was just someone in a clown costume. Creepy, but not as scary for her to face as Del would have been at that moment.

She managed not to cry until she opened her apartment door and slunk to the floor. She kicked of those wicked shoes and thought about Sandy and Danny, Cinderella and her prince.

Why didn’t she get a happily-ever-after?

Fall, ’Fest, and Family

It’s been a busy week. I had a short story published (Swallowing Memories) and a character interview with Royce Keller of Type and Cross went live on a multi-national site. You can check them both out by clicking on the links.

But it hasn’t just been a great week. It’s a wonderful time of year. Just this week alone saw the beginning of autumn, the start of Oktoberfest, and for me, the second week of visits from family.

Fall is my favorite time of year. The oppressive heat of summer gives way to the warm days and cool nights of autumn. Football starts. Hockey is right on its heels. Tennis is much more bearable. Pumpkins and gourds abound, and lighter fare is exchanged for soups, stews, and mulled ciders. We can retire the t-shirts and break out the sweaters. Leaves change and color the landscape with brilliant reds and fiery oranges. Who doesn’t love enjoying the day and then snuggling up at night? Yes, fall began this week, and I was happy to welcome it.

Oktoberfest also began this week. Being that my father’s family hails from Germany, this is a holiday I try to embrace and celebrate with my family. But it’s September, you say. It can’t be Oktoberfest. Well, sorry; you’re wrong.

The first Oktoberfest was in October. It was a celebration of a royal wedding.[1] The tradition of a large party continued, but the start date has been moved to late September so the weather would be more agreeable. Oktoberfest still ends in October, though.[2] The festivities in Germany are large and joyous, and ironically, not called Oktoberfest at all. The locals simply call it Wisen because of the fairgrounds, or large fields, where the tents are set up (Theresienwiese).[3]

Traditional Oktoberfest celebrations include rides, games, a lot of beer (only six breweries are approved to sell beer at the Wisen), and huge quantities of German food. Attendants can feast on “traditional food such as Hendl (roast chicken), Schweinebraten (roast pork), Schweinshaxe (grilled ham hock), Steckerlfisch (grilled fish on a stick), Würstl (sausages) along with Brezen (pretzel), Knödel (potato or bread dumplings), Käsespätzle (cheese noodles), Reiberdatschi (potato pancakes), Sauerkraut or Rotkohl/Blaukraut (red cabbage) along with such Bavarian delicacies as Obatzda (a spiced cheese-butter spread) and Weisswurst (a white sausage).”[4]

As for my family? From now through October 5, we’ll be eating some of that traditional fare. The kids won’t get any beer, but we’ll all eat bratwurst, potato pancakes, schnitzel, and strudel. What can I say? I’m mostly Italian; we connect with our roots—as well as our loved ones—through food.

And speaking of loved ones, I’m coming to the end of two weeks of family visits. Our family is 1000 miles from here, and we don’t get to see them often. Both sets of grandparents wanted to see the kids perform in their fall sports, so both sets came down here, one right after the other. It was wonderful seeing them again, but it would have been nice if the visits could have been spaced out instead of back-to-back. Still, I wouldn’t trade that time for anything in the world. Of course we ate family favorites (everyone should experience my mother-in-law’s famous apple pie), played games, went to see the kids in tennis and football, but mostly just enjoyed the time together talking, reminiscing, laughing. These memories are the ones we’ll carry with us.

For Writers:
There are a lot of holidays and events to mark in autumn. Have you considered incorporating seasonal activities into your WIPs to enrich them? It’s the details that bring fiction to life. Sure, you can say, “It was autumn in Pittsburgh.” But isn’t it much better to describe the crisp air, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the end of the baseball season and the start of football and hockey? You never have to mention the time of year at all if the details bring the setting to life. And your writing will be stronger for it.

For Everyone:
I don’t know if you see family often or almost never, like us. But I do hope you enjoy them while you can. Maybe you can use the new season and current activities to rekindle an old family tradition or add a new one. Let’s talk about autumn and family. Leave a comment below.

^{[1] http://www.oktoberfest.de/en/article/About+the+Oktoberfest/About+the+Oktoberfest/Dates+and+General+FAQs/751/2/}

^{[2] http://www.oktoberfest.de/en/article/About+the+Oktoberfest/About+the+Oktoberfest/Dates+and+General+FAQs/751/2/}

^{[3] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oktoberfest}

^{[4] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oktoberfest}

Peace

This Sunday is International Day of Peace. The United Nations created this holiday in 1981, and in 2002, they declared it a permanent holiday. Every year, on September 21, the UN urges peace for all people and the cessation of hostilities across the globe.

Some people love the UN, some people hate it, but regardless of your opinions and your politics, this seems like a holiday we can all get behind.

I don’t have control over national military groups; I can’t halt attacks or call a cease-fire. What I can do, however, is try to promote peace where I am.

I can be more tolerant of people on the road.
I can communicate calmly and rationally instead of with sarcasm and hostility.
I can pray that all people around the globe find peace and that the violence permanently ends.

Recommendations from the UN:

Visit the United Nations in New York City.
Plant a peace tree.
Attend a peace rally.
Light a candle at dusk in support of world peace.
Practice peaceful resolution and problem-solving skills in your daily interpersonal interactions.

“It is not enough to teach children how to read, write and count. Education has to cultivate mutual respect for others and the world in which we live, and help people forge more just, inclusive and peaceful societies.” – UN Secretary General Ban Ki-moon on the 100-day countdown message to the International Day of Peace.

For Writers:
Fiction surges forward when we introduce conflict, stagnates when everything is harmonious. However, the quest for peace can be filled with strife, making the peaceful resolution (or climax) that much more satisfying.

Don’t let your fiction flounder because everyone is calm, rational, and diplomatic. Instead, introduce several problems, so that when they are all conquered the resolution and subsequent peace has the impact you’re hoping for.

For Everyone:
No one lives perpetually in a state of serenity and calm. But it’s something we can all strive toward. I hope you all have a peaceful International Day of Peace.

Hopefully someday peace won’t just be a day we commemorate, but it will be a way of life. (click to tweet that)

How do you think you’ll celebrate Peace Day? Do you have any suggestions? Let’s talk about it here.